Dreads

There are several things to be dreaded in life.
We're talkin' utility bills, waking up with your face between the ass cheeks of dawn, working in the Mexican fast food industry... and yes, the tip jar.
Oh man how I dread the tip jar.

Look, sir. Or rather, scrawny teen with skin problem... I know where you're at. You get paid the absolute minimum when it comes to wages, and it hurts. It hurts bad. I know this because I am a fellow absolute minimum wagie. Yet you still have the one up on me. How you ask? That freaking tip jar you so nonchalantly placed under my nose. Unfortuneately, I hold no sympathy towards you and your empty tip jar. It deserves to be empty, y'asshole! You handed me food that was in a display case in front of the counter. Such service.
You're running a fine scam there and I tip my bonnet to you. But either we all get one, or no one does! Otherwise please spare me your wicked glare as I carefully avoid the tip section on my receipt*. I don't care if a generous citizen gives up their change but for real I don't get no damn tip jar at my place of business. Maybe if tip jars were enough to go around, we'd all be a lot more generous.

A special shout out to FroYo. Self-serve. Yet, somehow, a materialized tip jar. In short, up yours FroYo.



*I know you fucked up my order because I didn't sign the lousy tip portion of my receipt!!