aka: Nothing to Fear but Smear Itself...
This is a <SATIRIC> column: it uses descriptive language
that form the backbone of the RepubliCULT:
the author apologizes for their crude faults
I went into a restaurant last week: independently owned, clean; the food looked great. As I sat down at a table for two (yet alone), the smiling waitress came up with a cheerful, seemingly–sincere smile, offered me a menu, described the two daily specials, and said she'd be right back.
But why did she leave? After all, I'm the client, and I'm a Republican. I studied her manner, as she briskly served drinks to the couples that entered before me. They looked like your average Joe and Jane Six–pack, hard–working blue collar types... I wondered who they would be voting for.
The waitress smiled at me again, but didn't come back for my order. I started speculating whether she was married, or single, with children, or without. Not having been in this particular spot before, I now noticed her eyes seemed a bit tired: was she a double–jobber? Tough: it's a dog–eat–dog world, isn't it? Ever since I came out of college, and after Dad helped me get a job at the Brokerage, it has been almost too easy.
Finally! Claire, her name apparently (can we believe name tags these days? It seems everyone on the news is not what they appear to be... does she date a terrorist from the Sixties?), bounced in to take my order: a chef's salad with Roquefort dressing, and a Martini. I noticed the restaurant filling up, and hoped this bimbo would bring my damn food; I had accounts to contact this afternoon, and the pressure, in this turbulent bear market, was being felt even in our own Ivory tower. I was gunning for my first SIX–digit bonus, before Jimmy Carter screwed up this bull market.
Damn it! Damn her!
How long was it taking, to make a simple chef's salad? Bitch! What an amateur this waitress was... she actually started talking politics with that other table near by. Ignoring me? How dare a floozy like her talk about that nigger candidate at work? WHO does she think she is? My stomach acid was flaring, and the Martini scorched its way through my throat like bile on its way up.
What was I doing in this devil's nest? They might as well be whores, those bitches and assholes talking about Clinton's Legacy, and 'Change we can believe in'! As she brought my salad, with one of those Kneejerk Liberal smiles that make any honest taxpayer want to puke, I thought I was going to hurl my Martini across the table. I decided to eat that fuckin' salad and get the hell out of there.
I couldn't take it any more. I noticed here and there, certain clients were wearing lapel pins, with Donkeys on them. Jesus and Mary! Don't they know we are at WAR with Terrorists? How could they so blatantly dishonor our troops? My appetite was gone, but I know (much more than the rest of these scumbags) the value of a dollar, godDAMNit, so I finished my salad, and took a long look around this 'nest of Satan' for the last time...
Then, I spotted the Chef.
Was he also the owner? He looked across the room, and I could almost feel his mind analyzing the covers, how much 'average ticket per patron' and then, WOW. He has an American flag pin on his breast!
He's one of US? A true American? Look, there's actually a GW Bush bumper–sticker on the back wall of the kitchen!
The waitress appeared puzzled as she approached, and I asked for the ticket. Was I scowling? My voice too tense? Too damn transparent: that isn't good in these times. We must stay strong, stay the course, and prevent America from giving in to Communists and Socialists like that darkie. I never understand how people can actually claim GW Bush is a Socialist, when he obviously had to save our US Banks from those godless Commies that tried to destroy our banking system.
She's probably some back–water slut from the wrong side of the tracks. And then, it dawned on me.
I had a Plan! When my check came, I figured out that a tip should be about $6.00 (well, I did have three Martinis: but I am NOT an alcoholic), and I realized that I had the power to screw this trash-waitress.
Instead of leaving the tip on the table, I went towards the kitchen door. Why should I contribute my hard–earned commissions to the Enemy: a Liberal? The money ought to go the Owner: maybe he'll get me a better table next time...
“Hey, you're the owner?”
The cook smiled at me. “Nine years next week,” wiping his hands on his apron.
“Take this, it's not much but you can put it into your 'Expansion Fund', ehh?”
“Thanks, Mac! I see by your Flag–pin that you're for the Maverick.”
“That's right... and you ought to fire that bitch–waitress: she's bad for repeat business. Could try finding a Republican to fill her place...”
He laughed... “Mac, you ever seen a Republican waitress?”
“That's the pre–Trophy Bride phase, no?”
“You crack me up...”
And we shared that laugh only Republicans can understand...
Damn it's good to be a Real American! Why tip a waitress when you can possibly get better treatment by the owner, by offering him the tip money you used to give to 'The Enemy'?
A genuine protected American SATIRE... from