How to Win at a Restaurant

No matter how many times I outline the offenses committed by guests at restaurants (here, here, here, and here), I can always come up with examples of reprehensible behavior I have somehow failed to mention.  So, do you want to get in good with your server or bartender?  Want to be known as a preferred, platinum-status customer?  Just follow this simple guide, and you till get nothing but top-notch service from me.

Act like your birthday is a big deal.

Congratulations, you got yourself born.  It's really hard to do, from your perspective.  You deserve accolades, a parade of servers singing your paeans, and a meal free of charge (even I had to look up that word of the day, once upon a time).  You've earned it.

It's your party, cry if you want to - but, seriously, suck it up, bitch.

This one always draws a purposely-blank stare from me: "It's my/his/her birthday."  Guess what?  Nobody cares.  Would you genuinely give a rodent's posterior if I told you it was my birthday?  We are strangers to one another, so, despite the cheery and engaging persona I adopt at work, I'm really no different than the guy in front of you in line at the porn theater.  And, trust me, he feels no need to sing to you or offer you free food.  Neither do I.  You are not nine; it's time to get over the "my special day" bullshit.  I know the causal dining industry is at least partially responsible for perpetuating this nonsense, since they started and, to varying degrees, continue the whole dancing, singing monkey routine that gets parodied in movies like Waiting.

Ha, people I have never met before are being forced to sing "Happy Birthday" to me!  I am made of awesome!

Trust me, the employees loath and resent this shtick more than any media has portrayed.  We need to let it die.

Try to be funny.

No, really, I love a comedian.  Especially ones who make puns and references to the food on our menu or the generalities of working in restaurants.  It's so clever, insightful, and original, not at all redundant or moronic, especially when I have heard variations of the same riffs roughly, oh, 7,000 times before.  Believe me, we have all heard it all before.

As it happens, I've got a few zingers I would like to try out on you, too.

You may be tempted to think this rule does not apply to a comedic genius of your caliber.  Well, it does.  See if any of the following sounds familiar.

Sample Dialog 1

ME: Hi, my name is KP, I'll be helping you out today.
CUSTOMER: Oh, good, we need all the help we can get!  (laughs at own joke and looks to everyone else, myself included, to burst into uncontrolled fits of hysterics at their devastating wit)
ME: Ha, right.  Seriously, though, what do you want to drink?

Sample Dialog 2

ME: So, any questions I can answer for you?
CUSTOMER: Why is the sky blue? (winking at their cohorts, like they have totally stumped me)
ME: It's not.  The phenomenon is known as Rayleigh scattering, which means that, while most longer wavelengths of visible light go straight through the atmosphere, the short, blue-colored wavelengths are absorbed by gas particles and refract.  This causes the human eye to see the sky as blue.
CUSTOMER: *blank stare*
ME: Uh, I mean . . . because Jesus made it that way.

Sample Dialog 3

MY COWORKER: (at end of the meal) Any more refills?
CUSTOMER: Oh, if I have one more I'll float away!
MY COWORKER: What does that actually mean?
CUSTOMER: . . . I don't know.

Think of it this way: are you generally regarded as a truly amusing person?  Do you garner full-bellied laughs and snorty guffaws with your witty turns of phrase and keen observations on a regular basis?  Because if not, please don't try your jokes out on poor waitstaff, who are probably more jaded than the average prostitute.  It always reminds me of the unfortunate middle-aged mother from some podunk outskirt who decides to do open-mic standup comedy night in the city club because all of her friends assure her she's funny.  Except it's even more awkward for us, since we feel obligated to pander to you in exchange for money.  And if you do this explicitly because you know we feel this obligation, well, walk into oncoming traffic.

Act like I run the restaurant in any way.

There's nothing I enjoy more than being told how things should be done.  Because, honestly, not only do you probably know more about general restaurant-operation than anyone working there, but I as a server am empowered to implement changes whenever I see fit.  You think the chips should be free?  You got it, buddy!  A steak cooked until it's wood-pulp gray inside should be called "medium"?  Great idea!  When you order something you've never had before I should warn you that you might not like it?  Killer advice.  Things were cheaper in the past than they are now?  Astute observation, my friend.

What you have to understand about the vast majority of chain eateries is that each store gets approximately .00001% control at the local level.  They don't set prices, determine the menu selection, or devise promotional strategies.  All of that is dictated by higher powers that usually reside in another state entirely, and concern themselves with the individual branches of their company about as much as you worry over the individual cells in your body.

Except Corporate America isn't even kind enough to drown us in alcohol.

That being the case, imagine how much say servers are given.  So, no, I can't just "make it happen for you," and if by some miracle I can, you had better reward appropriately.

Pretend I'm not there, especially right after asking for special treatment.

Do you remember the Morlocks from H.G. Wells' sci-fi classic, The Time Machine?  They were the grotesque, expendable mutant mole-men bred for manual labor and serving the elite.  Well, that is more or less what we are.  We enjoy being treated as such, and it's not like we demand acknowledgement or appreciation.  We barely exist, after all.  So, as I tell your spouse the seven side dishes we have, despite them being listed in the menu, please ask me the exact same question when I come to you without batting an eye.  It lets me know just how little you are paying attention.

I cannot count how many times I have just finished passing out food and say something along the lines of, "I'll be right back with some refills on drinks, and do you need anything else?" only to have someone rattle their 1/3 full cup at me and say, "More Diet Coke."  Oh, really?  Good luck with that, because I'm obviously too much of a cretinous imbecile to handle such complex tasks as the one I literally just told you I was going to do.

Just like yours is going to be for a while now, ass-hat.

Even better are the times when I walk up to a table, address them, and receive absolutely no response whatsoever.  These people get a courtesy five-second window before I walk away without another word, and you can bet I'm going to see to a few other duties before I think of returning.

Treat all establishments as essentially the same.

If all these other points didn't make it obvious, you are a pretty goddamned important person.  Maybe not Trump-level, but at least on par with several lesser reality TV stars, so it's only natural things should conform to your expectations.  Why should you have to modify your behavior?  How could a family-friendly, international franchise not stock cans of Natural Light like your good ol' boy NASCAR bar in buttfuck Egypt?  Or offer the food you simply assumed they make without giving the menu a cursory glance?

These servers will pretend to find you charming and attractive.  I will not.

In short, know your surroundings.  Not all restaurants are created equal, and you need to recognize the level of the place you are.  Recently, I got to experience a guest-interaction that illustrated this perfectly, yet another Fucktarded Moment in Restauranting.  If you didn't know, I work at a middling casual dining chain where the servers wear jeans and uniform t-shirts, and the costliest item on the menu is around $18.00.  My customer, however, was apparently under the impression we were 4-star dining in disguise.

To kick off the night, she became incensed that her beer, a Blue Moon, and her husband's martini did not automatically come with any garnishes.  And when I say "incensed," I mean "disproportionately, self-righteously pissed off."  About fucking fruit.  (A) If you think you are so cultured and epicurean, you ought to know beer is not something you garnish - ask any brewer or true connoisseur.  (B) Your husband didn't even specify if he wanted a gin or vodka martini and seemed slightly put off that I asked; in a restaurant where people will unwittingly order a virgin margarita (making it straight sweet-sour mix on ice), I consider this a warning sign and try to avoid doing anything that might surprise them and thus "ruin" their dinner.

"Excuse me, is there a lemon peel in my drink?"

Instead of saying these less-than-politic things, I calmly and nonchalantly explained that we don't bother with garnishes unless the guest requests it, assuring her I could produce said garnishes for them in a matter of seconds.  No dice.

Then, one of my coworkers failed to bring out appetizer plates with the basket of mozzarella sticks.  Anathema.  What were we, savages who ate deep-fried processed cheese product straight out of the serving dish?  My failure to instantly supply a second cup of marinara sauce from my magic hoard of limitless condiments was almost the final straw.

What caused her to snap - aside from, presumably, being a perpetual, vindictive, vehemently-miserable cuntrag - was that the meals didn't look at all like what she expected.  At this point, I refused even to say more than three consecutive words to the wicked bitch, allowing management to deal with the problem.  Needless to say, the entire meal was paid for by our company, despite there not being anything actually wrong, and the near-mute husband of this shrew still left me $5.00, because he obviously knows he married a vile demoness, but has been cowed into total acquiescence over time.

This incident exemplifies a guest who does not have a clue what their own status is, let alone that of the place they are visiting.  Clearly, she was under the impression she was rich and entitled, even though the restaurant I serve at is patently not for the well-to-do, and was rudely surprised to discover she got the same treatment as everyone else.  The difference was that most of them came in expecting that treatment, so they were not let down, or at least realized they were getting what they paid for.  If for whatever reason you want to spend only $30 on drinks, an appetizer, and two entrees when you dine out, understand that you are necessarily making some compromises, even sacrifices.  Deal with it.

KP, out.

You know who sucks at driving? Everyone else.

I reside in a United State where genuine winters happen.  To give you some perspective, people here actually wrap chains around their tires for better traction.  Chains.  Around their tires.  Yeah, like goddamned Ghost Rider.  It can be that brutal on any given day between November and March.

Here, this movie would have been entitled Wednesday Morning.

We're talking snow, sleet, ice, hail, and the occasional blizzard-thunderstorm (yes, it is real, and, yes, it is Thor-smiting-earth-awesome).  As such, you might think the locals would get used to such conditions and adapt to them, however, more than a few seem to be all about proving that homo sapiens has risen above evolution, and can act in direct contradiction to it.  This means aggressively pursuing extinction via the most expedient route available, and everyone knows the expressway is the fastest route anywhere. Maybe this is just natural selection's killswitch for over-successful species.  The problem is, I'm not particularly keen on vehicular manslaughter.  It's just not my style.  Forget the economy, someone needs to step up and start enforcing some serious wintertime driving reform.  If automobile enthusiasts are going to forget each year what winter was like the previous, it's past time for a reality check.  "Driving too fast for conditions" and "reckless driving" are actual criminal offenses in most states, so I would recommend officers of the law start using them.

"Shit, I think the state troopers got a budget increase."

Yet, for reasons unknown, the promulgation of laws and their execution has not been yielded to me, so I am once again limited to registering a strongly-worded opinion on the matter.  My day will come.  In the meantime . . .

I get it: you have a 4-wheel-drive vehicle.  Your traction is superior to mine.  Yeehaw, git 'er done, and all that.  However, you are not piloting a Hovercraft, nor a rebel snowspeeder; the physics governing friction still apply to your vehicle, no matter how few miles it gets per gallon.  I have literally been behind a fucking multi-ton, 7.7-million horsepower dump trunk that fishtailed and spun out, so don't try to tell me your soccer mom "SUV" - a minivan in all but trim package - is capable of driving on black ice in whiteout conditions at 75 MPH.

As an exercise, see if you can spot the difference between these two roadways:

Figure (A)

Figure (B)

What's amazing (read: inconceivably retarded) to me is that people seem to confuse these on a regular basis.  If they aren't barreling along Figure (1) as though it's an open straightaway on the Autobahn midsummer, they are putzing down Figure (2) in some bizarre reversal of the Speed scenario, wherein their vehicle will explode if they accelerate above 17 MPH.  Or at least I assume that is the paranoid delusion under which they operate.  There is a happy medium here, people.  I have more sympathy for the latter, who at least err on the side caution, even if they still generally suck as human beings.

Some people just can't help it.

As for the former . . . well, not to be overly dickish, but I seriously wish minor accidents on every motorist who does this. No broken bones, just a little whiplash, a towing bill, and maybe $400 worth of body damage.  Except for the clueless, careless fuckwit who practically sideswiped my car as he passed it doing 15 over the regular-weather speed limit on an unplowed road.  Mr. Douchemaster Supreme can do a midair triple-axle on a hairpin turn and spontaneously combust upon impact, hopefully taking out another one of his kind in the process.  Please, God.  Whenever someone like this whips past me during a snowstorm, I assume they are (A) a mud-boggin,' two-trackin,' cousin-fuckin' redneck with a religious conviction about the superiority of their particular American truck brand, (B) a pompous, dual-Bluetooth-sporting jerkoff who's sure his "German-engineered" 4x4 can handle apocalyptic fire and brimstone on the road, or (C) . . .

In which case, drive as fast as you want, but you'll never outrun your shame.

Oh, and is it really too much to ask that you turn on your headlights?  I realize I have said this before, but it bears repeating: on an overcast day when that ice-cold bitch Mother Nature has covered every surface with six inches of crystalline peril, your white '99 Corolla barely registers in my peripheral vision.  On days such as this, you need to turn your lights on as much to help others see you as vice-versa.  You want to play ninja/Invisible Man/Predator, go put on a camouflage snowsuit and run around a wooded area, preferably one stalked by lots of nearsighted, overzealous game hunters.  Stay off my thoroughfares.

Which reminds me, if you simply must get onto my thoroughfares, don't be a complete jackass about it.  Think about it: the pavement is slick with slush, ice, accumulated snow, and probably the blood, pulped remains, and residual engine fluids from the last idiot like you.  This means that (1) my braking distance is significantly longer than normal, and (2) you cannot accelerate, especially from a dead-stop, as nimbly as usual.  So do not, for the love of Hermes (Greek patron god of travelers), try to dart out into traffic 30 feet ahead of me.  You know what my favorite is?  It's you pulling out in front of me when there isn't another car in sight, and waiting 2.3 seconds would yield a completely clear, safe roadway for you to accelerate on.  Ha, just kidding, you're a total fucking shit-thick moron who will get what's coming to him.

So, if you ever find yourself upside down in a ditch thanks to your own reckless driving, wondering which will be bigger, your hospital or repair bill, and you hear the eerie sound of laughter somewhere in the distance, it's not the concussion and associated brain damage - it is me, reveling in the karmic cycle that has landed you there.

*Not pictured: me, passing your stupid asses.

KP, out.

Guys, welcome to the new school

Since men first came together to (no doubt drunkenly) decide, Yeah, we can totally take that furry, angry, snake-nosed creature that's three times larger than all of us combined, with sticks, they have shared a common bond, an unspoken camaraderie replete with custom and convention, passed on from one generation to the next.  With time, it has only strengthened, yielding a gender-wide fraternity that realizes it's us, a solid team of testosterone, against them, the million one-woman teams that are mostly pitted against each other anyhow.  No wonder we won the sex wars for roughly the first six millennia of human history.

Well, times have changed, and we are long overdue to adapt.  Our system is going the way of whale-bone corsets and buggy whips.  We need to establish a new set of ground-rules for ourselves if we want to survive in this brave new world where women occasionally buy their own alcoholic beverages at public houses.  Change or die, as our man Darwin said.  And I am just the man to spearhead the movement.  Throughout, you will notice a certain old-fashioned chivalrous attitude pervades my thinking on the topic.  If that bothers you, I cordially invite you to go fuck yourself.

"Man Laws" was coined by Miller Lite, probably one of the only intentionally funny campaigns the corporation has launched in the past decade, as opposed to the ADHD-inspired, new-concept-a-month approach they presently take, each based on the ironically ridiculous premise that their beer is the more flavorful, heartier brew preferred by "real men."  So I won't use it.

Damn thing must be broken.

The term "Bro Code" has been bandied about in the modern parlance, but that is rapidly starting to have a distinctly . . . douchey connotation, which will become unavoidable in the very near future.  Jersey Shore and its pestilential, fist-pumping ilk are to blame, I'm sure, so I will be avoiding that phrase as well, needless to say (if you don't recognize a linked Word of the Day by now, forget about it).

Instead, I'll use the more palatable term "Gentlemen's Agreements" to encompass the unwritten (at least until I write them) rules governing the male comportment and behavior in relation to each other, the fairer sex, and society in general.  This will be, rather than a standalone article, an ongoing series of addenda, reflecting the continuous flux of social trends, dynamic nature of gender relations, and whatever the hell I find irritating and/or amusing at the moment.  My additions to the Gentlemen's Agreements will henceforth be signaled by this classy-as-balls icon:

In doing this, I hope to distance my proposed creed from the moronically macho, chauvinistic, oversexed, ignorant, and stereotyped bullshit most people associate with our gender.  It's a tall order, I am aware, especially for so short a man.  Let's see how I do.

"You can be my wingman anytime."

I am legally obliged to include this reference.  (If you don't get it, damn, I am old.)

God, the lexicon of terms associated with the whole "wingman" concept is mind-numbing, referred to somehow in roughly 10,871 club-related songs of the past year and probably the subject of several graduate theses by now.  From "grenades" to "cock-blocking," the sheer volume of nonsense guys spew in relation to going out looking for women and how they will help/hinder each other in said quest makes Freud's analysis of sexual repression and confusion seem understated and hopelessly naive.  As full-grown adult men, can't we just agree that, as a rule, we are there to support one another, and leave it at that?  There is elegance in simplicity.  Elaborate systems of checks and balances, various defcon scenario contingencies, and intricate strategies that make the Joker, Dr. No, and Lord Voldemort seem simple-minded should be the subject of humor and scorn, not serious contemplation.  If your "game" is so weak that it requires the coordination of a Mission: Impossible task-force, you have no business playing the field.

Ha, that's two Tom Cruise movie name-drops in one subheading!   Got you, fuckers.

All I'm saying is steer clear of prickish behavior, and you'll probably do all right.  And always remember that teeth-gratingly stupid, yet time-tested, irrevocable rule of yesteryear: bros before 'hos.  Your tail-chasing should never jeopardize your friendships, plain and simple.

Grow Up

While men's general lack of maturity is an issue that requires addressing, I am here referring specifically to the male tendency to act like pubescent kids with their first porn magazine when they see an attractive female.  You have seen such a specimen before, haven't you?  It's one thing to discreetly say to a buddy, "Hey, check that one out!"  Crude, yes, but inevitable as the next season of America Idol.  But if said girl is so undeniably hot, why do I need you to point her out to me?  If you assume I have approximately the same standards of feminine beauty as you, then presumably I was able to pick out the flawless face, bounteous cleavage, and glorious posterior without your assistance.  What more is there to talk about?

"Say, Jim, I have a healthy sexual interest in that young lady over there!"
"You don't say, Phil!  I was thinking much the same thing!"
"Cheers, old boy!"
*awkward pause*
"I'm saying I would put my penis in her vagina."
"Yes, I understand, that's what I meant, too."
"Right.  Just clarifying."
*awkward silence"
"I am really, very straight."

On some level, I recognize this is just masculine nature, but, really, what century are we living in?  Overtly-sexualized talk of this sort with your peers is roughly on par with being a construction worker who whistles and catcalls a passing female.  What exactly is the point?  I know it may be hard (yes, pun intended), but try to keep it to a minimum.

Man Up

This is an old-school one that it seems should go without saying.  I don't know whether to blame the residual influence of the hippie-dippy 60s with their stress on liberated sensitivity, or the more-recent trend of emo-ness as validated by pop psychobabble and a crybaby society, but either way I am fed up with it.  We are men, damn it, and we should not be sharing our feelings left and right.

Please deposit your emotions here. 

All right, let me elucidate: we can share our feelings, but know when enough is enough.  You only get a certain number of drunken catharses about any one subject.  And we all know what that subject is most probably going to be - women.  Whether it's the unattainable one you admire from afar, or the proverbial "one who got away," or the age-old "backstabbing slut who fucked you over at the Halloween party because she thought you wouldn't recognize her dressed as Ferris Bueller dry-humping that anonymous asshole in the corner."  Like the shameful back section of the video store where porn in shelved, we've all been there.  Does it suck?  Yes.  Do you need to vent about it?  For the sake of your mental health, very likely.  All of us understand that.  Do you need to dwell on the girl in question, mope, whine, and pine over her every time you're out with the boys for a few drinks?  The Gentlemen's Agreement is "not if you want anyone to drink with."

Notice how none of the people in this image resemble you?

I can make this pronouncement because I have been That Guy too many times; I speak from experience.  And even if it's not your love life (or lack thereof), the same rule applies when tearfully bemoaning your career, living situation, terminal illness, etc.  If you are continually overcome by an urge to open up to someone, go talk to your female friends, they eat that shit up.  (Though, be warned, your chances of getting laid by them drops to approximately negative nil.)

That's all for now, but rest assured I will post new guidelines as they occur to me.  I owe it to mankind, after all.

KP, out.

Happy anniversary (to me)!

Ok, so this is technically a few days late, but - be honest with yourself here - most of you take a week or so to check my new posts anyway.  I'm not judging you (specifically), so don't judge my punctuality.

Hard to believe it has been a year since I started this little vanity project, almost as hard as it is to believe so many people decided to follow it.  And even though only a dozen of you are willing to commit your names to my official list of fans (wise), judging by the hit-counter (when it's working, that is), an improbable number of you must be checking in here way more often than my content warrants.  Which means you either find my bile amusing, or, like detractors of Michael Moore or Glenn Beck, you just can't resist listening to a pompous mouthpiece you hate. So, whether this blog is to you an insightfully comedic gem on par with Voltaire's corpus of witty satire, or a morbid fascination more akin to the white-trash-party-slut fetish evoked by Ke$ha, I thank you all from the bottom of my withered heart.

It's kind of like a car-wreck: you can't look away.  And you want to throw gasoline on it.

Alternately, if this is your first time visiting, please click on another article and read it.  I really am better than this most of the time.

That said, this isn't going to be some cop-out flashback episode or a retrospective "Best of 2011" list like so many media outlets do.  No, I'm going to hit you with some original material, even if it is only middling.  Because that's how much your support means to me, and I want to show you that on this, my first anniversary.  I'll give you a moment to wipe the tear from your eye.

Moving on . . .

It's January 2012 and, unless those doomsaying Mayans were right and we only have another 10 months or so of existence left, it's the perfect time to take a fresh look at this every-changing world and our places in it, to reassess and reaffirm, to seize the day and generally live life by any number of similar cliches.  You know, just like any other day.  My motto for the month of January goes something like "New year.  Same world," or a variation thereof.

Feel free to print this out and put it on your bumper.

As a species, when we aren't paying lip-service to the vitality of change, we are usually pissing ourselves in fear of it.  Novelty scares us, even if we invite it.  So whenever I see the media begin to hype the impending dawn of a new planetary revolution, I can't help but roll my eyes.  Granted, that is my natural reaction to a lot of things, but bear with me, intrepid readers.  My reasoning runs thus: if you have the desire, will, and means to affect significant, lasting change in your life, why wait?  The New Year does not imbue you with magical "change" powers any more than it enables you to drink more alcohol than you normally would (see my guide to drinking).  Making a change at the cusp of a fairly arbitrary measure of time does not automatically grant fulfillment.  And it's not as if you enter into a blood-pact with the New Year, which will claim your soul and firstborn, should you fail.

This is also not how it works.

Do you want to lose weight?  Great.  Nix the fucking McDiet and Segue cart.  Want to quit smoking?  Slap on a few nicotine patches, grit your tar-stained teeth, and forewarn your social circle.  Want to settle down, find the right person, and stop screwing piss-drunk strangers in nightclub bathrooms?  Quit going to shitholes where people like you hang out.  Doing these things in bleakest midwinter isn't going to make them any easier, trust me.  Generally speaking, it is darker, colder, more stressful, and more depressing than any other time of year; in other words, the time when you are least-responsive to shakeups in your routine, lifestyle, or outlook.  Sick as it may be, we take comfort in the familiar, even if the familiar is not particularly reassuring in itself, when we are faced with external pressures and threats.  How else do you explain people going back to George Lopez time and again?

Because it is a simple fact that the vast majority of people's New Year's resolutions are very reminiscent of Herman Cain's presidential campaign: an overblown, superficial, halfhearted show destined to fall flat before reaching full-steam.  It makes people feel better about themselves when they commit to bettering their situations in whatever capacity, even if deep inside they know damn well they are just counting down the days until they can throw in the towel and say they "gave it their best shot."  As my CNN affiliate David Frum shrewdly pointed out in a recent article, the average American is sort of a fat, mostly lazy piece of shit who is just getting fatter and lazier.  Those may not have been his exact words, and maybe he said them like they were some sort of profound revelation, but that was the gist.  And he authoritatively confirmed my assumption that most people can't keep a promise, least of all to themselves.

"I promise to stop breaking promises to myself . . . at least not when I'm looking."

If your life is going to have a turning point, a moment of clarity that causes you to totally reevaluate and reorder your priorities, it will not conveniently coincide with December 31st.  Nor should you try to force it.  When you feel you want to change, make like Nike and just do it.  Don't procrastinate until the calendar tells you it's the appointed time, for the love of Janus (word of the day!).

That said, I'm not swearing any vows or making any promises this year, to you or myself.  No, I am going to keep doing what I do best - I will think what I want and say what I think, and to hell with anyone who doesn't like it.  But, of course, I am always open to year-round feedback (especially fan mail, which I am still waiting for *fingers crossed*), and I will not be held hostage by my joke-a-day Garfield calendar if I decide a change is needed.  Just kidding.  Garfield isn't funny anymore.

See?

So, on behalf of myself, Carson the Flag Day Aardvark, God, and all the rest of the running jokes here at This Is My Bar, let me wish you a perfunctory Happy New Year, because everyone has to do so all this month, and thank you once more for validating my intellectual narcissism.

KP, out.