Adorned with a new hat and shirt, rolls rolled, wraps wrapped and sandwiches sandwiched, I was thrust into the white lime-light of the most significant development in the self-proclaimed 'Biggest Hole Above Ground' (really), and I gained my first experience of direct customer service. Was it worthwhile? Did I learn anything? It wasn't just for the money, right? No, it wasn't. No, I didn't. Ha! Good one, Sir.
I feel there's only one way to express my experience, as follows:
The Dougie Ultimatum:
- If you stand at the counter, having spent 10 minutes in line, and proceed to mumble out loud 'Hmm, what would I like?', I reserve the right to break you. My God you are a waste of space. And the fact that you eventually settle on the 'low-fat beef lasagne' thinking that it will actually help you lose weight confirms that you are as stupid as you are wide.
- No, you cannot have a discount. Unless you are a Senior or attractive, try somewhere else. Do I look like a cash dispenser?
- No, our mugs are not too small. And no, I won't let you pay for cups and get mugs in return. That's not how the whole transaction thing works. Please just piss off back to Yank-land.
- The amount of salad I give you next to your low-fat beef lasagne is the amount of salad you will receive. And you will pay $2.50 for it, not $2. If you want more salad, you can pay for it. And noooo, I don't care that 'last time [you] were here you got more olives in your Greek salad.'
- The Greek salad isn't actually an Italian salad. And when you are corrected by an attractive counterhand, don't try to pass it off as 'close enough'. Because this counterhand knows the straight line distance between Athens and Rome, knows which capital he prefers and will so happily go all Pericles on yo' ass; and it would be justified.
- When you order six smoothies, don't expect them to be ready in a minute. If I have to peel six lots of fruit, blend the milk, yoghurt and fruit together before slamming the lid on without soaking the electronics store across the road with purée-ed frozen strawberry, it's going to take me a while. And if you even think of complaining, those shakes may just acquire a new price.
- The counter is mine. It's where I put your food down, where I lay out the sugar packets and do other cool stuff. It is not yours to eat from. Don't do it. And for the Almighty's sake, do I look like the bin boy? I DON'T WANT YOUR USED WHEATGRASS SHOT CUP. I made it, you deal with it. Or as per #1, I will break you.
- When I'm making fruit salad, don't disturb me. I'm already disturbed enough, and if I have to take off my 10th pair of latex gloves to make your cuppacino I may just suffocate you with them.
- Yes, my cuppacino froth designs are damned amazing. And yes, you can tell me so. I won't take offense.
- No, I don't want to go out with your daughter / grand-daughter. See #1; stupidity is hereditary.
- I might be the only guy in a shop of eleven girls - but my lack of interest in them does not imply my being gay; rather, just fussy.
- No, you old cow. I do not need to 'get [my] head on straight', just because I mistakenly double counted your curried-egg sandwich. Rather, if you weren't so rude to me in the first place you wouldn't have incurred my curried-egg surcharge.
Now go away. I'm finished, and no I'm not doing more unless I get double-pay.