I’m very sorry the government taxes their tips, that’s fucked up. That
ain’t my fault. It would seem to me that waitresses are one of the many
groups the government fucks in the ass on a regular basis. Look, if you
ask me to sign something that says the government shouldn’t do that,
I’ll sign it, put it to a vote, I’ll vote for it, but what I won’t do
is play ball. And as for this non-college bullshit I got two words for
that: learn to fuckin’ type, ’cause if you’re expecting me to help out
with the rent you’re in for a big fuckin’ surprise.

That delightful diatribe is spoken by Mr. Pink (Steve Buscemi) in Resevoir Dogs.

Now, I’m not going to go off on a rant on why waiters and waitresses don’t deserve tips, I think they do.  I tip, and when the service is good or, as my roommate will confirm, if cleavage is thrown my way regardless of service, I tip very well.

But tonight I stopped at Rita’s, a local joint that makes gelatis, and I noticed a tip jar.  What the fuck?  A tip jar for what?  Taking my money, walking two steps, pulling a lever and giving me a cup of goodness?

Fuck.  That.

At what point in time did tip jars become the norm everyplace from coffee shops to the pretzel place?  What exactly is the pretzel guy doing that makes him deserve a tip, other than handing me a pretzel?

I noticed a tip jar at Dunkin Donuts on Sunday.  I’m supposed to tip someone for taking my money, turning around and giving me a donut.


Fuck. That.