Miss Thang at the Olive Garden

Walked about three miles this morning... then walked nine holes this afternoon... great exercise, feeling good about how healthy I've been, so then decided to go to the fucking Olive Garden.

Dear God... breadsticks dipped in greasy wonderful alfredo sauce... chicken parmesan... nothing like a little chicken dredged in high-fat parmesan and then deep fried and topped with cheese, next to a big glop of fettucini alfredo...

I am a fat pig. I just need to come to grips with that. Oh well.

Watched a patron and a waitress bonk heads at another table. The waitress was black... she had a little Miss Thang going... looking like she was at least trying to pretend she had some customer service skills... but everyone could tell what she thought of the bitchy lady sitting in front of her.

I wasn't sure what happened, because they were already going at it when we were walked to our table. Something about the waitress rushing them to order... they wanted to take their time and browse the menu, and they didn't want advice from Miss Thang... In her defense, I think Miss Thang was genuinely trying to be helpful, along with pushing what she's obligated to push from the menu, etc... But the bitchy lady got all in a huff and told Miss Thang she needed some time to look at the menu.

So Miss Thang came back in a few minutes, but now the stick was definitely up her butt. It was interesting watching her. She looked liked she came from downtown somewhere... probably would have cussed out Miss Bitch in any other environment. She looked like she was trying to look like she was being patient... but she wasn't trying too hard.

Miss Bitch ordered, and Miss Thang asked her something about her entree, and of course Miss Bitch snapped back at her... I couldn't really hear what they were saying, but I picked up most of the context from the menu, the waitress's notepad, etc... Miss Thang gave the table a tight, fake smile and spun on her heel. I could see the smile drop from her face before she took her second step away from their table. Miss Thang was not happy.

I stopped watching them once the alfredo sauce came to our table. Three breadsticks in a row dragged through that sauce, rolling the bread around, jamming the sauce into the corner of the little dish, trying to cover every square millimeter with high-fat cheese sauce... So good, salty, creamy...

Then Miss Thang swished back into the room... she had brought Miss Bitch's table the check, and Miss Bitch got upset because they hadn't been given the chance to order dessert.

And then Miss Thang crossed the dipshit line... she said, "Well, I'm sorry, but I was afraid to ask you anything, girlfriend..." Yes, she said "girlfriend..." I waited, a spoonful of pasta e fagioli halfway to my mouth... I expected to see some chicken marsala or some pasta florentine start flying.

Miss Thang had that fake smile on her face... it was interesting... it was clear to me that she had no interest in being nice, and that quite frankly she didn't really give a shit anymore, she'd written off her tip a long time ago... in fact, I was quite surprised that she'd come back to the table period... it looked like a smile that was on her face just in case the manager decided to walk by...

I didn't hear Miss Bitch's response... but she snapped her menu closed and handed it back to Miss Thang...

That was the end of the exchange... I have to say I was a bit disappointed... I had visions of Miss Bitch's face stuffed down hard into a half-eaten platter of angel hair pasta... Miss Thang reaching back behind her own head and pulling out the bobby pins to let her hair down and go total ghetto on this white bitch... the husband trying to interfere but falling back with an Olive Garden fork stuck in his neck, blood spurting across the table, splattering the specials menu with the lovely pictures of pork medallions... Miss Bitch coming up for hair, sliding away from the table, knocking over the bus pan on the table nearby... Miss Thang grabbing Miss Bitch by the hair, swinging her around, grabbing her by the ears and slamming her head against the wall, bottles of chianti tottering off the shelves above... in the distance, a small group of waiters and waitresses look up from singing their dipshit birthday song to some fat thirteen year-old sitting behind a giant bowl of chocolate gelato...