I don’t know what it is with old people, but I hope when I am old (in like six years from now) I don’t lose my taste buds. I guess after living through the depression and having to eat boot soup and newspaper sandwiches, they just don’t have the ability to taste anymore. Old people always send shit back. It’s never hot enough. Yesterday this lady asked me for a cup of coffee making sure to tell me she meant hot coffee and not iced coffee. Like I am an idiot. So I got her coffee and made sure there was steam coming from it because when there is steam that means it’s hot, right? Well, not when you serve it to an old dinosaur like this lady. Seriously, I think she was a first grade teacher for the caveman. She calls me over to tell me the coffee is cold. Not warm or luke-warm or even room temperature, but cold. She acted like it was one step away from being a coffee popsicle. So I smiled and resisted the temptation I had to knock her fucking false teeth out and went to get her some more coffee. OUT OF THE SAME POT. And guess what. By some miracle of miracles this coffee was much better. It must have been a magic freaking coffee pot that made it’s contents change temperature by 20 degrees in a matter of two minutes. I was nice to her because old people make me sad. I just made fun of her in the side stand because she had a huge herpe on her lip that she probably picked up from blowing men for apples in 1933. “Blowjob for an apple, sir?” I can just see her. She counted out her pennies for my tip and shuffled out of my station. She should have saved the money she spent on coffee and bought some fucking Abreva for that cold sore. It was so big, I almost gave it it’s own menu.
So this man came into my place of employment yesterday with his whore wife and their two whore children. They sat at a whore booth and let the kids play with the sugar caddies because that’s what whore children like to do. I swear to God, what is the appeal of dumping a sugar caddie out in the table? I want to market it for the latest toy craze and make a million dollars on it. The kids play with that shit like it’s a freaking Cabbage Patch doll, or whatever the latest craze is. (I know the Cabbage Patch craze was like 25 years ago, so shut up.) Anyhoo, he orders a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his boy whore child. It’s not on the menu. I tell him we don’t have it and he looks like he is going to have a stroke or heart attack or some shit. “What? You don’t HAVE peanut butter and jelly?” Nope, we don’t have that. If it’s not on the menu, that means we DO NOT HAVE IT. After he lifted his jaw off the floor he decided to order a bagel and he asked for it with jam. No problem. Then a light bulb went off over his head. He says to me, “so you have jam and you have bread and you must have peanut butter some where, but I can’t order a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for my bastard son the retard?” Nope, we don’t have that. “But-” Nope, we don’t have that. “well maybe you can-” Nope, we don’t have that. Meanwhile his wife finally pulled her head out of her ass and said to him to let it go. If it ain’t on the menu, don’t order it. Just because we have the ingredients to make a coconut fucking cake does not mean we are going to make one. We also have the ingredients to make whore child stew but don’t order it. (The recipe is very simple. It’s bits of whore child into boiling water with a carrot and bullion cube. But don’t order it because we don’t have it.)