Dear Dickheads – February 2008

Dear Dickheads,

I work for a local Salt Lake restaurant where my coworkers are hip and the tips are great. I love my job, but as a practicing vegetarian, I hate having to serve meat to people. Why would anyone want to eat a hunk of dead animal flesh? Don’t they understand how bad it is for them, and how much suffering they’re causing? Sometimes I whimper audibly when a customer asks me if I recommend the veal. I thought Utah was supposed to be about clean living, so why this dirty little culinary secret? What gives?


Tina, Tina, Tina. I didn’t ask to sit in your section of the restaurant. It’s not my intention to make you schlep around a platter of dead animal flesh, but meaty dishes are on the menu, so you don’t really have a choice. Don’t whimper when I ask for the beef stew, especially not when you’re wearing a pair of leather shoes. The cow’s life was shitty anyway. This isn’t an opportunity for you to sound off. Just put the shit in the bowl, and smile when you give me the receipt.

Dear Dickheads,

I love to eat, but I hate to cook. As a result, I eat out a lot. But something keeps happening to me: whenever I go to a restaurant, I always end up being seated next to the bathroom. What the fuck is going on? Do you have any idea how hard it is to enjoy a plate of biscuits and gravy when a 300-pound man is shitting a mere 15 feet from where I’m eating? It’s fucking impossible! And you know the lard ass isn’t going to wash his hands properly. And even if no one uses the can while I’m seated there, there is almost always the strong scent of bathroom cleanser or urinal cakes lingering in the air. Good God. Is restaurant space in SLC so tight that there needs to be a table in the fucking toilet stall? What the hell?

—Jack Pantins

Jacky! You have shit luck with eating establishments (pun fully intended). Urinal Cakes? Honestly man, how many times a day do you eat at Beto’s? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re just so dirty that the restaurant management wants to keep you segregated from the regular folks? If you would consider leaving the house wearing something other than your Juggalo t-shirt and cut-off jeans, then maybe people would stop treating you like a hobo. But it might not be your appearance—it may be what you’re ordering. Wait a minute!! Is your waitress named Tina?