A Toast to the Less Fortunate

It's funny how not only was my recent apprehension toward Margarita Mondays unwarranted, but I have become a king of sorts at the establishment. The manager the past few weeks has gone out of eir way to be nice to earn back my favor. Though I appreciate the gestures, these actions manifest in excessive fashion. Last week, I asked for a napkin, and ey came back within two minutes with at least fifteen napkins. "Would you like a fork?" ey asked. "Uh, sure," I replied. I didn't actually need a fork, but I figured it would help appease the manager's guilty conscience. Nearly instantaneously again, the manager returned with about twenty forks. There were more forks than people present. Later in the evening, I presented each person a fork from my collection and we all held them above our heads in triumph while toasting to the "illegal" coupon that oddly has provided benefits for weeks to come.

Last night, the overdone kindness continued with an abundant supply of quickly served complimentary tortilla chips, extra salsa, and many plates and napkins. At first it was amusing, but it ended up putting a lot of pressure on me: I felt uncomfortable being catered to to that extreme. That's when I resolved to out-nice the manager. When ey came out with a tray, I assisted in carrying the dishes. Suddenly, the manager had to thank me as profusely as I routinely have had to do with eir. Two can play this game, kindly manager!

Someone suggested testing the extension of good-will by making a real counterfeit (oxymoron alert) coupon and seeing if the manager would accept it now. Not only would it be legitimately fake, but it would be expired at this point, too. As curious as I am, I wouldn't want to jeopardize my standing at my weekly joy. Imagine what would happen if I were banned from Margarita Mondays: I would have to stand outside the fence and have people buy me drinks so I could suck it through a straw between the gate posts.

That's when inspiration struck. I decided that Margarita Mondays needed more of a social justice bent and that one week we should have half of our crew stand outside the gate and watch the fortunate crew enjoy their night to replicate a scenario of the haves and have-nots. This idea was scoffed at, so I tried to sell it. Around the world, there are people who can't afford to spend $2 on a margarita. There are people who have to walk three miles uphill to fetch their margaritas from a well. There are people who have to split their margaritas twelve ways in order to feed their kids. There are people who have to water down their margaritas in order to have enough to go around for said twelve kids. There are even people who have to resort to counterfeiting coupons just to afford a margarita.

I was genuinely enthusiastic about this idea, but my plea was taken as more of a comedy routine. I took up a new cause a short while later, which dictated that when you receive a gift from someone, it should be customary to rub it against your crotch to demonstrate that you like it. This took a bit more than the previous impoverished bit and soon several people were rubbing the many extra plates and napkins on our crotches to illustrate gratitude. I did not, however, try out this move in the presence of the manager -- I want to kill eir with kindness, not mortify eir. All the same, this holiday season when you unwrap a gift, be sure to give it a nice crotch rub so as not to offend your loved ones. I wasn't being ridiculous, just tipsy. Nor was I being ridiculous when while Allison and I danced in the corner to electronica Christmas music, someone tried to attract my attention and I snapped at them for daring to interrupt the brilliance of Mannheim Steamroller. Dude, it's Mannheim Steamroller. You should be so happy to hear that shit that you rub the sound waves against your pelvis.