I don’t tip you to think
As I’m leaving a bar, a waitress playfully blocks my only exit out.
“And where do you think you’re going?” she coos.
Cute move, I think. I turn the other way, which I know is a dead end.
“That’s not an exit,” she so sassily declares.
I ask her how much Guinness is so I can settle my part of the tab.
“It’s $6. And don’t forget to tip your hot waitresses.”
After dancing around the issue of why it matters what the waitresses look like since that’s not how I determine a tip, I said something along the lines of about how backwards it is that we value physical beauty and fashion sense so highly.
She somehow takes this a cue to look me up and down and tell me I need to get new clothes and improve my physical appearance, pointing out my hair and clothes as two places to start.
Not two seconds later does she talk about how she’s dated ugly-looking dudes.
Oh, I see. I should spend time and effort to change the way I look, but pretty waitresses like you will date me regardless!
Now it all makes sense.
