Apparently Jesus Was Against Tipping

During some of the house-cleaning this past summer, I spent a lot of time going through paper clutter, throwing out a ton of junk, scanning it in for the archives whenever necessary and/or possible.  Even though some of the stuff I exhumed brought back interesting memories, a lot of it wasn’t worth saving in a digital reincarnation—regardless of how little storage space it would take.  I not only decided to save this one, but I wanted to pass it along.

Quick lead-in: I waited tables for a little over three years back home, and for anyone who doesn’t live under a rock, a server’s income consists largely of gratuity—a.k.a. tips.  In the state where I live anyway, it’s legal to pay servers much less than minimum wage because it’s expected gratuity will make up the difference, and from what I recall, I made right about $3 per hour in those days.  Aside from those in the know (others who’ve worked in the service industry and realize how much tips mean), most people tend to be pretty average tippers, neither bad nor good.  Then there is the broad spectrum of shitty tippers; the people who are either too ignorant to realize the level of their own self-awareness, those who use tipping (or the lack thereof) as a source of sadistic amusement, and then the others who fall somewhere in between.  One day, I found this sitting in the tray after a couple customers left.

 

This was the first time I’d seen one of these, and if you’ve ever received one, you can probably guess my reaction and completely understand how I felt.  Here’s what was on the inside.

No, if you do this, let me give you a real tip—stop being an asshole cheapskate under the guise of pious self-righteousness.  If there had been some cash accompanying this card—which there wasn’t—I might have chuckled in passing as I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash, but getting this trash in lieu of money was unacceptably rude.  To break it down, if you happen to give one of these to a fellow Christian, I’m sorry to inform you that you’re preaching to the choir and actually hurting one of your own by withholding income.  If you give it to someone like me, you’re only presenting one more example of how the religious can operate outside the norms of society while claiming some moral high ground based on their elite membership in their secret society.

Here’s the deal; the conversation with these people didn't go above and beyond the typical, “Hi, I’ll be your server,” “We want a big plate of tacos,” and, “Sounds good, enjoy, and here’s your check.  Please come again.”  There was nothing in the transaction that implied my heathen soul needed saving, unless there was a cue for a secret handshake or nod I missed somewhere in there, but I’m fairly certain that even if I was a fellow believer, my motivation for taking that job was not to collect propaganda freely disbursed at the weekly cult meetings.  I think I can confidently speak for anyone who ever has or still does work in the service industry, regardless of whether or not they/we ever enjoyed the work; we didn’t take the job for unsolicited advice or suggestions on how to live our lives, no matter how noble the intention.  It’s all about the cash.

His hat said "Show Me Your Tits." It was for special occassions.

I may have mentioned before that I fancy myself a writer. I am sometimes asked, as I'm sure many writers are, where ideas for stories come from. The reality is that they come from everywhere, but the most recent incident is from a story I was just reading earlier this evening.

I was reading a story in which one of the main characters was upset with the other, and due to the situation he couldn't do anything to react outwardly, so he went into the bathroom and bit his own arm, drawing blood. See, that's one of those strange scenes/occurrences that hit me weird and then my train of thought goes off the tracks.

• I start to think about what kind of person would bite their own arm when left with nothing else to do.
  
• I start to wonder what else someone could do in lashing out that would be relatively equal to biting yourself.
  
• I try to imagine what would happen if the character had stayed in the room and bitten the other person's arm instead.
  
• I think about how much it would hurt to bite your own arm until you draw blood.
  
• I wonder if I could bite my own arm that hard.
  
• I consider biting my own arm--then decide against it.
  
• I wonder how much harder you would have to bite to just take out a chunk of your own skin.
  
• I start to think about the zombie movie I watched the other night when the damage ranged from a single bite to people being torn apart screaming.
  
• I wonder why I don't take more notice of the people who receive a single bite and scream at first, but then are ridiculously fine and shooting at the zombie horde with the rest of the survivors--that is, until they either sacrifice themselves or the infected bite turns them into a zombie.
  
• I try to think of ways someone could take a bite out of themselves or someone else without there having to be zombies involved, like in the story I mentioned earlier (mostly because zombies seem to be fighting vampires for the rank of trendiest monster, and I don't want to be a bandwagoner).
  
• I decide that it could probably be done (obviously), but since it hasn't come to me right away, I'll put it on a shelf and if it comes to me eventually, then it comes to me. If the initial image is good enough, it'll come to me.
  

So that's a short glimpse into what goes on. Nothing too glamorous, I'm sure. Maybe even a bit disappointing. But if you're ever hanging out with a writer and their eyes suddenly sort of go out of focus on you, snap back, and then they act impatient for no apparent reason, they'll probably appreciate it if you'd wrap it up or allow them a gracious retreat, because they're either going to go write or to the toilet. Either way, there's a massive dump about to happen.