I approached with reflexive flared nostrils as her scent violated my space. I can only describe her perfume as a blend of cotton candy, pine cones, and sweet ham. I was about to ralph all over their table when her bleached blonde hair and Crayola make-up went straight for my eyes. This woman was attacking all my senses, and I hadn't even said "Hello" yet.
"I vant blush wine on rocks," she pouted.
"And you?" I asked her date, Magilla Gorilla.
"I vant vodka energy," he said in a monotone.
"Come again?" I asked.
"Vodka. Energy drink," Magilla clarified.
"We don't have energy drinks," I said.
"Then how about you go to CVS next door and buy one?"
Then how about I wake up tomorrow with the voice of Aretha Franklin, the looks of Brad Pitt, the money of Donald Trump, and the nine lives of Lindsay Lohan? Because all of those are far more probable than me so much as dabbing the sweat off my brow to put out a fire engulfing you, let alone going to a drug store to fetch you a Red Bull.
"Not gonna happen," I said while looking at myself in a non-existent mirror. "But you're more than welcome to order vodka on the rocks and mosey on over to the store yourself."
"I just do vodka cranberry," Magilla told me in a victorious tone. He showed me.
"Ehhhhhh," Mishka whined.
"Vat wrong?" Magilla asked.
"It cold in here," she pouted, again.
Before I could receive yet another order from his highness, I high-tailed it to the bar for a vodka & cranberry, as well as their drinks.
When I returned, I overheard Magilla's pep talk.
"Tomorrow we just call Varner Brothers and say 'Hey you got to see this girl, she about to be really big, let her come do audition."
Just imagine how Warner Brothers will respond swiftly to such an appeal to logic! I can hear her heartfelt Oscar acceptance speech now - "Ehhhhh, Kodak Theater really cold."
She gave me a pouty look as I made it clear I was stifling a laugh. I would have given one of you, dear readers, in exchange for a chance to watch her do audition.
"Are you two ready to order?" I asked.
"She and I need low-fat, she need to look good for headshot," he informed me as she was licking the salt off a handful of tortilla chips.
"I'd recommend a salad then," I replied.
"I don't VANT salad," she said as chip fragments lingered in her upper lip hair.
"Bay-bee," he cooed. "Tink of how good being actress vill taste!"
"Ehhhhhh," she whined.
She eventually got her way, and before I could say "Razzie," she was smacking her lips on a plate of nachos and a fried pepper filled with cheese and sour cream.
They proceeded to order several more rounds of drinks until I returned to find her a blubbering mess, sobbing inarticulately on his shoulder. He was also drunk and speaking equally unintelligibly. He motioned for the bill.
He paid in cash and did not wait for change, which meant I got a 40 percent tip.
However, the next day he called the restaurant because he was pretty sure he didn't get any change. But...I had no clue what he was talking about? You see, per what I told management, he was so drunk that I actually had to pay some of his tab out of my own pocket. I went about my shift, little angel that I am.
For you see, I don't need an enabling ape or a bizarre studio pipe dream to pull off a convincing performance...