Anyone that's ever served time as a waiter can tell you every shift brings with it a new form of chaos --- the grumpy, bitchfaced, beer-bloated, red-faced-angry-hockey-dad customer who had a bone to pick with the restaurant's inability to cater to his overdeveloped taste for craft beers that almost never end up on the tap list; or the catty group of eye-rolling sorority sisters out for a ladies' night, jacked up on the pre-game Pinot they guzzled in dad's BMW, before proceeding to make the server's life a living hell by ordering extravagantly customized salads. But those are just a couple examples. Dates are a whole 'nother animal, and these particular cringe-coated, romantically failed dates rank as some of the worst I've come across in this long strange trip called life, so far.
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