To begin with, Tip Jars just piss me off, in certain undeserving venues. I come in, stand in line, tell someone named Balthazar or Stormy what I want after making selections from a pre-existing list of ingredients, and combinations of said ingredients. These products are then made in fast food style, going through grinders, cappuccino machines, brewers, mixers, foamers, steamers, and whippers, and then dumped into a cup made safe with a cardboard condom, followed by being placed on a counter, screamed at (or over) and then abandoned. You just leave it there, all by its lonesome. Anyone could just grab it and walk away! You do not care enough about your product, your beautiful creation, to even deliver it safely into the hands of its new parent, who already loves it before even touching it. Just left alone on a cold, lonely counter, while caffeine starved sharks circle, waiting to get their hands on their very own condom covered cup. The sharks are all wound up, stressed out, and strung out, like a heroin addict in withdrawals, and you had the gall to just set my drug of choice down, in full view of the assembled piranhas, and walk away. But not before shouting some semblance of my name, (mispronounced every time. My name is two whole letters long. How can you mispronounce THAT?!?) not really caring if I heard you, or whether or not I even understood your sorry excuse for enunciation. Then, if all of that behavior wasn’t bad enough, you ask for a tip. Right there, next to my lonely cup, on the lonely counter, sits a strategically placed lonely little cookie jar, plastic tub, or any manner of device purposely intended to hold change.
Here is a list of deeds that you will have to perform to help me feel you’ve earned a tip:
- Dance: a little Jig would work. Hell, turn my cup of Black coffee, no sugar, no fluff, no espresso, just plain every day coffee, into a production. Bring on the dancing girls, entice me with a tragedy, a story with a climax and epic ending. Better yet, make it a cliff hanger and I’ll be back tomorrow to see how it ends. Maybe I’ll tip you again.
- Bring me my damn coffee: Get me a shield (condom) and a swizzle stick (also phallic) and fend off the rampaging hordes of customers trying to get their grubby hands on my Cafe` Americano (a-k-a black coffee). Walk your happy ass the 6 whole feet to where I’m standing. I just might tip you.
Then again, I might not. I believe that in establishments such as the one described above, tipping is still optional. You did nothing more than your job. I can’t think of any other thing you could possibly do to make me believe you deserve a tip for doing that job.
In an after note to this point I would like to state for the record that drive-thru tip jars should be reserved for prostitutes. Balthazar had to work harder than you did. He had to walk like 8 whole feet, AND he prepared my drink. All you have to do is stand there, be rude to me, or ignore me completely, before handing me my coffee, which means you may have to stretch your delicate little arms about a foot and half. You don’t have to walk anywhere, get anything for me or even make anything for me. Someone else will bring it to you, completely ready to go! Your sole purpose is to STAND THERE, turn your body 45 degrees this way, then 45 degrees that way, and lift half-pound objects. Oh, you have to put the condom on the cup? Put the cups in a cup-holder? Hand them to me? Whoopty fricken’ doo. Here’s a tip: wash your hands, brush your teeth, and don’t eat yellow snow.
Next, something else that also bothers me. If I make an appointment for 1:30 pm, and you tell me to be there 15 minutes early for check-in, I should be fully involved in the appointment at 1:30. I followed your rules, I made an advanced appointment, I showed up 15 minutes early for check-in and here I am, 45 minutes later, still sitting your waiting room. They haven’t even checked my vitals yet, but I see you all walking around happily discussing everything from sports, the weather, Nurse A’s night with Doctor B etc. etc. etc... This is the point. I loose my temper, I receive my 34th consecutive restraining order. And it will be your fault. You see, I have given you my money, and my insurance companies money, filled out your stupid forms, and now you have wasted exactly an hour of my time. I don’t get paid to be in your office. In fact, most jobs require a note to say that I have actually been to you so they don’t think I was out going to lunch or looking for another job or playing golf. But your medical/dental staff, you have no responsibility to have me served and on my way out the door and back to work in a timely manner. Nope, your only job is to be politely restrained in your over-expensive education and think about reasons you would need to prescribe me a new drug, whose pharmaceutical manufacturer will make obscene amounts of money from its distribution. But don’t worry, you won’t be left out. Oh no, you’ll make sure to have a $300 follow-up visit where you can assure me I’m OK. $300 for OK. $150 per letter huh?
Your passive hostility towards the people you are supposed to be helping sometimes makes me sick. I suggest you get off of your high horse and figure out how to co-exist in an appropriate manner, or you will be replaced. My robot army is just looking for reasons to kill and take over your role in the world.
We also know that is going to be your fault for the coming Zombie Apocalypse. You scoff, but be warned. It IS coming. Don’t worry, I have Robot Pirates, Robot Ninjas and Robot Zombies. I am prepared for everything, including Robot Baristas and Robot Doctors. So, enjoy the pending pressure of being replaced, while you can. I have to go see my lawyer about finding an appropriate medical clinic I have not been banned from.
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