An Open Letter to My Customers
I fucking wish you people were forced to wear video recorders, so at the end of the day you could look at yourself, and see the kind of snotty, crappy, petty bullshit you pull every day. Maybe then you'd see that being a sarcastic jerk makes you look like ... well, a sarcastic jerk.
Ok, one guy in particular. This bastard is looking at the menu, and I am walking by carrying seven fucking plates of food. This prick tries to stop me, and when I ignore him and keep going (yeah, asshole, because when I'm carrying seven full fucking plates, thats the time to try and get my fucking attention) he calls me stupid.
Later, after I drop of the meals I come back to take his order. All the time, he's fucking talking reeaaalll slllooowwwwllllyyyy tooo meeee, lliiikkkkeee IIIII''mmmmm sommmmeeee kiiiinnnnnddd ooooofffff reeeettttaaaaaaarrrrd or some thing. When I take their order and turn to go, he whispers something to his girlfriend and she giggles behind my back like I'm a fucking joke there to make them laugh.
I wonder if that prick, during his $75.00 Blanquette de veau, ever stopped to wonder why his meal tasted so strongly of sweaty pork? Oh, probably because I kept your meat in my underwear, nestled up under my balls, for like five minutes while I walked around, filled your wine glasses, and laughed at your bullshit jokes.