Don't get me wrong, I am willfully attracted to bitchy women, but only in moderation, AND ONLY WHEN THAT FACET IS CLEVERLY PRESENTED. Many ladies mistake brash and belittling for bitchy.
Sigh. It's so much more.
For instance, as Shakespeare once wrote, "Brevity is the soul of wit." A good bitch can deliver a testy, tasty zinger with just a few syllables:
Unlike this hideous hillbilly, whose attempts to be a bitch backfired big time:
I don't seem to mind those rare occasions on which I wait on the former, but the minutes drag on to decades when I have to serve someone of the latter category.
Well, meet Shirley.
Shirley was a nasty, bottom-feeding piece of trailer trash, clad in a non-ironic denim vest and jeans so acid-stained they could have enabled a Batman villain, whose last level of education likely involved putting on a puppet show of "Charlotte' Web," a woman easier to impregnate than Texas, and a bitch exhibiting stupidity unparalleled.
Having been sat with her two young, obnoxious sons - who looked like they'd been forced to bathe a pig before being able to supper - in my booked section on a busy night, she and I got along fine until her cheese enchiladas arrived.
I stopped by a few minutes later to check on everything.
"Dont'cha have tangy mustard?" she asked.
"No, and, eww what for?" I replied.
"For ma incha-lattas," she said with serious 'tude. "Was that you judgin' me fer wantin' tangy mustard?"
"Ehm, no," I said. "Who am I to judge what someone else eats?"
"But-cha did, didn'cha?" she asked, revealing a missing side tooth.
"No, I really just..."
"Bring over a man'ger," she said with a mouthful of cheese enchiladas and French's classic yellow mustard.
My manager went over and explained that it was never anyone's intention to make her feel judged, blah blah blah, we'd love to comp your meal in this Yelp-fearing society into which we feed, please come back and let us kiss your ass again soon, etc., etc., etc.
I was threatened with some vague notion of a somehow even crappier schedule if I didn't go suck up to the little squirrel-catching descendant of Nell.
I acquiesced and approached Shirley and brood. Before I could speak, she said:
"Just so you know, I'm not leavin' any tip, and I always tip real good so it's your loss."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," I said.
True to her word, she did not leave a cent, but instead a nasty blend of rice, salsa, beans, cheese and mustard all over the booth.
I returned home much later that evening. I knew that, with Shirley, I'd have to make peace with no vindication beyond the fact that, while she is ugly, prematurely aged, done-in, talentless, incapable of complex thought, and eternally a victim of her own self-destructive behavior, I am me. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror from the sudsy tub, cheers'd myself with the heavy martini glass, and passed out.