It’s time for a guest blogger to swoop in and save the day and to save us from Springs1 who has made way too many comments on the previous post. This post comes from Dennis who has written about our favorite summertime topic, the patio. He also has a most excellent You Tube channel which you should totally check out. Thank you, Dennis. Please show him some love by commenting, sharing and visiting his You Tube page.
Hi. My name is Dennis Vogen. You probably know me as “The Best Writer You’ve Never Heard Of” or “That Asshole Who Forgot To Bring Me My Six Sides Of Fucking Ranch Last Tuesday Night.” Either way, you’re welcome. I’m twenty-seven, but I’ve been working different jobs since I was thirteen; I’ve worked over a decade in the service industry alone. Which is why I don’t like you. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that you’re a human being.
A topic that I feel doesn’t have its proper literary legacy is working on a patio. I have a notorious hatred for not only working on a patio, but for ninety-five percent of the people who decide to sit on one. Again, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I’m a betting man, and if you sit on the patio, then it’s a fair bet that you’re an awful bag of meat and skin.
At least half of the people who ask to sit on a patio will either a) complain about God’s given earth and the elements on that aforementioned earth, or b) ask to be transferred to a table inside. Usually, it’s both. Which makes complete and utter sense. Because, for example, you didn’t have to step outside of your home and car to get to the front door of the restaurant. You definitely have advanced technology from the future, which definitely means that you teleported directly from your bed to our host stand — and by judging by your appearance, that actually might be true. Which obviously means that you didn’t have the chance to — I don’t know — look up to the fucking sky and see what it was doing. And even if it was cloudy, or windy, or even raining — who knows what will happen fifteen seconds from now?! I don’t. And, obviously, neither do you.
Once, during a late Minnesotan autumn day, a leaf fell into a woman’s soup. And that adorable bitch asked me if I would comp her soup. What I told her was, “No.” What I wanted to say was, “If only we would build a place with four walls and a roof, where you could shove full handfuls of food into your disgusting face, that was temperature-controlled and didn’t have annoying ‘outside things,’ like leaves and bugs and sound and air.'” But I couldn’t say such a thing. Because such a place does not exist.
But therein lies the rub. This is our conundrum. Because until we live in a world civilized enough to make buildings designed specifically to enjoy meals inside, away from the crazy shit our world throws at us, this is our cross to bear. And not all patio patrons are terrible; just almost all of them. Minnesotan nice does not usually translate to outdoor casual dining.