Dear Evil Discussor... How's lunch?
Upsettingly, there was a new salad lady behind the salad counter today. And I could see it in her eyes she was in way over her head. She was frightened. And so was I. And the whole time in line I was thinking "pleeeeaase don't stick me with her, please deliver me to one of the old pros who knows just the right amount of dressing and how to chop it just right." She was only one of the eight salady salad makers, so my chances were good, right? Wrong, bitchpants. Of course, it's only right that I should end up in the newbie's clumsy salad hands. And thus, with a totally underchopped and overdressed chunk of salad. A soggy piece of poo for the low price of eighteen dollars or however much.
I should've said something you say. Stopped her and her feeble salad making ways dead in its tracks? Jumped the counter and pulled the overflowing bottle of dressing out of her dangerous clutches? Grabbed the chopping knife out of her horrible novice palms and showed her how to chop like she meant it? Yelled at her and belittled her til she cried or beckoned the manager or until other kindler gentler customers tackled me to the ground and forcibly restrained me until the proper authorities could arrive?
But I couldn't. I couldn't really tell her how to make my salad right without sounding like a huge asshole. Firstly, I already look like a huge asshole for ordering a salad in the first place, right, cause only assholes order salads, especially of the chopped variety. And secondly, I mostly reserve being a huge asshole for this here blog, where no one knows me or sees me and I can hide and conspire in the safety blanket of anonymity. (In my other, "realer" life, I'm actually a tad more meek and a lot less wanker-like, but keep it to yourself, Doucheface.)
So now what? Now I'm left with a wet-ass big-bite salad. And it's just taking my afternoon in the wrong direction. And all was going so well. I'm gonna have to salvage this day somehow.