Dear José,
Okay, motherfucker. With your pencil-thin moustache and your fake French accent. We could ignore the fact that you offered us "still" water, knowing we would not realize you were charging us eight dollars a bottle (thinking it was tap water). We could ignore that you acted like wine was only available by the bottle until we specifically asked about getting just a glass. We could even ignore the cheesy glissando-laden piano versions of "Imagine" and "Memory" playing earnestly above, and the blindingly dim mood-lighting. But FUCK YOU for not even INTIMATING that the one item you nearly begged us to order (the "special") was FIFTY DOLLARS MORE than the most expensive thing on the menu. Did you not notice that my pearls were fake, that my husband's shirt might have been (and was) bought on the street for a dollar? Did you not notice that we were the only couple in the restaurant under 50? Did you also not notice that we didn't even FLINCH at the idea of spending one third of the money we had saved for our vacation on a piece of second-rate meat? That's because perhaps WE HAD NO FUCKING CLUE YOU MOTHER FUCKING DICKWEED BALL OF SHIT. And maybe you shouldn't take advantage of two giddy gullible honeymooners just so you can get a better fucking tip. WE HATE YOU! WE HATE THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU! YOU MASTURBATE WITH YOUR FEET AND DREAM ABOUT HAVING SEX WITH YOUR MOTHER'S FRIENDS AT THE NURSING HOME!! Oh god do we hate you.
Hatefully yours,
Sheila and Sophocles
(The Honeymooners)
There's even more wonderful stuff here.
4:05 PM