If life were a restaurant, I ended up getting the table with the shitty waiter. The guy really has no clue what he’s doing… clearly; this is not what I ordered. I don’t think I’m even going to leave Geraldo (that’s what it says on my waiter’s name tag… but I bet he just had that put on his name tag cuz his actual name is something as lame as his waiter-ing chops… something like Bart; apologies if your name is Bart… but that name doesn’t particularly appeal to me, and I’m not going to lie about it) a tip. Typically I’d feel bad for not leaving a tip, but in the restaurant of life, when your waiter sucks and butchers your order, you don’t leave him a tip… cuz it’s not like you’re ever going to be eating at the place again anyway.

When life is a restaurant, things get awkward. First of all, you don’t even get to pick the restaurant you’re eating at… in fact, you have absolutely no say, in the matter, whatsoever. One day you’re just at this restaurant, seated at a table by the window, where you could gaze, across the street, to see the place you’d really like to be eating at… with an open booth, no less… but you can’t really leave the budget restaurant you’re stuck at… cuz then you’d be dead.

It’s sort of similar to when life is a really bad movie… and you’re half-following the plot and half-contemplating whether or not you should just get up and leave the theatre… and the longer you sit there, the more you feel obligated to stay to the end… cuz if you’ve already invested as much time in the film as you have, you may as well stick around to see what happens… but then you realize you don’t really care what happens, cuz you’re just not interested in the story… but then someone at the back of the theatre makes some funny comment, and you figure you’ll stay in your seat, for another minute, to see if he has something else to say. Next thing you know, your mind is off on some tangent, where you’re wondering why you couldn’t have gone to see the critically acclaimed film, playing in theatre 4, instead of the piece of crap movie that you’re, only partially, paying attention to.

In the restaurant of life, you end up finding some decent dishes on the menu, but you get screwed over by sub-par execution. The waiter doesn’t know what he’s doing, the head chef got a mean case of the runs and had to take the night off, and you got stuck sitting on the wobbly chair… the one with three equally level legs, and one leg that could only be as short as it is if some underpaid employee sawed at it to make a doorstop, that keeps the kitchen door from consistently closing in his face, while he’s carrying plates of food.

So there you are; eating a plate of food, that tastes terrible, but you can’t really stop eating it, cuz you haven’t eaten all day and you’re starving. What’s worse; the waiter is totally neglecting to check on your table, where he would learn that you’d finished your beer eons ago… on top of which, you’re starting to get motion sickness, that’s worse than that time you got cranked on a cruise-ship in the Caribbean, from the disproportioned chair you’re sitting on. All the while, you’re wondering what it would have been like to eat at that bitching restaurant across the street…

So what now? Do you stay for dessert, or just ask for the cheque? I think I might pretend to hit up the washroom, or lavatory as I prefer to call it, sneak out the window and hope I can make a mad dash for the place across the street.

Recap:
Geraldo, at the restaurant of life, is a shitty waiter;
I don’t like the name Bart;
Booths are more comfortable than regular tables with wobbly chairs;
Severing ties with bad movies is best done early on;
Sometimes dessert can save a meal, but if it sucks it just makes it that much worse.

Tell your friends to eat at the restaurant across the street from the one I’m at.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 4th, 2008 at 1:28 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.