Go fuck yourself, David Carradine

Tonight I had the displeasure of waiting on David Carradine (Bill in Kill Bill). The man is a cheap, pompous, crass, egotistical son-of-a-bitch. When I asked him what kind of dressing he wanted on his salad, he looked at me with a look of disgust and said, "Dressing? I don't give a fuck which dressing, just pick one."

OOOOOH, DAVID CARRADINE LET ME PICK HIS SALAD DRESSING! Oh bliss, oh validation! The folks back home will sure be excited to know that I had the HONOR of selecting Mr. Carradine's SALAD DRESSING!!!! And believe me, I picked a good one.

My own piss. Though even if I chose a magical salad dressing imbued with the knowledge of Stanlislavski, Meisner and Adler, he still wouldn't be able to act.

Then, when I refilled the iced tea he chugged at an Iragi's pace, he said, "Just leave the fucking pitcher here so you don't keep interrupting me."

I'm sorry, was I falling pray to a fit of Tourette's as I brought out the Lipton? Because to my recollection I don't recall saying a word or making a sound as I approached your stench-laden table. Don't confuse me doing my job with "interrupting" your talk of unemployment (I looked you up on IMDB tonight. I've got more interesting movies coming out this Fall than you do, asshole).

All this for a mere 10 percent tip, what a shock.

Whatever. Someday soon David Carradine will drop dead from his own worthlessness and I'll do a jig. And I'll poor iced tea and salad dressing all over his lonely grave.