Here's a tip for the couple of twenty-five-year-old twits who were so miserably unhappy with the bacon I served at brunch today: if you want your bacon cooked crispy, then you need to let your server know when you order it. I actually can read minds, but I'm not paid well enough to excercise that particular superpower, & hand-holding costs decided extra, too. Also, since you complained to my manager that I was curt with you, let me also tell you that you can probably expect brusque, disinterested service for the rest of your miserable lives, because servers, like people in general, cannot stand snivelers. Fuck you for being big sensitive babies, fuck you for not tipping me, & fuck you especially for not knowing how to order bacon, you sniveling twits.