“Arnold Palmer is my dog’s name.”
“No, I asked for a 12 inch Arnold Palmer!”
“So she jumped out of the bath and ran down the street yelling, ‘Arnold Palmer! Arnold Palmer!’”
Arnold Palmer, Tiger Woods, and a rabbi walk into a bar…
Stranger
No, no, you’re supposed to give the punchline, which in this case would be, “And the duck says, ‘Not bad, but I’ve got this Arnold Palmer stuck to my ass.’”
“So the nurse says ‘great… that means my pen must be up Arnold Palmer’s ass.’”
… you’d think one of them would have seen it.
V J ducked.
An Asian, an African American, and an American Indian walk into a bar. The bartender says “Hi Tiger”.
“You’ll get a blowjob when Arnold Palmer walks on the moon!”
I think letting go would be easier if there weren’t roughly a dozen people anaylzing the situation without having been there, thus prompting Rigamarole to deal with all the straw.
Of course, it would have been even easier to let go if he never opened it to the analyzation of said dozen people…
True that.
Fuck that. Even if we generously assume that Rigamaroon is 100% correct to true life and personal motivations in the version he is telling, he’s still acting like a big baby.
Owwwiee!
For the first time last night, I noticed that one of the items on Starbucks’ menu board is “Iced Tea with Lemonade.”
I ordered a small one just to see what all the fuss was about. Not too bad, actually. (And the barista didn’t even say, “You mean, ‘Tall?’”)
I suppose it’s possible that she went home and posted on customerssuck.com about the 5"3’ inch asshole who couldn’t bring himself to say “tall,” because of his Napoleon complex, but I wouldn’t bank on it.
See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. When one has people going on about being a baby and wetting panties, it’s a bit difficult for one to not return to defend one’s self, thereby giving the impression that one has not let go.
I now see what Liberal was getting at.
Heat. Kitchen. Retreat. It’s not as if this is General Questions or About This Message Board or The Place Where I Can Whine And Everybody Says ‘Oh You Poor Baby, Let Me Rub Your Tummy’. I mean, it’s not exactly unheard of–I suspect that if I delved far enough back in time I could even come up with a handful of examples–where an opinion stated in a Pit thread was met with some contention and not a slight amount of disapprobation extending into the range of questioning the plantiff’s wit, parentage, sexual proclivities, favorite color, et cetera.
And when an o.p. manages to combine in such a statement references to racism, discrimination against waitstaff, the appropriate way to order a drink, and Tiger Woods, then it’s pretty much a guarantee that a conflict second only to Ragnarök will break out, including implications to one’s incontinence. It’s not as if insults involving bodily fluids were an anathema that the o.p. avoids at all cost; it was he, after all, was the one refering to his customer as being a “douche” after she clearly specified what she wanted, and then getting all wet-knickered because said customer, having been “corrected” by the o.p. (who apparently believes that it is his Og-endwoed right to regulate the way in which his customers may order), responds with a gentle joke, he spirals into a frenzy of unbridled bed-wetting over her presumed racism: “I serve black people all the time, but it kind of makes me uncomfortable when someone like this basically professes their ignorant disdain for my race and I’m still stuck serving them margaritas.” Poor, poor Rigamarole; they probably make him go to the “Whites Only” restroom and sit in the front of the bus, too.
In short, the o.p.'s rant is basically indefensible from any rational standpoint, and if he wasn’t so busy crapping his nappies he’d acknowledge being an irritated ass about the entire thing. What I find most perplexing about the whole deal–having worked in food service and familiar with the kind of crap you have to put up with from too many customers–is how he gets all diaper-rashed about a customer who tips reasonable and doesn’t otherwise make obnoxious demands upon him, and not about the customers that leave a $1 tip on a $50 order, or want to specify a list of substitutions and exceptions, or want to send a plate back because they didn’t realize that there would be fish in their tuna salad, and so forth. This is such a minor, pathetic complaint that it’s not even worth all of the baby powder it’s going to take to absorb all the mess, and indeed, the fact that the first dozen or so of respondants made light if it should have been an indication to the o.p. that he needs to graduate to big boy pants.
Stranger
But you fuck one Arnold Palmer…
…and the bartender says, "what’s the rigmarole?’
American Heritage:
"*Rig·ma·role
- Confused, rambling, or incoherent discourse; nonsense.*"
Gotta love it…