In the restaurant world, there is something known as a camper. This is someone who stays at their table way too long and then keeps new customers from sitting there instead and effectively decreasing my turnover/tips. I hate campers. They suck. There is one that comes into the restaurant and we call him Coach. He comes in every brunch and wears those short polyester gym shorts that are of a primary color. Bright blue of red. He wears a tight fitting tee, a baseball cap and comes armed with his earphones and the New York Times. No one ever wants to serve his ass because he sits at a four top, orders one thing, drinks about a dozen cups of coffee for an hour and a half and then leaves $2.00. He does not get it. If four people sat there and each ordered an entree and a mimosa and then left and then four more people came in and did the same thing, I could make ten or fifteen times what he leaves for a tip. God, I hate him. We changed or menu about a hundred years ago too and every fucking time he asks if we still have oatmeal. No, we do not have the oatmeal anymore. Pull the fucking earphones off your head and listen to me, meathead.
Campers suck. If you are ever in a crowded restaurant and you are finished eating and have paid your check, then leave. Go to a bench in the park or Barnes and Nobel or a bar or better yet HOME if you want to sit and chat with your friends. I am done serving you and will not refill your water or coffee. I will not make eye contact. I will shoot daggers at you and curse you and your unborn ugly children. Get out of my station. Roll up your sleeping bag, put out your fire, break down your pup tent, and get your camping ass out of my restaurant.