Nincompoop.

Doing floor is like, crap please. You have to serve customers with a stick-on smile and act as if you love your job like Denise loves Britney. Which actually isn't alot of love to be honest. So many of them mumble to themselves when they're ordering. You bloody buffoon, i'm pretty tall and sound doesn't travel all that well upwards. Be grateful i'm not spitting gobs of mucus into your clam chowder when i pick it up from kitchen.

A thumbprint on a goblet isn't gonna' give you prostrate cancer or herpes either, so don't make us change your wine glass until you've satisfied your own perverted obsession with cleanliness. It's gonna' have your stains after you hold it anyway. Don't complain to management that there's a tiny hair in your chicken chop, then refuse an entirely new plate when we graciously offer another. We aren't dogs that shed you simpleton. How many times have you seen an ant in your glass of water and downed it in end, ant and all.

Don't whine about the lack of toilets too. Can't control your bowels like a diabetic? Eat at a hawker centre you moron, they've got many cubicles for nature's call. Heck you can even pay 10 cents per entry for all i care. You guys come, get all serious about eating then realise happy hour's over and the alcohol prices are all higher, then leave. If you don't have sufficient cash to order a jug of Tiger at $26 then go to a coffee shop where some 50 year old woman with tattoos on her ankles in a skimpy miniskirt will serve you. I bet they have air-con blowing and they serve you popcorn complimentary of the beer too.

You fussy bastards deserve to get shot. Like with a machine gun.