People are dumb. We get it. And those who work at restaurants appear to be better at being stupid than the rest of us. (Incidentally, that’s NOT something to brag about restaurant workers, so put your grabby hands reaching for an “I competed ” trophy down.) We understand that as well … stupid people want trophies even more than less-stupid people. Maybe the French fries are causing their stupidity, but we’re not popping for the medical study done on mice. We hate mice and their needy, beady little eyes, too. And we’re having more fun just mocking the rest of you and your stupidity. But we can’t laugh it off when we’re stuck doing business with it. It was so very simple, like most stupid stories are at the beginning …
It was the time to eat, and it was easy to tell. Bellies were grumbling, and not the same way you know a bathroom is about to be cleared out because the girlfriend sucked down the last of the stuff from the pink bottle without telling the ONLY OTHER PERSON in the apartment that might possibly have a need. However, that’s a story for another time.
Anyhow, a small group of co-workers and the one guy we all don’t like … Tim, we’re still all pointing at you, buddy; buy lunch sometime, you cheap bastard … went for a bite at the restaurant closest to the office. It’s not a good restaurant; it sucks. But it’s near, so that makes it nicer just because of that. We went to the same place we’ve been going to for years. We sat at the same booth; the one with duct tape covering the slashes in the booth. Sure, it looks tacky, but at least you know your home. And we had the same server we’ve had for six years.
I started first. It’s my right. If nobody else knows what they want to eat, the “ladies first” rule can wait. It’s a stupid rule anyway. We eat more than chicks, and they usually save half their meal anyway. So of course guys should order meal first. (As long as my girlfriend doesn’t hear that point of view.) But anyhow, my order: “I want a hamburger.” Then I waited for the same question that has come every day for six years.
“Do you want cheese with that, and …” the server asks. Before she could add “fries” to finish the thought, I said– once again– no. I ordered a hamburger. If I had a change of heart– for the first time in six years– I could have said something crazy like the word “cheeseburger.” Where’s the confusion? “Cheeseburger” and “hamburger” seem to be pretty far apart in the English language. In the same way “tuna” fish and “sword” fish seem to share a relationship, until you recognize a swordfish has a pointy-ass snout only to spear stupid fishermen. (Proof positive Darwin Awards are real.).
And if I wanted the fries, wouldn’t I have included “fries” after the “hamburger” bit? People hating is easy– trust me, I hate people. But it’s really simple feeling that way about people that work in restaurants that just don’t listen. I hate them the most. Perhaps I should give up, and try the fries, too. Somewhere, mice should probably thank me.