Archive for the ‘Food’ Category

Dear Overweight Customers Who Consistently Go to the Bakery I Work At:

Every morning I make blueberry and raspberry muffins, delicious sticky buns, braided breads coated in coffee and sugar, assorted cookies and golden pies. I see what goes into these desserts as I make them by scratch, and will admit to eating a cookie or two during my lunch break more than once. However, coming into this store and requesting “one of each kind of cookie” is absolutely absurd. Sure, they look harmless lying on their bed of wax paper and a shiny metal sheet pan. This does not mean that they will not contribute significantly over time to your growing crotch fat.
A plate of almond cake samples sprinkled lightly with confectioners’ sugar is extremely tempting—please, take one, that’s what they’re there for. Hopefully, you’ll buy one and contribute to the growing economy of America. Oh, a second is fine. I hope you enjoy it, they’re on the rack directly behind you, and though they are quite large I’m sure you’ll have no problem eating half on the way back home. No, please, a third is not necessary. I am here to provide you with free food so you’ll buy some more, not to give you your third lunch. Your continuance in getting up from your large bistro-style coffee with four sugars and heavy cream to grab “just one more, they’re so delicious!” is entirely not necessary. You have now eaten the equivalent of one third of a cake whose first ingredient is a cup of margarine and the old lady behind you is struggling to contain her grandson, who continues to grow antsy at the sight of a poppy seed muffin.
How do I work at a bakery and stay so healthy, you ask? Why, just because I work here does not mean I need to eat every meal here. I am here to serve you, nonetheless, and would love to give you a suggestion: we do offer such options at oatmeal bread and dinner rolls; you should give it a shot.

Most Sincerely,
Your Ever-Smiling Baker


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To the barista at my favorite caffeine refilling station:

Had you not been consuming so much of your own creations or snacking on Vita-Slim you snarf in desperation to shed the excess weight from the two gallons of double fudge ripple ice cream you inhaled while watching infomercials about losing excess tonnage last night, maybe the tremor in your hand would not have been so pronounced. I first took notice that the cup you were offering exhibited eddies from a Richter 4.5 happening in San Francisco when you placed the cup on the counter and a single sip slithered over the rim to spolsh upon the counter. That would have been fine for you to offer me the cup with an apology for the mess.

What you did next was an injustice to my taste buds let alone my immune system. Taking the rancid rag that had no doubt been used to swab up the last twenty of your mishandled creations you used it to lick up the misguided mouthful from the counter. Then you added the final and unforgivable injury to the proffered beverage. You used this bacteria and disease ridden towelette, this cloth that a sewer rat from New York would shun as too defiled to touch, to polish off the rest of your error from the side and place where my lips would have eventually come to rest on its porcelain surface. Then to my abject horror you offered the tainted device to me with an innocent smile.

When I objected and asked that sanitize my container an prepare another unsullied beverage, you had the audacity to wonder in your single celled brain why I would not accept the monstrosity. I did not ask for your hands to be amputated for the insult, as was my right. I asked for a beverage in my preferred customer’s platinum member cup to be presented with the honor it deserved.

Now give me a fresh coffee before I drain your blood by sticking this stir stick in your neck.


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Dear Rent-A-Deputy,

I know that you think your store-bought badge makes you something special. I have to agree. It certainly qualifies you for Special Education classes based on your Inbred Mental Status. The sheriff’s department really caught an awesome guy when they finally threw out those anti-obesity rules.

You must feel incredibly brave protecting your Weight Watchers eschewing wife and your biting, barking, tree humping (also inbred) German shepherd from my elderly golden retriever mix. I know Shiloh can be terrifying when he’s trying to play. Especially when he flops down on the ground so you can rub his tummy. Fearsome. I bet you had to hold your hand steady when you nailed him with a snout full of pepper spray.

Next time you feel the need to protect Tubby and Humpy with pepper spray, I have some simple instructions for you.

1) Waddle to my front door and knock. When I answer, ask: “Ally, Shiloh’s in my yard. Could you please come get him?” I will gladly retrieve my arthritic, heart-diseased retriever.

2) Enjoy your calorie loaded breakfast with Tubby and go about your day without participating in animal cruelty.

If, in the event you choose to ignore instructions 1 and 2, bypass to instructions 3 and 4.
3) Retrieve your pepper spray. Point nozzle directly at your eyes to make certain it isn’t clogged.

4) Activate spray nozzle, maintaining eye contact with it at all times.

Following these instructions will prevent you from pissing me off.

Thanks so much,


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Dear Honey,

I know you want to treat me special, and apparently this means that we have to go out this suggestion”on the town” and have dinner in a restaurant every once in a while. I truly believe that sucks. And you don’t seem to understand that.

Why? There are so many good reasons:

I was a waitress for years and years and years. If I never step foot in another restaurant again, I would be fine. I know what the kitchens of those places look like. I know that most restaurants hire 15 year old kids or retards to wash their dishes (which is just gross). I know that the wait staff doesn’t give a fuck about either of us and would be happy if we died at the table (after paying the bill, or at least dropping our wallets from our cold dead hands). Do I want to be subjected to that? NO.

Further, if I ever do say, “ok honey, fine, let’s go out to eat,” then that’s only the beginning of a world of misery. Where do I want to go? Truly, I want to stay at home… so YOU pick the damn restaurant. And no, I don’t want to spend a crap-ton of money on steak and potatoes. You know I prefer salads.

Every time we have this discussion we end up pissed off at each other, and it has ruined more than one nice night on the town. Remember sitting in Hardee’s after a hard night of indecision? No? Let me remind you. I was crying and you were ranting on and on about how the fast-food workers should get off the phone and take your order. The food was horrible, and the company worse. That was a night that will live on in my memory forever. Is this a nice night on the town for me? Or for you? Don’t you have any male friends you can eat steak and drink beer with? Why do I have to be involved at all?

Really, if you want to do something nice for me, don’t drag me to a god-forsaken restaurant. Go grocery shopping, cook a nice meal, and then wash the dishes afterwards. You really are a good cook, even if you have to use every dish in the kitchen to make spaghetti.


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Mark B., dreading your fourth meal

My worst restaurant experience is everyday. I work at Taco Bell. I hate people, because it seems that nowadays, no one has any common sense. I mean come on, how hard is it to pronounce guacamole? Or to read the giant glowing neon menu in front of you instead of asking me how much a taco is?

READ!!! And they will buy whatever is promoted. I could put up a poster with a picture of toenail clippings topped with a layer of our cool ripe tomatoes and sour cream, for just 99 cents, and people will buy it. One day, when the taco bell dog was popular, we were selling plush toys of the dog and a lady asked me if the chihuahuas were any good.

I told her not in this country. Idiots.

My store is located next to an Arby’s, so naturally people come through the drive thru and order Arby’s melts. You would THINK that the giant bell in front of their faces would draw attention to the fact that they are at the wrong place!! They must be so overwhelmed by their hunger lust that they forget how to read.

Rantasaurus Says: You know, you laugh, but I swear by it. Toenail clippings first thing in the morning does wonders for my constitution. Lots of fiber, if you know what I mean.

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Oh hi there, Dearest Daddy and my darling step-mommy!

Remember how I’m putting myself through college? Like, that whole thing where I have scholarships and loans in my name? And I’m paying for my own car and insurance and cell bill and credit card and basically have been financially independent from anyone for the last three years?

Yeah, that’s pretty cool, huh. ? And I know you’re all proud of me and stuff. But, um, here’s the thing: yeah, when you promise to send me money because I have a business trip to NYC and would like a little extra doff to buy you presents and, y’know…eat? Or when I’m strapped for cash one semester and I’d like a simple hundy to get me through a month? Or, hey, when my *tooth breaks* and I’d like to go to a dentist to get it fixed, but I have no dental insurance and no money to take care of it and you’re all, “Why, of course we’ll send you money so that you can get through a simple meal without wondering if food is going to get stuck in your giant, chipped tooth hole and become abcessed, leading to having to have the tooth pulled and a root canal which we know you can’t afford!”

Yeah, when you promise me all the stuff and then you don’t follow through? Guess what that makes you: lying liars who lie. Do me a favor. Don’t promise it to me if you don’t have it. If you say “we don’t have the extra cash right now” for the love of God, I’ll understand (until you spend $700 for the step-kiddles to go to junior and sophomore prom, which is a rant of a different color).

In conclusion: don’t be surprised if I don’t come home for Christmas because I can’t afford gas.

All my love!


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Joe B., with the keen food instincts 

It was a warm August day and my 5 year old son and I were coming back from a walk and visit to the park and decided to stop in at one of our local Chinese restaurants to get a lunch special. There were only two other patrons in the restaurant. An older women and an older man, each of whom sat at different tables. The older man seemed to be having a tough time eating as he coughed and hacked continuously while he ate.

Before we finished our meal the older hacking man got up and left. The waitress went over and grabbed his plate and then walked over to our table and, with the fork she had picked up along with the older man’s plate, scraped the departed customer’s food on to my plate and said ” He no eat. You eat.” and walked away.

My son and I looked at the food the waitress had just unloaded on to my plate without my requesting she do so. We didn’t speak as we didn’t know what to say. The other old lady patron was watching all this but expressionless and she never stopped chewing and swallowing.

Within a minute or two I suggested to my son we leave. My appetite had suddenly dissipated.

The waitress grabbed our plates and put our left-overs into a to-go container, again without my asking her to do this. We paid our bill and left with the to-go container.

Soon we made it to the corner of the block in which we had to turn and go down the street to our home. Just as we did this a friendly stray dog ran up to greet us.

On impulse I opened our to-go container and dumped the contents out on the sidewalk thinking this hungry looking dog would love a treat of human food. This was a combination of our uneaten food and the hacking man’s left overs.

This stray dog seemed very excited at first but during it’s cursury sniffing and checking out of this generous but gooey mess, it kept stopping and lifting it’s head as if it was thinking” something ain’t right here.”

After 2 or 3 attempts to reassure itself that we weren’t trying to poison him…this now suspicious hound obviously decided that it wasn’t worth the risk and gave us both a look of ” you think I’m that dumb?” and just scampered off.

Again my son and I glanced at each other. Again we didn’t know what to say. We continued on home silently contemplating what we just witnessed. In the 18 years since this experiencing this curious event, we still occasionally bring it up. No laughing…just incredulous wonder.

Rantasaurus Says: You disrespectful ignoramus. In many cultures, especially the cultures that value their ancestors, old man snot is a delicacy. I would’ve eaten it all up and asked for more.

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