By on September 10, 2007

100_0001.jpgOver the weekend, I ate at little Rhody's most celebrated (i.e. expensive) death-by-meat-house. The experience was more-or-less as expected. As I left, the waiter confronted me with his best crestfallen/concerned expression. "Was everything all right?" he inquired. In other words, why'd you stiff me? As I'd left 10 percent of a very hefty tab, I ruled his plea out of order. Besides, the bastard had [temporarily] confiscated my knife. MY knife: a prized folding lock-back whose sharp edge makes slicing meat as easy and sensually satisfying as corner carving in a Boxster S. "Oh no, you need this!" he'd said, removing MY knife and proffering a cutting instrument straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean, with a blade as dull as Congressional testimony. In general, I don't mind surrendering authority to someone who knows what they're doing. But when someone's a bully AND an idiot, well, like I said, the waiter had removed MY knife. This reaction also explains why I detest car dealers. Sounds like Justin feels the same way. 

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