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You’re not the worst because you’re wearing tank tops and biker shorts to a fine dining restaurant. You’re not the worst because you called for directions six times to find a restaurant that requires only one left turn off a enormously major street in South Orange County.  And you’re not the worst because you took the nicely printed sheets of paper we call a “menu,” tossed it aside, and asked, “What’s good here?”  No.  That’s not why you’re the worst.

You’re the worst because you refuse to pay the bill after you’re done with EVERYTHING, after you’ve enjoyed a three-hour lunch in the middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of the year.  You’re the worst because you have zero consideration for the time others, specifically me, who needs to go on to far more important things (such as updating this blog and/or seeing an impetuous and petulant young lady who drains young men dry of all the money they earn each day), the busser who needs to clear your table and go on to his night job, and the pugnacious old-school manager who wants to catch the end of the latest Kings’ game.  You’re the worst because you ignore that most important of capitalist concepts, that of Paying Your Bill Once The Bill is Due.

I asked you if you wanted anything else.  I queried as to whether you wanted any more wine to add to your lechery, some dessert to add to your gluttony, or some coffee to add another item to your lists of addictions.  But no.  You even said—YOU EVEN SAID—”No, we need to get going.”  And yet when I placed the bill on your table, you did not budge.  You did not move an micrometer.  You froze like Perseus caught in Medusa’s gaze.  Where does this work anywhere else?  Do you go to Starbucks, order your regular triple-cap-decaf-nonfat-with-extra-cinnamon (douche), sit down for four hours, and then pay your $4.20?  F-er.  Even lap dances at strip clubs are paid IMMEDIATELY upon delivery of services.  By the way—and this is clearly tangential—if a dancer ever asks for payment upfront, you can be guaranteed that the dance will be a low mileage, dead-between-the-eyes, my-daddy-never-loved-me kind of dance.  Just sayin’.  But I digress.

Pay your freaking bill already so we can all go on with our lives.  It’s been three hours.  I’ll give anybody two hours to enjoy our patio—even on a Tuesday at 2 pm when you should really be contributing to society by, oh, I don’t know—working to cure cancer or fix the economy.  Something like that.  Instead, you’re trying to figure out how to Pinterest pictures of the crab cake you just ate.  I want you to try this at your local Abercrombie & Fitch, where you buy polo shirts that are far too tight for you even though you’re a balding 54-year-old man desperately clinging to the last dregs of both your youth and your dignity.  Tell the disinterested (and frighteningly nubile) 19-year-old clerk that you want to wear the shirt for three hours in the middle of the day before you maybe, possibly, hand over your card for payment.  Try that.  Go ahead.  I’m f*cking waiting, douche.

By the way, you’re WAY EVEN WORSE when you finally do pay your bill, get your card back, and refuse to sign it.  You lay it out in front of you and either inspect it like the Dead Sea Scrolls or ignore it like a Newport Beach scion ignores his first wife.  Jesus.  Finish the transaction, already.  Be a closer, for godssakes.  You’re worse at closing than a man on viagra.  Sign the tip.  It better be 25%, by the way.  My time’s more important than yours.  I need my time to design an iPhone app so that a woman can better predict her monthly cycle—for the sake of all of humanity.  What are you working on?  Saving up for another TapOut T-shirt?  That’s why you’re the worst.  THAT’S WHY YOU’RE THE WORST.