I’ve just about had it with people in the service industry. I eagerly anticipate the age of robotic service and murdered waiters that is sure to immediately follow the Singularity. I haven’t always held such hateful sentiments towards the subdivision of the working class I’m forced to deal with anytime I enter a store, restaurant, or (God forbid) airport. Recently though things have gotten seriously out of hand.
Last week I found myself eating dinner in a sensibly priced restaurant. Who I was with, why I was there, and what I ordered are all immaterial, so put your curiosity to bed. The evening started out nicely enough – I was brought a Coke with the right amount of ice, the silverware appeared clean, and the establishment’s lighting was sufficient. However, things started to unravel when our server – a veritable wall of terror – first addressed the table.
Usually I hate to waste time on details describing people who do not deserve to be alive, but in order to really explain how awful this waitress was a brief rundown of her physical appearance is necessary. Imagine, if you will, a gazebo that has had pillows taped all over it, covering every exterior surface. You have just imagined the woman I had to deal with that evening. It was bad enough that she was hideous (you no doubt already know how I feel about ugly people), but things only got worse when she began to speak. Her voice sounded like a pig that had swallowed Fran Drescher whole, and that was now squealing and crying because the actress was both kicking and laughing inside the animal’s stomach. It was like having daggers of sound driven into my ears as this disgrace to gazebos everywhere described the specials of the night.
This brings me to another issue I have with waiters everywhere. It makes no sense to tell me the specials of the evening after I’ve already sat down at the table. Anyone who knows me and who knows how to live their life should be entirely aware that having a clear plan of action for all things is the most important thing ever (ever!). As such I arrive at a restaurant entirely certain of what it is I want to eat. If the restaurant doesn’t have the dish I desire I walk right out, and if the waiters at the restaurant assume that I’m some kind of foresight-blind rube who can’t make a plan by handing me a menu and rattling off a list of specials (that inevitably contain mango-something) I become quietly enraged.
Waiters, servers, busboys, Maître d's, valets, and other assorted restaurant-type employees, take note: please do not talk to me unless there is a very good reason – like to inform me that my meal is gratis, because I deserve it.
Last week I found myself eating dinner in a sensibly priced restaurant. Who I was with, why I was there, and what I ordered are all immaterial, so put your curiosity to bed. The evening started out nicely enough – I was brought a Coke with the right amount of ice, the silverware appeared clean, and the establishment’s lighting was sufficient. However, things started to unravel when our server – a veritable wall of terror – first addressed the table.
Usually I hate to waste time on details describing people who do not deserve to be alive, but in order to really explain how awful this waitress was a brief rundown of her physical appearance is necessary. Imagine, if you will, a gazebo that has had pillows taped all over it, covering every exterior surface. You have just imagined the woman I had to deal with that evening. It was bad enough that she was hideous (you no doubt already know how I feel about ugly people), but things only got worse when she began to speak. Her voice sounded like a pig that had swallowed Fran Drescher whole, and that was now squealing and crying because the actress was both kicking and laughing inside the animal’s stomach. It was like having daggers of sound driven into my ears as this disgrace to gazebos everywhere described the specials of the night.
This brings me to another issue I have with waiters everywhere. It makes no sense to tell me the specials of the evening after I’ve already sat down at the table. Anyone who knows me and who knows how to live their life should be entirely aware that having a clear plan of action for all things is the most important thing ever (ever!). As such I arrive at a restaurant entirely certain of what it is I want to eat. If the restaurant doesn’t have the dish I desire I walk right out, and if the waiters at the restaurant assume that I’m some kind of foresight-blind rube who can’t make a plan by handing me a menu and rattling off a list of specials (that inevitably contain mango-something) I become quietly enraged.
Waiters, servers, busboys, Maître d's, valets, and other assorted restaurant-type employees, take note: please do not talk to me unless there is a very good reason – like to inform me that my meal is gratis, because I deserve it.
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