For being a total lesbo i sure dicked you good.
Hey twat. Yes you. the one with the twat for a face. Listen up. Frappacinos are for pussies and diabatic fat asses. And asking for extra caramel is just asking me to light your crocs on fire. And if you ask me to put the extra frappacino in another cup and double cup that I'm going to come to your home,court your daughter as an upstanding gentleman and then piss on her at her prom.
Don't pretend fifty cents is a good tip. Don't put a dollar in my tip jar and take fifty cents out. I'm not a goddamn bank. You do not put your check card in my mouth and I do not shoot 20's out my ass. Your flippy dippy mumbo jumbo venti bullshit frappacino is almost two lbs. I just served you a goddamn meal, so why doesn't your heart-attack cruising ass tip me like the waiter you just made me and the bitch that you are.
Next time you come in don't pay me. I'll pay for your drink. from my pocket. so that when I finish making it I can slap it from your chubby fingers and watch the shocked expression on your blank, sweaty, pignoses, mouth breathing face. Then i'm going to grab you by the back of your greasy, I-stick-to-my-weekly-washing-no-matter-what-the-humidity-and-how-much-i-sweat head of hair and smush it into the soppy frappacino puddle that just formed on the ground below having dripped off the bottem half of your front butt.
They won't fire me. My coworkers will carry me out on their shoulders like a goddamn game-winning-point-scoring super hero, and you will know what caramel drenched in your own tears tastes like.
Fuck you. I hope you lose a rotten diabetes leg. Have a nice day.
Don't pretend fifty cents is a good tip. Don't put a dollar in my tip jar and take fifty cents out. I'm not a goddamn bank. You do not put your check card in my mouth and I do not shoot 20's out my ass. Your flippy dippy mumbo jumbo venti bullshit frappacino is almost two lbs. I just served you a goddamn meal, so why doesn't your heart-attack cruising ass tip me like the waiter you just made me and the bitch that you are.
Next time you come in don't pay me. I'll pay for your drink. from my pocket. so that when I finish making it I can slap it from your chubby fingers and watch the shocked expression on your blank, sweaty, pignoses, mouth breathing face. Then i'm going to grab you by the back of your greasy, I-stick-to-my-weekly-washing-no-matter-what-the-humidity-and-how-much-i-sweat head of hair and smush it into the soppy frappacino puddle that just formed on the ground below having dripped off the bottem half of your front butt.
They won't fire me. My coworkers will carry me out on their shoulders like a goddamn game-winning-point-scoring super hero, and you will know what caramel drenched in your own tears tastes like.
Fuck you. I hope you lose a rotten diabetes leg. Have a nice day.