Sundays and God's Chosen.

I think there is a God. Why do I think this? Because my place of employment is CLOSED on Sunday. Sundays are mine to reflect on life and watch movies on Netflix. Therefore, I don't really have to worry about going in and dealing with the dreaded "church people". I used to be one of those "church people". When I was 18 and sweet and unjaded, I actually thought I might want to go into the ministy. Then I attended a Baptist college. I waited tables during school and the day I graduated, I was thrown behind the bar. Not because I knew a single thing about drinking or drinkers, but because I big boobs and was a cute blonde my fate was pretty much sealed. Actually by the time I graduated, I was pretty much over the Christain thing anyway. I saw a lot of shady shit go down at that particular Christain college and didn't like what I saw. People in the resturant biz are way cooler, the most unjudgemental people you will ever meet in your life and doesn't mention that you can't wear white to your wedding if you are not "pure", whatever the hell that means.
 The Christain crowd is pretty much the most hyprocritcal bunch of fuckers you will ever meet in your life (not all of them, but enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth). Oh, and they tip for shit. But we all knew that.
I still do have to deal with them from time to time. A few nights ago, I was on a floor shift when a group came in with their Pastor. First things out of their mouths: Two people here have birthdays this week. What do we get for free? Me: Happy Birthday, what do you want to drink? Church people: Well what do you do for birthdays? Sing? Me: I just told you Happy Birthday, that's about it. And I would rather give myself a papspear with a set of rusty car keys than sing to your overgrown asses. Grow the fuck up.
I finally offered them a free dessert just to shut them the fuck up. But we happened to out of chocolate cake that night. Pastorman then proceded to lose his religion. And his shit. He pouted like a four year old that we didn't have his favorite dessert and made me go to the back to make sure. Yes, fucker, I am sure. He was pretty pissed that the thing he wanted FOR FREE was not avaliable for him to stuff his fat, bloated face with. How about I bring you a piece of bread and maybe Jesus could turn it into chocolate cake for you? Or maybe you could just grow the fuck up. Whatever is easiest. They were not amused.
Anyway, I grat'ed them (speaking of God, I thank Him for auto grats). But they sat and sat and sat like they were waiting for the return of Jesus himself. I finally stopped refilling their coffees and went out back for a smoke, hoping they could smell it on me when I returned. Then they left and I had a beer.
But fortunally, I don't have to deal with this particular breed of asshole too often. Praise Jesus. To my fellow peeps who are out in the trenches on this most holy of day, my prayers go out to you.