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I love you! (cheesy lovey-dovey-I-just-got-my-first-high-school-boyfriend smile)
Thank you for following me and for leaving me comments. I love comments. I read them while my boyfriend peers over my shoulder to see what I'm doing, then rolls his eyes when he sees that I'm looking at Blogger again. I'm surprised he still asks what I'm giggling at when I squeal in glee everytime I see that someone has written another one. Because. It's. Always. For. The. Same. Reason. People really just don't learn. That whole learning by repetition thing? Total crap-o-la (singsong voice).
I was going to write this post last night, but I was so angry the the whiskey went down a bit
But today I am whiskey/Dennis Leary free so I am going to tell you about the evil evil evil evil (evil) table I had last night.
It was a table of eight, and things were going well for awhile. By well, I mean kind of mediocre. Just another table. Then, as always, it starts with one guy. It's always the one guy who ruins any situation, and last night that guy was the birthday boy. At one point I go to pick up his empty beer glass (of which he had had many already) and he asks:
Is there a refill on this?
Yes, sir. I reply. It's coming from the bar.
At which point he tells me:
Well. It would be really HANDY (emphasize handy. Now raise the end of it so that it kind of sounds like a question)
Let's try this again:
Well. It would be really HANDY it you could bring another one before you take the empty glass away.
Oh, golly gee sir, I didn't realize your alcoholism was so bad that you suffer an instantaneous withdrawal if you don't even have the presence of a beer glass in front of you. Please, have a coupon and a brochure for AA.
They finished their meal and we sang Happy Birthday to Mr. Bud Light. Turns out he's the same age that I am about to be. Unfortunately for him, he looks a good five years older than I do. Maybe that's because I don't drink twenty beers as an appetizer.
Here's where the twist comes in.
Mr. Bud Light wants to stay and have more beers after they pay.
Breathe. I know, it's a shocker.
Everything goes the same as before, except the only food was the three baskets of chips and salsa I put at their table hoping they could use it to sober up a bit. Some people join the party, and some people leave. They keep ordering more beers, and keep moving around to the point that I'm pretty sure I gave them the right tickets.
At one point I realize that one of the guys had left without paying. His ticket was only about ten bucks, but you better believe my ass wasn't paying for it. I inform the group that was still left of this and one drunk drunk drunk guy says he'll pick it up. He takes that ticket and his own ticket. To no surprise of mine, they order more beers, so I switch out the tickets, including the one that belongs to drunk drunk drunk guy. They all pay, and ddd (it's getting to be too much to type out) guy gives me just the ticket for himself, and a twenty.
Are you sure you don't want change?!?!?! His mom's shrilly voice screeches out to him,
He didn't want change, on his nineteen-and-something dollar ticket. Woo. Big spender. Thanks asshole.
Now, there was Mr. Bud Light Birthday Boy and the spare ticket left to pay. I took the credit card of Mr. Bud Light and informed the table that the ticket needs to be paid.
I already paid it. Slurred DDD guy.
No, you paid yours.
At this point we start going around in circles about him saying he picked up both tabs and me telling him he only paid his.
But you brought me a new ticket and I paid it.
I told him that, yes, I had brought him a new ticket but that was for his tab since the other ticket was still on the table. I had even printed a new copy and brought it to the table by this point. Wasn't that nice of me?
By this point the entire table is arguing with me and looking at me like I am trying to tell them that God is really a llama that lives in a field of cotton candy.
I tell them at least four times that I can get the manager if they want because I have NO control over the situation. Finally I just kind of walk away to let them figure it out for themselves. I bring back the credit card receipt for Mr. Bud Light, and DDD guy thrusts the spare ticket at me with a ten and says:
Here! Before you fuck this up. He emphasized this as if I had just screwed up their entire dining experience to the point that he would burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears the moment he stepped into another restaurant.
Since I couldn't do anything last night except scream the story to my manager with a breaking voice, Here is my reply to DDD guy.
Dear Drunk Drunk Drunk guy,
I'm sorry that you are so insecure that you have to treat people like dog-shit when you know they can't say anything back to you. It's really not your fault. I know that you feel bad about yourself because you don't have the looks or charm to make up for the fact that you have a tiny penis. But being a fat deuchebag isn't all that bad. You can be the funny friend if you can learn to properly make jokes. Even better, you can be that guy that your friend really doesn't like, but keeps around to make himself seem that much more attractive to the ladies. It's like community service, you're helping average-looking people get laid too; just not yourself. I'm sorry you can't find anyone except hookers to have sex with you. But the bright side is that even though you can't see your penis, due to muscle memory your hand can find it every time, so you can still get your cookies.
P.S. - Go fuck yourself. You're the only one who will.