for people who think too much

this issue of kitchen sink includes a not so subtle article about tipping entitled "Tip, You Bastards" written by the very talented Amy Reed.

i will include, for your enjoyment, an exerpt:

"I could spit in your food, but I do not. I could do a lot of things, but instead I say 'good morning' over and over, through gritted teeth for seven years now. 'Anything to drink with that?' What Kind of cheese?' And you keep ordering the same thing over and over, and you keep bringing your kids in and rearranging tables, letting them lick the salt shaker while you talk on your cell phone, letting them throw their Cheerios and bananas all over the floor, leaving the mess for me to clean up on my hands and knees like some minimum wage Cinderella while you waltz out with your five-hundred-dollar stroller. And no, you did not tip. I could accidentally spill your soy chai latte on your designer purse, but I do not...I could spit on your bagel, but I do not. Did I tell you I'm in grad school? Did I mention my IQ? I have a fantasy. I have many fantasies that have developed while wiping down tables with bleach-drenched towels or stocking cups or making carrot juice. They usually involve humiliating medical students or men who order for their dates, but this one is my favorite. It involves two men, scientists perhaps, PhD candidates working on their theses. They've had a few afternoon beers. They are hungry. They want me to serve them. But before that they want to prove their superiority...One of them finally speaks. He pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and slowly pushes it toward me. He leans on the counter and, after noticing my breasts, says smugly, 'I'll give you a hundred dollars if you can tell me the scientific name for the green sea urchin.' His friend laughs. I look the doctoral candidate in the eye and calmly tell him, 'Strongylocentrotus droebachiensis.' His mouth drops, his friend's mouth drops. I grab the bill out of his hand. The restaurant starts cheering. Each and everyone of the housewives and independently wealthy patrons has a sudden epiphany: Their waitresses are probably smarter than they are. They empty their wallets frantically, rushing to redeem years of bad tipping.

God bless you bartenders and waiters, you construction workers and gardeners, you strippers and security guards, you few who look me in the eye and ask how I'm doing, pouring dollars into my tip jar out of solidarity...God bless your memory, your thank you's. And most of all, your money."

the full article is even better. if you can spare the $5.95, i suggest you purchase the issue just for Amy Reed's wonderfully arranged words.

thanks brando comando, for letting me know about this. high five. you made my week.

P.S. always tip people who have total control over what you ingest.