July 19, 2005
Peccadilloes That Pain—A New Series
Peccadilloes That Pain—A New Series
As our regular readers undoubtedly recognize, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” usually aim our satirical barbs at big game. By this, of course, we mean that we regularly excoriate Michael Moore, but not because he’s fat. Rather, we take him to task for being a witless popinjay who is aiding and abetting America’s enemies. And fat.Recently, however, we determined that we spend far too much time weighing in on the great questions of the day (the nomination of John Bolton, likening of Gitmo to the gulag, Billy Joel, &c.). Why not, we collectively asked ourselves, spend a bit of time discussing some of the more niggling troubles that plague modern life? Why most something be galactically wretched to earn our obloquy?
As a result of collectively peppering ourselves with these burning collective questions, we decided to inaugurate a new series of “posts” here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” Our Official Advertising Department—which was behind such key marketing coups as our slogans “We Hate Because We Love” and “We’re the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of Hatred”—has bestowed this new series with the fetching blurb “Peccadilloes That Pain.” Pretty nifty, eh?
So, dear reader, sit back, relax, and enjoy the first of our adolescent rants aimed at extremely inconsequential phenomena. Your febrile mind will thank you for it—if not now, then in a week or two.
Peccadilloes That Pain: Waiters and Waitresses Who Don’t Box Your Leftovers for You
Here’s a real first-world problem. (And, by “first world,” we mean “countries that aren’t total crap-holes.) Every once in a while, dear reader, we can’t finish the huge portions of refried Riblets we order at the local Applebee’s. This happens with great frequency to the women on staff, since they tend to eat less than their male comrades (yet, intriguingly enough, are by far heavier).
As such, on occasion we ask our waiters or waitresses to box up our victuals for later consumption. After all, although we don’t keep up with the news much, we hear that some African kids almost starved at a Bob Geldof concert.
Anyway, darn near half of the times we ask the wait-staff to put our meals in a box, they come back with some Styrofoam container, and foist it upon us. Although said waiter never utters such a sentiment, clearly he is thinking “You put it in a box yourself, you dolt.”
As far as we’re concerned, hardly anything is more irksome. We mean, come on: When you head to a mechanic and ask him to fix your car’s brakes, he doesn’t simply hand you some brake pads, now does he? When you travel to your barber for a clip, he doesn’t hand you a pair of scissors, does he?
Well, other than if you get your haircut at Supercuts.
