Discobiscaphobia

I just seen a pretty kitty and he had a heart on his collar and he was on the loose when I was on my way home from what may or may have been a bar.

At any mortgage rate, I follow his sonabich for like three blocks (certainly out of my route homeward) and was fixin to fetch him, but like the thorn to the lion, I was overcome by the dipsy doodles whats was in my paw. They desperately needed some t.c.o., with them being the business.

So I walked a little too slow for the rascally beast, and thus I sit at home catless, though fulla corn chips. Glutiosity safed the kitty.

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Le Lilliputiafication de Mon Dignitay

Me: "And here's your check, thank you so much!"

Fat Texan: "Thank you son! Hey, are those eyes blue or green?"

Me: "They're usually blue, but you know, it depends on the color of my bow-tie."

Fat Texan: "Oh! Are you on drugs?!"

Me: "Not yet sir!"

Me: "So, is there anything else I can get for you today?"

Old Beast: "No, but now let me ask you something: when do you get to graduate from the bow-tie to the real tie?"

Me: "Well madame, it actually works the other way around; those gentlemen in the 'real ties' are the bus boys."

Old Beast: "Oh! Well in that case, congratulations!"

Me: "Well thank you! I tied it myself!"

Old Beast: "I'll have some more decaf. And you can take these plates away."

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Not in this Economy!

So apparently The New York Post, (the "'I am Tiger Woods', 'Oh isn't he precious for thinking he, a mentally-deficient 49 year-old roller derby participant, could be Tiger Woods'" of journalism), thought it was necessary to make my job far worse than it already is--now see here! 

The established practices of this, our beloved restaurant industry, make it necessary to add gratuity (a paltry 15%, of which we notify them thricely) to the checks of those dirty, dirty foreigners. 

And not toot my own horn, but honk: my lil restaurant demands a level of service that makes 15% a pretty crappy tip, (id est: we split these tips, our only (and completely taxed) form of income, betwixt about 15 people on an average night, but usually more than that.) And if we put nothing, they leave nothing.

They make it so hard to love them. So. Very. Hard.

So the managerialists of the place put gratuity adding on hiatus, and lo and behold onto your day jobs, the crappiest tips this side of a Boca Raton Denny's start arollin' on in.

Couple of Exempli Gratia wif ratin's:

Table 16, 8:30pm

Guests: Lovely Scottish family if three; dad, daughter, and son turning 12, and "becoming a man." Awesome.

Review: Loved the meal. The view. And me, of course; we actually discussed Scotland and determined that it was quite possible that we were related, as we shared the same last-goddamn-name.

Tip: $41.00 on $435.00 tab (10.6%)

Rating: Negative 3 stars because they were nice, and also he asked his 9 year-old daughter how much to tip because he didn't know.

Table 9, 10:35pm

Guests: 14 yr-old son and his mother, or really rich kid who prefers older escorts and older escort. Spanish. Definitely Spanish.

Review: After drinking the older woman's champagne and acting like he's the king of patchy mustaches throughout the meal, this little bastard has the huevos mas grandes to demand we bring him "una braandeeeez" (a brandy,) at which I laugh and walk away. We then send them a few desserts on the house, so as to coax an earthly tip from them; all they do is sneer and say "No, we do not order theese thiingsss."

Tip: $21.08 on $235.00 tab (11.14%)

Rating: Negative 5 stars

I'll bet you five potatoes that I get to the poor house before you do.

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Editorial

We here at reagnomicsyall would like to take a moment to address a very serious issue afflictingfar too many in this cruel world. A blog-shattering phenomenon which results in a clash of personal universees, and often causes permanent damage to a blog-artisan(s). Of course we are speaking of the unintended discovery of one's blog by their grandmother. Made worse perhaps, by the unheard of grandmother-created counter-blog, which has the apparent aim of completely freaking-out said blogster. 

This should never happen to anyone, and so we beg you to not reveal the newest and improved blogaddress to anyone who might give it to my older relatives.

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Ladies Love Cool Wade

A lil heads up to la corte suprema:

Today, at le restaurant of my discontent, a sweaty-browed lawyer fellow fully solved the abortion issue for me, where no one else has been able to. 

"A life is a life, is a life, and I am so opposed to that thing, [(that which we do not name)], that it makes me freakin' sick! Ughh."

His non-wet companions, apparently sensing the crack of genius and wanting him to elaborate, asked if would ever be willing to talk about the issue with someone of a pro-choice viewpoint. 

 

He says "Listen! Would you sit down and have a discussion with someone who thought it was okay to go into someone else's house and take a [poo*] on their face? Would you? I said, would you ever..." And he stated this concrete comparison a few more times, at increasing volumes and bac levels.

Actually, he repeated this j'acusery just enough times to leave any rational or otherly-mentally-situated person up poofaced creek without an argumenting paddle. It was the dopeness. I hid in the coffee room with Javier.

(*A little censorship; he did, in fact, drop the 'shit' bomb here.)

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