“Thank you for your service, it was excellent," the customers had written. "That being said, we cannot in good conscience tip you, for your homosexual lifestyle is an affront to GOD. Queers do not share in the wealth of GOD, and you will not share in ours.
The customers continued: "We hope you will see the tip your fag choices made you lose out on, and plan accordingly. It is never too late for GOD’S love, but none shall be spared for fags. May GOD have mercy on you.”
That's fine, but what if you want to save yourself a costly tip and your server turns out not to be gay? This can happen, even here in San Diego, which prides itself on being the City of America's Finest Gay Waiters. This column is rushing to your assistance. Here are some sample notes to leave to hetero servers you wish to leave bitter, uncompensated and infuriated:
AT A HOOTERS OR A TILTED KILT:
"Your courteous attention to my need for seven cold pale ales and your bemused tolerance for my subsequent order of 'a plate of loaded nachos the size of a Smart Car tire' is duly noted. However, I cannot leave you a tip because of your breasts. They are twin globes of surreal magnificence, flawless tempting orbs of unblemished complexion and truly notable size. That's why I've been staring at them for the last two hours like they had next Saturday's winning Powerball numbers printed on their creamy, heaving perfection. Unfortunately, my date has noticed my obsession with the allure of your mammaries, and informs me that if I leave you so much as the clump of pocket lint stuck in my key chain, I will not be on the receiving end of any nookie for possibly forever. Sorry."
AT A SPORTS BAR:
"I got to admit, bro, that you took care of me while I was sitting at your bar. My glass was never empty. When I decided to buy a round of shots for those girls from the secretarial pool, you served them promptly and pointed to me as their benefactor as any good barkeep should. I didn't blame you when they sneered at my advances five minutes later, nor do I dispute your analysis that they might find someone younger, better-looking, richer and somewhat soberer more attractive than me. However, you are wearing the emblem of a professional football team that I hate. Admittedly, all professional football teams are composed of egotistical mercenaries who could beat me into pudding, and there's no rational reason to prefer one gang of overpaid thugs over another, but I can't help it. If I left you a buck you would probably buy another Raiders jersey with it. Screw you."
AT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT:
"Senor, I have never had more obsequious service. You served up the cervezas icy cold and the fajitas sizzling hot. You radiate Hispanic hospitality and your apron smells most pleasantly of cilantro. However, I heard you speaking Spanish to the busboy. This is America, Senor, and we speak English. It is bad enough to have to endure listening to 'Por Espanol, marca el numero dos' every time you call the drugstore or to see the Walmart smiley face guy speaking Spanish when you go there to buy a pup tent or some towels, but when I am paying good money for a restaurant meal, I expect to be served entirely in English. I appreciate your having pictures of the food on the menu so I can point to them so I don't comically mispronounce their names, which would give you and your busboy something else to chuckle about in a language I don't understand, but that's not enough. You want a tip? Go play in a mariachi band. At least we expect them to sing in Spanish. Adios, pal."