Business sense of the fruit flies

To the proprietor of a certain market/eatery: fuck you for refusing to give me the tips I rightfully earned during my final week of work at your absurd little bistro. After four agonizing months of grinning through your asinine bullshit I gave you the courtesy of a two-week notice when most of your former employees had the sense to run away and never come back again. You are so fucking paranoid I can’t believe you accused me of infecting your staff with my “negative attitude”. Know this: they are not quitting because of anything I’ve said. They’re quitting because of you, or are you too fucking stoned to recognize that? You are the all-time worst boss ever. You are rude and demanding (are the words ‘please’ and ‘thank-you’ even in your vocabulary?), you have the people skills of a reclusive sociopath, not to mention you communicate in pot-addled riddles and half-finished thoughts, you have the attention span of a humming bird with ADD, and the business sense of the fruit flies that inhabit your filthy fucking sinks. May I also say that you have all the beauty and grace of a basset hound. You can keep the forty dollars, or whatever my pitiful fucking share of the meager goddamned tips was to be, I’m moving on to bigger and better things. I hope you end up miserable and alone with only your moldy French cheeses, grossly over-priced imported olive oils and the rats (oh, the rats!) to keep you company. Fuck you!

This article appears in Dec 6-12, 2007.