If ever a trade that deals with human interaction needs an applause, it is the food frauleins that complete the connection between chefs and empty stomachs. These vittle vixens tolerate an insane amount of bad human being behavior. They carry the responsibility of taking people’s orders for food, relaying it to the thin-skinned cook, and then cart the finished product over to the human complaint machine sitting in a booth like a cow in a stanchion. Their world can vary from cascading praise all the way down to ridiculously rude retards uttering profanities like a truck driver in a traffic jam. Taught to always be pleasant and courteous to the customers, their behavior will dictate their income. The drawback to this gig is the compassion and cashflow of the clientele. Like all trades, there is a bell curve of performance. Some are great, most average, and a few that need to change careers and become a trap door puller at the gallows. Being able to shed verbal abuse and complaints from whinny, stupid people all for minimum wage denotes the sainthood of this trade. Sometimes a customer can encounter a lackluster waitress that woke up to a hung-over husband, 3 bratty kids, and a gestapo restaurant owner whose demands are unobtainable. Typical examples like this exist everywhere. Joe and Bob just finished a 6-hour drinking marathon at some corner bar and needed breakfast at 2AM to dry out their brainwashed conversations. Enter Sue, a young waitress of Scottish origin with red hair and freckles. At the table, Sue shows up with 2 glasses of water and a look of, “oh great, more drunken monkeys.” Bob, the more sober of the 2, notices the befreckled arm of Sue as she’s wiping the table clean from the last 2 gorillas that ate there. Bob pulled out a napkin from the dispenser and started wiping at all the freckles engraved on Sue’s arm. His response was, “the next time you make a chocolate malt, put the cover on and this mess won’t happen.” They left hungry.

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