If I ever pass the bar, I’m gonna specialize in Pinkham’s Law.

I love this so much

SODA. IT’S CALLED SODA, YOU MONSTERS.

The hot plate saga continues, for the third week running:

“Was that so hard?” = “The situation has been resolved to my satisfaction, but I’d still like to start a fight about it.”

General Zhukov: Comrade, we have just captured Berlin!

She said again “JUST WIPE THE TABLE, AND MAKE SURE NO NUTS TOUCH MY FOOD!”

Remember to let that Lays bag breathe a little after you open it, I’m sorry aerate.

Just wanted to pop in and mention I accidentally hit a customer in the head with a table last night. Have a great rest of your day.

That and “Let me educate you.” Both those phrases basically push the MURDER EVERYONE button in my lizard brain.

The South makes no sense. Ordering chips and dip with a Coke could literally mean chips and salsa with ohh I don’t know a Dr Pepper.

Maybe not the part that stood out to everyone, but:

Man nothing ruins an old racists day like being nice to someone. I work in a bakery in an area with a large middle eastern/indian population. Because of this, we have little displays for non-cracker ass holiday events like little eid al-fitr cakes and a nice spread for diwali. EVERYTIME while we get a slew of happy…

A cunt punt, so to speak. Or a clam wham, if you will.

Is it a rule that any customer who arrives five minutes before closing and insists on being seated must, without exception, behave in the worst way imaginable? My coworkers and I used to play Rock Paper Scissors to decide who would stay while the cooks glowered from their stations like wrathful gods.

The 9/11 lady needs a punch in the taco. Fuck her in every way possible.

“Was that so hard?!”

I can’t remember his whole spiel, because my brain was filled with the enraged screams of my primal warrior ancestors and I was battling to keep a pleasant expression on my face.

That’s a server after my own heart.