You were the blonde with fake boobs and a dark spray tan who gave our Latino waiter a hard time during his lunch shift. When he tried to get the various plates he was juggling to the right people at your table, you snapped at him, “Trust me! It’s mine!” Then, of course, you discovered the plate was not yours, and as you gave it to the right person, you still acted as if he were somehow at fault. Finally, the waiter checked up on you one last time, just to make sure you had everything you needed, and you practically spelled out knife and fork as you enunciated the shit out of both words in your final request. I’m not sure why you used this waiter as your punching bag, but I have my suspicions. You really need to understand what you look like to the rest of the modern world. If the White Witch from Narnia appeared in Orange County with a jogging stroller and a bottomless latte, she’d be, well, you! Please, find a good surgeon who can remove the stick from your ass so that you can recognize a helping hand, even when it’s one that’s naturally brown.
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This column appeared in print as “That’s Cold.”
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