Getting back to the topic of my warden, Farmer H...
Surely you didn't think I was done with my expose on his overbearing ways! I have only scratched the surface. The tip of the iceberg had not yet broken the water/air boundary.
Saturday, we went to the local frozen custard stand, named for a certain general famous for a certain battle, perhaps similar to The Battle of Big Littlehorn. We pulled up to the drive-thru window. Farmer H asked me for the third time to repeat my order. Like it was as complicated as the KFC recipe with its 11 herbs and spices. How hard is it to order a small brownie bite concrete made with chocolate custard?
Anyhoo, Farmer H finally got it, and ordered his medium twist cone. Then he stuck his hand out. Because I'm expected to pay any time we go somewhere. Um. We both get the same cash allowance. I think he's skimming and using his for auction money. So...I handed him a ten. The bill was, I think, $6.59. Farmer H handed me three ones. "You can keep that change," he generously told the window girl.
Huh! That was MY 41 cents! I needed it for my car coin cup. For spending on 44 oz Diet Cokes. And Farmer H just GAVE IT AWAY! Like that girl will think he's a big spender. Wooo! A whole 41 cents! Better get his license number!
Pardon me, but I don't think that window girl needed a tip. It especially irks me when the workers have put a handwritten sign in the window that says, "We accept tips." I'll bet you do. Here's a tip. DON'T BEG FOR TIPS! Take your minimum wage salary and stop trying to get rich off the backs of the working-poor custard-eaters. Seriously. They're not waitresses. They're making minimum wage. We don't have to supplement them. Besides, all the window person does is turn and tell the counter worker what to make, then take the money, hand back change, and fork over the goods.
TIPS! You know who needs tips? Firemen. Policemen. Patient care technicians. Honest foster parents.
I don't think it would go over very well if I put a sign on my classroom door: I ACCEPT TIPS. Yeah. And I am preparing the youth of today to take over the world of tomorrow. Not just handling cash and custard.
Farmer H is the kind of warden who would rifle through the inmate's belongings, assuming that when the inmate is discharged in 50 years, he will not notice that he is 41 cents short.
4 comments:
The next time, leave your purse at home. THAT will get him.
Tell Farmer H that if he wants to be a "kept" man, he needs to step it up.
Foot rubs every night. Runs to the gas station for your bubbly elixir every afternoon. Bubble baths drawn on the weekend. Uninterrupted naps on Saturdays.
Is he up to it? Missouri is the "show me" state. He needs to show you...
Sioux,
I think I will need to be more specific. He tries to rub my feet every night...with his overgrown talons under the sheets. He makes runs to the gas station for bubbly elixir...but it's his Diet Mountain Dew in a 20 oz. bottle. Bubble baths used to be a nightly fixture...for him, until we developed that leak in the ceiling of my dark basement lair. Uninterrupted naps on Saturday...are his, on rainy days, in his La-Z-Boy.
Transferring those skills to a version that will please me do not seem to be on his to-do list.
Is he as generous with his money? Those tip jars irk me, too. Nobody gives the Kampground hostess (aka Nazi Bitch) a tip for cleaning the disgusting bathrooms!
Kathy,
NO! He is a tightwad. He paid the $8 key fee for The Pony at Missouri Scholars Academy, but told The Pony, "As soon as you check out and get a refund, I need my money back."
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