Warning Signs: Folded Credit Card Slip Edition

Is it any wonder that someone who goes to great lengths to hide the printed face of a credit card slip might be a lousy tipper?  And just to be safe, lest an errant breeze should traverse the room and lift the folded flap of the paper, exposing their cheapness for all the world to see, a pen is invariably laid across the slip--an extra barrier for the server to remove before being met with the inevitable disappointment.

Perhaps, you say, the person is only trying to protect their personal information by folding the slip of paper.  We, after all, live in the age of identity theft and cyber-criminals wearing special credit-card-slip-reading glasses are doubtlessly clinging to the very ceiling above with the use of suction-cupped gloves and knee-pads.  It is easy to say that if you've never lifted the obstructing pen and peered between the folded leaves of paper, only to be met with a sum crafted a mathematician of the vilest, most black-hearted stripe.

In a perfect society, people would be forced to wear a digital display on their foreheads, indicating the lifetime tipping percentage.

High Fives

At what age can one be expected to abandon the practice of giving high-fives?  Twelve?  Fifteen?  Perhaps eighteen, the age at which one is legally recognized as an adult?  The end of childhood seems to be a reasonable--if not generous--point at which one can leave high-fives behind.

Not so, if you happen to be the Rich Dude or are fortunate enough to belong to his inner circle.  High-fives are freely exchanged, particularly between The Rich Dude and Bobby Gift, the alpha and beta males of the group.  The fact that both men are nearly fifty years old does not phase them in the least.  The resonant slap of palm on palm echoes throughout the room, so that all present can be certain that The Rich Dude and Bobby are in full appreciation of each other’s sense of humor.

One can only assume that the jokes are sexual in nature, since the Rich Dude and his circle comprise a rather well-known sex cult that makes frequent trips south of the border to the Rich Dude’s Mexican Pleasure Palace for weeks-long bacchanals (and, mostly likely far beyond that, to international waters, where the law of man cast no shadow upon the writhing, flesh-hued pleasure ball that for them represents an ideal existence, from which all deviations in life--besides that of cramming sushi down their throats or talking about Avatar--are mundane and trivial).

Though it’s difficult to hear above the din of the chatter, laughter, and clacking chopsticks, the basic anatomy of a high-five goes something like this.

The Rich Dude picks up a piece of tuna and puts it in his mouth.  He chews.

The Rich Dude:  Wow, this tuna is really good today.  So fatty.

Bobby Gift: Kind of like _______’s thighs.  (Where _______ is the latest initiate into the cult, who, after some days spent in the clutches of the Rich Dude, was released from her servitude to be passed around like a form of sexual currency by the subordinate members of the group).

The Rich Dude laughs so hard that a piece of tuna shoots out of his nose.

Rich Dude:  Too true, Bobby.  Too true.  Here.

The Rich Dude raises his hand, palm facing Bobby.

Rich Dude:  Hi five!

Unable to resist the invitation, Bobby Gift slaps the Rich Dude some skin on high.  The crack of palm on palm in the small dining room is not unlike that of a high-powered rifle being discharged.  Other diners in the room flinch, spilling cups of green tea and fumbling pieces of sushi from between their chopsticks.

Bobby Gift, second-in-command in the Rich Dude's band of sensualists, silver fox, mustachioed Lothario so secure in his own sexuality that he need never diverge from his pink-shirted uniform, still harbors a secret fear that his invitation to high five will be snubbed.

Brother Blood On Sale Now

Now that you've read Drought Resistant Strain by Mather Schneider (and doubtlessly loved every line of it) you may be in the mood for some slightly different fare.  Well, look no further than Brother Blood.

Brother Blood is a good, old-fashioned blaxploitation vampire novel, set in gritty 1969 Los Angeles, written by Donald F. Glut.  Bill Cunningham at Pulp 2.0 says it much better than I do, so jump on over to his blog and pick yourself up a copy.

http://d2dvd.blogspot.com/2010/03/brother-blood-on-sale-this-friday.html

And I should mention that the gorgeous cover art is done by no other than faithful People Reviews reader, Nik Macaluso.  Nice work, Nik.  It's reason enough to pick up the book, if you ask me.

Gem Show Gems

The world's largest gem and mineral show has arrived, clotting the roads and choking local restaurants with gem lovers from across the globe.

Of course, patrons of the gem show are quick to congratulate themselves for the money they bring to town--it's their ready-made excuse to indulge themselves in any manner of boorish behavior inside my confines.

Who would have thought people who worship rocks might not be world's most gracious diners?

Drought Resistant Strain by Mather Schneider

I thought that I'd make a non-restaurant-related post to let you in on some exciting news.  Regular People Reviews reader Mather Schneider has just had his first full-length poetry collection, Drought Resistant Strain, published by Interior Noise Press.  Mather himself made the cover drawing and I must say it looks downright gorgeous.

In case you missed the links up above, you can order this handsome, perfect bound, 128-page edition by clicking this word right here.  This is not your Ladies Literary Club fare, nor is it filth devoid of feeling--it's just right.  It's got humor and heart, a couple of things missing from a lot of poetry today.  It's got javelinas boxing each other right on the cover for crying out loud, and you know how The Restaurant loves a good battle.  But, like most things in life, it's the stuff on the inside that counts and I can tell you it will not disappoint.  Do yourself a favor and pick this up.  It also makes a great gift.

And just in case you missed the implication--People Reviews is so good it's read by poets.

The Blob

I am not a mean-spirited restaurant.  In fact, I like to think that I am at least somewhat nicer than the average building.  The things I say may be somewhat offensive, as they are pointed at a member of a particular sect of the population--overweight people.  As a rule, I have nothing against overweight people.  I do have something against overweight people who act like animals in restaurants--just the same as I would have something against people of any body type who act like animals in restaurants.

That said, The Blob does not appear here as a result of her massive girth.  The Blob is featured because she is a horrendous customer who--in addition to general gruffness and lack of etiquette--cannot even cough up a ten percent tip even after keeping the server past the closing time.  Now that she has committed a handful of transgressions and displayed an utter lack of respect for those who work inside me, I am free to go after her with everything I've got.

I must say that even attempting to draw the picture of someone as massive as The Blob completely taxed my computer.  At more than one point I had to take a break when I saw smoke coming from the processor.  More problems occurred when I attempted to upload the picture to Blogger--it seems that the entire website crashed and was down for a number of hours.

I am, however, thankful that The Blob opted for a table and not to belly up to the sushi bar.  The otherwise sturdy structure would undoubtedly fold like a cheap camera under the tremendous girth of her more-than-ample midsection--and probably take one or two of our best chefs with it.

Whenever The Blob enters the restaurant, she should have to put down a one-hundred dollar chair deposit.  If the chair she sits upon is still intact when she leaves, she gets the deposit back.

But go ahead, Blob.  Keep treating the staff like your personal slaves and leaving atrocious tips.  Next time you arrive you may be met with the following message:

I'm sorry, but this restaurant has a strict policy against serving whale.

Now Hiring Slobs

Recent events at the restaurant had left us short handed.  Two positions, one of server and one of dishwasher, needed to be filled as soon as possible. The owner, hoping to expand the pool of applicants, took out an ad on a popular community classifieds website.  Well, expand the pool of applicants she did--but, as we all know, quantity does not equal quality.

It's surprising to me how unprepared people are when they arrive.  No one seems to have enough foresight to even bring their own pen.  One employee, sick of lending them out, started telling applicants that we had no pens and sent them over to the comments box to which one was attached by a short length of chain.  There they would stand for fifteen minutes, bent over in the small space, using the small surface of the comments box to fill out the application upon.  I think that I would be tempted to hire on the spot the first person who had the good sense to arrive with their own writing implement.

Worse yet was the manner of dress.  If you're trying to put your best foot forward, you might want to look down to make sure there still isn't a bunny slipper on it.  Applicants by and large did not seem to be troubled by thoughts of proper dress or personal hygiene.  I think that if things continue on in this vein that the next time we are taking applications we will see a number of applicants wearing bib overalls with no shirt or perhaps only a barrel with a pair of suspenders.

Next, please.

Are you serious?  Oh, wait.  Our misunderstanding.  I notice on your application that you were applying for position of dishwasher.  In that case, welcome aboard.