because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Thursday, 28 January 2010

Served with Sunshine Smiles.

So. The service industry.

The United Kingdom gets minus ten points in this domain. America gets plus three hundred and sixty four thousand, nine hundred and forty-three. Why? Because these guys are INSANE.

I'm talking snort-your-crack crazy. Perkier than Heidi Montag's new double D's. I mean eat all the chicken, dance naked on the roof, lock yourself in a room full of teddy bears and cry out for the return of Elvis from our friends E.T., The Who and Willy Wonker MAD.

And I could qualify this a big OH NO! I MEAN IT IN A GOOD WAY! but I'm pre-menstrual so actually, I'll take the rude and sullen British for now. Thanks anyway. I guess I'm still pissed that the veggie option here is tofu or tofu. I've gone three days without a poo AMERICA. And it's all your fault.

At dinner with my flatmate (hold on- apartmentmate? No. That just sounds wrong AMERICA) and seriously, the waitress? I don't understand why she didn't just pull up a chair and take a honk out of my veggie-burger, dip my fries in the dressing and weigh in on why exactly why Paul McCartney doesn't own the publishing rights to his own songs anyway. It was like I was expected to turn to her and say, "Gee Jessie, what are your thoughts on Obama's efforts to put stricter limits on the contributions lobbyists can give to federal office candidates?" like I give a shit. 

I'm all for smiles and advice on menu choices but GOD this woman needed a sedating shot of cynicism with a misanthropy chaser. What kind of waitress actually gives two sodding hoots as to why my food is left untouched? I have tummy ache, BITCH. And?

"Gosh, how about some herbal tea for that then? Maybe a refreshing peppermint or soothing chamomile? Do you take that with honey? A little sugar?" At home in the U.K. the most you'd get is a "Are you done? Can I take your plate then?" from a sour-faced fifteen year old who uses her tip money to buy White Lightening cider to drink on a dark park bench, and who gives the eighteen year old manager a blowie when they do the late shift together in return for a ride home.

And that is how it should be. At least then one doesn't feel obliged to tip twenty per cent. TWENTY PER CENT. At home I expect the server to follow me into the bathroom stall and massage my colon for an easier movement for a tip that big, and even then I'd begrudge her for it.

Even on entering the restaurant I suppose I knew it would be different. "Hi! How are you?" the server asked, to which I replied, "Fine thank you," in the courteous yet preprogrammed way I have been taught to do. My dinner companion, however, asked the server right back, "And how are you?" She's working in a stinking kitchen serving miserable British exchange students food that they won't even eat because of PMT. HOW DO YOU THINK SHE IS?

The server smiled brightly back at her. "I'm wonderful, thank you for asking. Now what can I get you lovely ladies in the way of a beverage?"

It's called a drink, AMERICA. I'm taking your points back.
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