I've yet to meet a couple that made me bemoan my single status. Many, in fact, have caused me to say a prayer of gratitude (prayer = vodka shot on the drive home from work). And a select few have diminished my ever-decreasing faith in humanity.
I recently waited on Roddy and Shanda, two trashy, socially inept bumpkins who were likely more accustomed to chasing their dinner around a tree as opposed to ordering it pre-killed at a restaurant.
I knew I was in for a veritable shit storm when Roddy asked if we had any bibs for his torn wife-beater. Shanda, on the other hand, looked as if she'd just had her Glamour Shots taken in a Reseda mall.
They began their feast with "green dip" (guacamole) and "kweeso sauce." They asked me 50 different questions about which items on the menu could be fried. They brought their own hot sauce. They were messier than a table of 20 starved orphans.
Shanda didn't even seem to care when Roddy whistled (WHISTLED...) at a trampy, overdone regular with XXXL fake tatas (more on her next week) who walked by.
The final display of chivalry came when I set the bill on a table covered with barbecue sauce (which we don't have in the restaurant), corn, rice, and cheese. Roddy set down a credit card. I came by to collect it, but he swatted my hand and said, "But she hasn't put her card down yet." Shanda and I exchanged mutual looks of surprise, but she ponied up and put out her Visa.
I split the bill down the middle. They each left me 10 percent.
I returned home later that night to a quiet, clean, empty apartment, thankful that I could smear my food with barbecue sauce in the comfort of my own kitchen, away from horrible human beings like Roddy and Shanda.