Hope you all enjoyed the long weekend!
I went for a bike ride on Saturday. Well, I went Friday and today, too, but Saturday was memorable. I rode approx. 40 miles roundtrip (translated into 4 hours). GO ME. But that's not what this blog is about. (I was just bragging) I saw things on that ride that would make God cry. Like the 400 lb man on his bike. He was so huge, his body consumed the bike. It was like he was riding on air. Now while I can appreciate his awareness for the need to exercise, OUCH. I know how my "taint" feels after just a 10-mile ride. I can't even begin to imagine adding another 270 pounds and testicles to that mix.
Somewhere around the 15-mile mark, I rode past a white-trash picnic. They were in their early twenties, had a banged up Red Rider wagon (probably stolen), a boom box blasting (I think) Kid Rock's greatest hit, and a dirty blanket that they were setting up shop on. And no, that's not a typo. Kid Rock only had one hit.
The guy: Too pale, too skinny, wearing a white(ish) t-shirt with the short sleaves ripped off. The girl: I didn't catch her face; she was about to lay down on the blanket, but what I did see was a tube top, acid washed jeans and shoulder tattoos that appeared to be done by a blind prison inmate. It's that time of year: Love is in the air.
I eventually make it home: Legs shot, covered in dirt, and stinkin' on ice.
To celebrate my awesome ride, I went to Famous Dave's BBQ. Personally, I don't think he's that famous; I never heard of him before. But I was told Dave has more BBQ sauce choices than IHOP has syrup options, so I'm there.
Now, let me preface this with a little known fact about myself: I used to waitress. Poorly. Which is why I don't do it anymore. Which is why I get doubly pissed off when I get a waitress who sucks. I understand it's a hard job; but it's not "difficult." Obligatory tips should not exist. If you choose to suck at a job that pays $1.75 an hour, you deserve to make $1.75 an hour. Period.
My waitress was Bonnie. I'm guessing that back in the day (roughly sometime in the mid 1930's) she was one cute chicky who got passed around the school yard. But now? Gross.
When I ordered my BBQ pork sandwich with melted Jack cheese, she repeated, "American cheese?" No, dumbass. Jack. J-A-Yourandidiot-C-K. Then I finished my lemonade. I nonchalantly moved it to the edge of the table. Bonnie walked by, tapped the table with her Lee Press-On nail, said, "Everythingokay?Good!" in one breath and kept walking. Allow me to loop back at this point - I never got cheese on my sandwich.
Now again, I understand it's hard being 95 and a waitress, especially when you have to constantly adjust your apron so your Parliaments don't fall out. And I typically allow one mistake per dining experience. No cheese? Fine. Ignoring the fact I'm parched? Not cool. When she finally realized I needed a drink, she said, "Sure hon, I'll get you more water." I was like, "It was LEMONADE." Being a special kind of stupid? Priceless. Literally. No tip for you.
I don't even know why I was upset. It wasn't like it was a classy place. They had a chandelier made out of deer antlers and rolls of paper towels on each table for use as "napkins." What was I expecting? I don't think I'm being unreasonable; I just expect a certain level of "know how to do your freakin' job" when I go to an establishment - I don't care which one. I think we all do. But my tolerance is definitely lower than most when it comes to mediocre servers.
"I went to a restaurant that serves 'breakfast at any time.' So I ordered French toast during the Renaissance."
— Steven Wright
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