Some restaurant patrons are so evolved and informed as to feel it necessary to pass on life advice to their meager servers, who by sheer vocation have clearly not advanced to the same level of awareness and enlightenment.
Thus, some restaurant patrons can go fuck themselves.
I waited on Jag recently. Jag has the dubious distinction of possessing the most obnoxious multi-hyphenate I've ever encountered. Jag is an actor-singer-model-writer-yoga instructor-motivational speaker-life coach-healer. Jag is a latent, closeted homosexual. Jag is an ass toy.
I was first made aware of Jag's judgment when I approached the table, and he looked down at my lowly black work sneakers, and frowned.
"Hey friend," he started. "I see you tie your shoes in double knots? That tells me you don't trust yourself."
"Oh yeah wow neat great, anything to drink?" I replied.
"I don't drink," he replied proudly.
"My inquiry is not limited to alcohol," I said.
"But you meant alcohol, DIDN'T YOU?!" he said with a bizarre Tom Cruise level of enthusiasm and testosterone.
"Nope," I said. "I myself don't drink."
"Bwhahahahahahahahahahahaha...BURP," my inner-monologue said.
"Excellent," Jag said. He then pet the head of his date, a quiet, tiny Asian girl who was somewhere between 11 and 50 years old. "She and I will take two cucumber waters."
"We have tap or bottled," I responded.
"Perhaps you could fetch a few cucumber slices from the bar, as the cucumber margarita is garnished with them?" Jag said with a shit-eating grin.
"Oh sure," I replied.
I returned with the waters, a side plate of cucumbers, and a belly full of tequila.
"May I offer some advice, brother?" Jag said.
Sure, but me first. Sit and spin on the middle finger I'm flashing in my pocket.
"The kind thing, the RIGHT thing to do, would have been to put the cucumber in the water yourself so that it could marinate," he said calmly and condescendingly.
With that, I grabbed the six or so cucumber slices I'd brought and divided them between the glasses.
Jag shook his head. "Always go above and beyond, no matter what you're doing in life, brother. You'll find peace in the pursuit."
"Got it, were you two ready to order?"
"No. No. No, not yet," Jag said dramatically, almost as if offended.
I returned to my daydream about forming a close friendship with a rich, elderly, terminally ill billionaire who bequeathed to me his entire fortune. I was just walking along my own island with a shotgun, practicing on approaching boats, until...
"Yoooohoooooo, anyone home??" Jag waived his hand obnoxiously in the air. "Seems I was interrupting a little daydream. That's cool. Always dream, brother!!!!"
"Yah what may I do for you?"
"We want to invite you to hear something."
"I'm all ears."
"No, not right now," Jag continued. "I want you to try a free class. I want you to hear some wise words about letting love, and letting go."
"I already have a church I go to."
Once a year on Christmas Eve.
"This isn't a church, brother. It's a way of life."
"No thanks," I replied. "Were you ready to order?"
"No. No. No. No, not yet," Jag said in an intentionally and obnoxiously quiet and pensive tone.
For the next ten minutes, Jag and his pet darted their gaze at me and whispered through cupped hands. He eventually left a piece of paper, finished his savory cucumber water, got up, and the two exited the restaurant.
At the table were a lone one dollar bill and a piece of paper with an e-mail address and Web site for his healing services. And after a martini or two tonight, I plan to visit his Yelp page and offer him some advice, brother to brother.