Steven Weissman

To the frat dicks waiting for a table outside of my place of work on Saturday night: I got a new pair of shoes and I work 60 hours a week. I had a blister on my toe that was fucking excruciating and so I was walking on my heel. When one of you fucks decided to mimic my gait as I was walking to the bar on break and you all started cracking up, I shrugged it off, knowing I'd be cooking your food, you piece-of-shit, Aqua Velva–drenched fucks. I told the staff: When these dicks come in, they're getting inedible bacon, small-ass hash browns, and burned eggs. I was stoked. But then you all decided not to come in when you realized I was memorizing your faces and you saw me through the window putting on my apron. I know your faces, you do not want to come back. Ever.

—Anonymous