I strongly believe some people exist in the world solely to complain about it.
Take for example Bertha, a portly woman clad in a darling mumu whose sole form of communication was whining and griping.
I greeted Bertha and her equally sour friend on one particularly hot August L.A. evening.
"How are you two tonight?" I asked.
"Ha," Bertha said.
"Ha?" I replied.
"How am I doing??" she bellowed. "What do you want to hear about first, my doctor's appointment this morning or what my cats did to my living room?"
Neither. What I want is to be at home wearing nothing but an eye mask and spilled vodka.
"Oh, wow, sounds like you've had quite the day. May I bring you anything to drink?"
"Well, I wish, but my doctor says I need to lay off the alcohol."
"Oh, wow, that's unfortunate," I said insincerely. "How about a Diet Coke?"
"I can't have caffeine."
"I'm supposed to avoid sugar."
"I hate water. Just bring me a Sprite."
The Forces of Stupid overcame me, and I asked, "Is 7-Up okay?"
"God, this isn't my day. I hate 7-Up. Fine, I'll take 7-Up."
Way to accept your fate, Eeyore.
The friend mumbled as if she'd just endured a lobotomy but I translated her grunts into "Miller Genuine Draft."
I delivered the drinks and fearfully inquired if they were ready to order.
"Who chooses the music you play here?" Bertha asked.
"Our managers. Why? Do you like it?"
"No. It's too loud!! My head is literally spinning. I think I have a migraine now. Please ask them to turn the music off."
"Off? I don't think they'll turn the music off. Perhaps they might turn it down."
"Uhhhh. My head."
I informed our indifferent manager of the volume request. It was met with a weak crank of the dial and no noticeable difference in the blaring of cheesy 80's hits.
I returned to the table and took the food orders. To my surprise, Bertha spared no calorie while ordering the large cheese dip to start, an order of pulled pork for her entree, and warned me in advance that she'd be wanting dessert.
I performed my routine quality check once the food arrived, fearing I'd hear stories about dead cats, heart congestion, cankles or the apocalypse.
With a mouthful of food, Bertha informed me that everything was "ok."
"Ok. No problems yet."
What the fuck does that mean?
After dessert, I cleared the plates with four pairs of latex gloves, a nose guard and several shots of straight Absinthe.
Before I could deliver the bill, Bertha informed me that "there was barely any pork on my plate."
From the looks of it, you have enough pulled pork in your system to feed all of Somalia until 2045.
"Oh really? Sorry. You should have let me know when I came by to check on your food."
"I thought it would be enough. But it wasn't."
"Would you......like.....to order another serving of pulled pork?"
"I guess I'll take one to go. But don't charge me."
Of course I won't charge you! Welcome to America, where we give freely to the obese and unemployed. Let us pay YOU to dine here!
"Sorry, that won't happen."
"Then we'll just take the bill. Do you take personal checks?"
"Uh, no. Just the untraditional cash or credit card."
"Ohhhh fine," whimpered Bertha in her Eeyore voice.
The ladies cracked open their piggy banks and left the exact amount of the bill. And no tip.
I know some of you might be drawn to pity these ladies. But when you've worked in the service industry for years, and you witness those who are already dangerously overweight gorge themselves on melted cheese, greasy pork and vanilla flan, you tend to feel zero sympathy.
And when they leave no tip whatsoever? Well, you blog about it, naturally.