Dickface, Party of Infinity.

I'm Sorry.

Yeah, I know there's 26 of us, unannounced at 12:15 on Friday lunch. And, we need it on seperate checks. And we're just gonna push all these tables together. I know it's a pain in the ass. But, it's Debbie's birthday. And, all us gals from the office HAVE TO sit together even though we all hate one another in secret. Also, we need you to take up valuable space in your cooler for this awkward, shitty cake that your restaurant didn't make. Can you imagine what 26 individual desserts would set us back?! Yes, we're going to need all of your small plates. And candles. You don't have any birthday candles immediately ready for an unnanounced party? But, it's Debbie's birthday!

I need all of these wrapped individually. And, could you write the names of the week on each one? I plan all my meals on a weekly basis, and, apparently have no access to magic markers. Yes, I'm quite aware that there is a huge line forming behind me. Did you double wrap all of those? Could you pull them all out and double wrap them. My child has "allergies." Yes, I understand that not liking something doesn't really make someone allergic to something. It's just something I say to distance myself from ever having to tell my little miracle that fish is for dinner, whether he likes it or not. We usually make him a seperate hot pocket anyways. We want our child to be entitled.

Of course we've been sitting at the table for 20 minutes, not paying any sort of attention to the menu. Of course we're going to ask you to give us a few more minutes a few more times. Oh, we totally know you have other tables. We just don't care. Hey! You're gonna love this: You remember when you told us about the specials? Well, how about I use a random amalgam of ingredients listed on the menu and create my own personal dish from them? Doesn't that sound great?! I'll bet the kitchen and the chef is really going to think this is awesome. I know they planned the menu out and balanced it with corresponding dishes and paired it with beers and wines, carefully selected to compliment one another. BUT, I want strawberries and shrimp together on the same plate. Listen, I don't know if it's going to be any good or not. That's why I'm going to shit talk the restaurant to everyone I see over the next three days. I was planning on doing it anyway.

What do you mean, it's out of season? I just had it at Red Lobster two nights ago! My husband was a food buyer for prisons and high schools, so I know all about how all shrimp is farm raised in Vietnamese sewers. Oh, I can see it's still wriggling on the ice with a posted harvest date that says this morning. And the fella who brought it up from the coast is still in the building and can give me all the information I could possibly want on the subject of said shrimp's freshness. But, I'm still going to wrinkle my fake little nose and say no thank you. Remember, my husband was a bulk food buyer for mental institutions and hockey arenas. I KNOW about freshness. So, I'll just have the chicken.

You there! You're not our waiter per se. But, you are a waiter right? No? Just a busboy? We're going to need another round of drinks, regardless. The bartender knows what we're having. You know, the table drinking the wine and scotch. The WHITE wine. Goodness. I'M GOING TO TALK TO YOU VERY LOUDLY AND VERY SLOWLY. SINCE YOU ARE A BROWN PERSON OF INDETERMINATE LATINO DESCENT, I FEEL THIS IS THE BEST WAY TO COMMUNICATE. TWO, TWO WHITE WINES. I DON'T REMEMBER THE BRAND OR WHETHER IT WAS A CHARDONNAY OR NOT, BUT, IT WAS TWO WHITE WINES AND A SCOTCH ON THE ROCKS. Oh, there's our waiter, nevermind. That busboy was awfully rude. I can't believe that someone who had never laid eyes upon us or our table didn't know what we were drinking.

Even though I put on a tie and knew about this dinner beforehand, I'm still going to raise a stink about how much this steak costs. Shit, I can go buy a steak from the Winn Dixie, soak it in Dales for two days and eat it with some ketchup. Cheaper and better! My damn wife drags me out to these rip off joints. Sizzler! Now, that's a steak. Hey, buddy. You've got a penis, right? Well, then let me involve you in every single one of my hilariously misogynistic anecdotes. Goddamn women, right? Can't live with 'em and only sometimes do I give 'em a black eye after my team lost on gameday. HEY! Here's the best part: It's the part when I make a huge show of sliding a five dollar bill into your shirt pocket for your great service to the table. I'm going to shake your hand while I do it, too. You're welcome.