To the hipster doofus couple sitting next to me and my friends at the counter of the Great American Diner in West Seattle: two things. Number one: Porkpie hats and unkempt neckties don't mean you've been partying hard. You are under 21, you just look stupid, and it is not even midnight yet. Number two (and more importantly): The waitress is not your personal slave. I can understand one or two off-menu special requests. But having the eggs and toast arranged in a certain way? YOU ARE BOTH PRICKS.

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