There are a few things in this world that make my skin crawl:
- Snakes. I grew up in the country where Coral snakes and Copperheads lived under the same woodpile as the non-venomous garden variety. They all shared the same future though: head cut off with a hoe, no questions asked.
- People who complain about something but don’t want anyone to fix the problem. Then don’t complain. The purpose of complaining should be that you want a different action. Otherwise, it’s just for the sake of complaining.
- Going out to dinner with a large group of people. Allow me to explain:
It’s never easy, is it? I don’t think I would like it even if I didn’t have years of experience on the other side of the menu. In a group of ten people, there is always someone who wants to scam in order to save themselves a few bucks. “Oh, I have to catch a train, so I’m gonna just throw my money in now for everything I had. Here’s a twenty, that ought to be enough,” and they skedaddle their cheap ass outta there. Even Andrew Jackson himself knows that the order of nachos and two beers was more than twenty bucks. He rolls his eyes in embarrassment from having been inside that tacky whore’s tacky knock-off Prada bag that she bought on Canal Street.
This happened to me last week. I went to celebrate a birthday with a friend. Drinks were had, jokes were made and mechanical bulls were ridden. At the end of the night, the patron saint of waiters gave us our check. Of course the cheapest people at the table grabbed it first. God forbid they should be the last one to hold it and have to pay an extra two or three bucks. The cheapest bitch of them all was a a friend of a friend who I have absolutely no allegiance to so I don’t give a shit if her cheap ass reads this or not. After I finally commandeered the bill so I could make sure everything was happening as it was supposed to, I asked what everyone had put in. Cheap Bitch said, “I’m using a credit card and need to pay ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars? What all did you have?” I asked.
“One margarita, that’s it.”
I looked at the bill in my hand. One small margarita was $9.00. (Truth be told, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as small margarita. Mine was $13.00. What the fuck is the point of a small margarita anyway?) “So your margarita was nine dollars and you’re going to leave ten? What about tax and tip?” I asked in front of the whole table.
“Yeah, my drink was nine so I’m leaving ten.”
I hated this bitch. “So for tax and tip, you’re leaving a dollar?”
“Well, what do you think I’m supposed to leave?” she wanted to know. Her head was swaying back and forth like she was daring me to give her an answer.
I gave her an answer. “Well, tax is about 8.25% so that means you are leaving about a twenty-five cents for a tip?” I didn’t even mention that we all kinda figured we’d pitch in to pay for the birthday girl.
“Yeah, I’m leaving ten dollars.”
“So you’re alright with leaving a quarter for a tip?”
“I have a very limited credit card and alls I can afford is ten dollars!”
That ain’t a credit card, honey, that’s just sad. “Fine,” I said and went on with figuring out the rest of the check.
When I finally got it all settled, she told me that she went on ahead to the waiter and paid her portion because she had to go. Maybe it was double fucking coupon night at the dollar store and she needed to get there by midnight to get that roll of toilet paper that was marked down to fifty cents. I went to the waiter to make sure she had paid and he told me she paid nine dollars. Bitch didn’t pay for tax OR a tip. Nine dollars, period. I’ve met her once before and wasn’t that impressed, but from now on she is dead to me.
How can people be like that? If you know that tax exists, you have to at least pay that part of your bill, right? Okay, so she didn’t tip. No surprise. She also turned down a piece of birthday cake. I know it was because the restaurant was charging a $1.50 slicing fee per person and she didn’t want to pay that. She also finagled for someone else to pay the $5.00 required to ride the mechanical bull. “Oh, I don’t have my i.d. so they won’t let me buy a ticket,” she claimed. Birthday Girl told her she’d go do it for her and then just give her the ticket. She did, but then it was necessary to have her hand stamped to prove she were 18 years old. Cheap Bitch miraculously “found” her i.d. in one of her pockets after the five dollars had been paid. She did not pay it back, She rode the bull and I wish more than anything it would have bucked her cheap ass though the wall and into the men’s room where she could have enjoyed a big bite of urinal cake.
The check was eventually paid and the waiter was very happy with his tip. There was no slicing fee though and I think it was because we offered him the last piece of cake. We gave him some cake, he left off the slicing fee. He left off the slicing fee, we tipped him better. What goes around comes around which is exactly why Cheap Bitch will get her karma some day. Like maybe she’ll get a hell of a paper cut from her buy one get one free coupon for generic tampons. Cheap bitch.