I have the bad fortune of repeatedly working in restaurants that also serve as meat markets for sleazy singles. I watch in agony as girls wear clothing five sizes too small, play the part of drunken damsel in distress, and coo inarticulate nothings in a grating baby talk voice.
And the males fare even worse in my judgment. If I don't find myself gagging from the overbearing drug store cologne, I'm done for when the requisite display of testosterone bears its ugly head to impress the ladies.
The most vile of on-the-prowl offenders is Rick, a boozy bachelor who dines with a different piece of trash each week. And with each conquest, he displays the same feigned warmth, humility and interest that keep the sluts of Studio City clamoring for more.
Oh, and he couldn't be ruder to the wait staff.
On one distinct night he really frosted my cupcakes, and I decided to take it out on his post-date patty-cake potential.
ME: What may I bring you two to drink?
RICK: Dude. I come in here all the time. You should know what I want to drink.
ME: (silence. crickets.)
RICK: Seriously dude? Scotch on the rocks. Man, you've been here for what, years? And you still don't know a preferred customer's drink order?
ME: Yeah I'll be sure to brush up on those in my spare time. And for you dear?
SLUT: Oh, I, uhmmmm, want a, uhmmmmm....
ME: How about that raspberry margarita you ordered a few days ago?
SLUT: Uhmmmm, I've actually? Never been here before.
ME: Oh. Wait. Really? You two weren't here together on Sunday night?
RICK: (look of death, subtle shake of the head)
ME: Oh I see, my bad. You look just like the girl he was here with on Sunday night. And the Friday night before that. And she...I mean, they...ordered a raspberry margarita. I was just trying to remember preferred customer drink orders. So. What may I bring you?
SLUT: I'm fine, actually. Nothing.
And with that, Rick's evening, like most of his bedroom activities, came to a premature close.