You see, this is why I'm bitter

My unsettling and rather sharply pointed bitterness has long been a form of amusement for my friends. Because it manifests itself in the form of dead pan sarcasm, my rage can be quite amusing. But if you've ever wondered from where such intense loathing comes, I'll tell you: I hate stupidity, which is unequivocally the root of all human evil.

Stupidity leads to so many more base evils. Rudeness, racism, arrogance, selfishness and bad tips. All forms of stupidity.

Stupidity is what overcame all those little shits who made fun of me when I was in first grade (and, well, all grades through seventh). They didn't realize that what I lacked in calm restraint and athletic ability, I made up for with imagination and wit. Yeah, so what if after eating candy at lunch I was crawling all over the classroom like Winona Ryder in an unguarded clothing store? At least I wasn't some dumb chub with a penchant for showing off the inner workings of my nostrils.

But I digress. Lower school was a blip on the radar compared to the stupidity that has led me to hate my current job as a server. You see, most restaurants are conveniently situated above a portal to Hell that draws not only the cheap and the hungry, but the loud and illiterate, as well. And without Sarah Michelle Gellar's bad acting to save me from the demons that feed, I'm left to fend for myself. With my wit.

Last night I was just beginning to appreciate my new job. I walked around with my tray, serving drinks, imagining I was a new character on "Cheers." Then a table of three unloaded themselves off the dump truck they road from rural Alabama right into my section. They were cunning, too. I even liked them at first, especially when the male of the caveman clan said, "Hey buddy you take care of us, we'll take care of you." To the average bear, that implies the promise of a tip equal to or greater than 20%.

So our rural friends ordered a variety of alcoholic beverages. Their tab was up to a whopping $135 by the time the check was dropped. Then came one of the dumbest questions I've ever been asked (and I've been asked which state Oklahoma City is in).

"Can I get this here margarita in a to-go cup? I'm not gonna be able ta finish it all."

Because I'd established a pleasant rapport with these rednecks, I was uncharacteristically pleasant in the face of such blatant ignorance. Just in case you're as stupid as these people (no offense if you are), providing someone with liquor in a to-go cup would be against the law. Not only would I be faced with a $1000 fine, but a trip to LA county jail for a night without any sort of lubricant, as well.

So after I shared that insight with my chums, the leader of the species immediately morphed into the aforementiond monster from Hell.

"Well, if we don't walk out of here with a to-go cup, you might not be walking out of here with a whole lotta cash in your pocket, buddy."

As if the trumpets of the Heavens were calling me home, I immediately knew that I no longer had to be nice to these people. My guard was up within nanoseconds. My wit was ready. The gloves were on, and I was bringing my A-game this time.

"I'm sure you'd planned to leave me a fortune," I replied with an almost lustful glee. "But as I said, it is AGAINST-THE-LAW to serve liquor to go."

"Hey, do whatcha gotta do. If you want your money, you know what to do," the male replied.

So, not mainly because I'm greedy but mostly because I'm evil, I said, "I'll tell you what. You go ahead and tab out. I'll take this margarita to the back and put it in a to-go cup. I'll hand it to you as you're going out the back to the parking lot. That way management won't see. But you have to agree to your end of the bargain and 'take care of me.' Deal?"

"Now that's better, pardner."

As soon as I made sure they'd paid (20 % tip -- how they did the math will long be a mystery to me), I pulled an empty to-go cup from the takeout station. I put a lid on it and met them at the back door (before you judge me, imagine being in my shoes, humiliated and threatened just for a few bucks).

The male was intelligent enough to realize that nothing was in the to-go cup. I said, "But your exact words were, 'If we don't walk out of here with a to-go cup'...Oh wait, did you want me to put the margarita in the to-go cup?? I'm sooo sorry, I already threw out the rest of the margarita! I don't know if I told you this, but taking liquor out of the restaurant confines is illegal. Oh, I can see you're unhappy. Would you like to talk to a manager?"

Old toothless informed me that he'd be disputing the charge with his credit card company and that I needed to take back my tip. I informed him that a signed credit card receipt is a legal, binding document and that I had two copies of his signature as well as a gratuity. I bid him a pleasant evening and warmly invited him to return.

There are two types of people who've never worked in a restaurant. There are those who, despite their inexperience, are still grateful for the less-than-glamorous work a server does. They tip well and engage a server without having to know exactly what the workload is like.

Then there are those who think that mine is a one-table station and that the kitchen is waiting on baited breath for another order to come in because it's so easy to prepare food for 70 different tables at once. For tip, they double the tax (if you do that, I hate you -- it's that black and white -- I hate you). They ask for everything on the side, substitute this dressing with extra this and half of this in a to-go box and these eight dressings on the side and a sample of this and then wonder why you look like you want their heads to explode. They complain about non-issues in absence of any serious problem with the food or service.

In short, they are stupid. And because they are stupid, I've realized that until I'm making the big bucks as an actor, I accept the noble duty of righting their wrongs one to-go cup at a time.