If I Had a Penny for Your Thoughts I'd Be Bankrupt

An Editorial by Tom Edwards

"Thank You", "Thanks", "Thanks a Million", "Thank You Much"-are words heard by fewer and fewer people. You can lump them in with "I'm Sorry", "Excuse Me", "Pardon Me", "How Are You Doing?", "Hello", "Good Day", "Goodnight", "My Fault", "I Appreciate It" and "Keep the Change". (I haven't heard the words "keep" and "change" strung together with "the" to form a phrase since 1991.) You can also wave goodbye to the days when people chewed with their mouths closed, opened doors and pulled out seats for women, didn't belch, put their napkins in their lap, and actually had a sneaking suspicion that they were boorish slobs.

This isn't about tipping-the common beef that many service people have of burn artists-wastes of space that take the greatest advantage of the service industry yet unapologetically reward it the least.

We know that the fat guy at the table in the back who threatens to sue the restaurant was never going to tip. We knew that far before he found a string of cellophane in his cannelloni. We knew that before he even waddled through the front door. Litigious propensities are genetic and can be spotted quite easily. It's not their fault. We can only mask compassion for these idiots as we try our hardest not to accidentally bury meat cleavers into their skulls.

We know the bony bitch at the salad bar barking to the dishwasher for low fat bleu cheese while her son's arm is elbow deep in the banana pudding isn't going to tip. We are cognizant of the fact that by her making the power move of ordering the all-you-can eat-salad/dessert-bar- for $3.99, the chances of her tipping are 399 to 1. Same goes for the people who make their lousy kids ration one soda over the course of a whole meal, women who stash sweet 'n low packets in their purses, jackasses who order Mountain Dew with no ice, breathy meatballs who lay their ham hands on the bar and announce to the world that they want a Stolichnaya and Sprite, and men with toothpicks rolling in their mouths who take 45 minutes to divide a ticket for $15.68 like they're negotiating a nuclear arms agreement or surmising their cards in the white knuckled World Series of Poker.

The same applies for families with incredibly messy children who leave loathsome trails of crushed saltine and spilled soda, bottom dwellers who snap their fingers at waitresses, penny pinchers who stack their plates and dirty napkins in the center of the table when finished-- presumably as penance for walking out without laying a red cent-- and their children who are sent as ambassadors of the underclass to "stiff" delivery drivers who have been standing in a cold, stiff, driving rain for the past 40 years on the doorsteps of America.

If you don't know what a "stiff" is, then you most likely are one. A "stiff" is a member of a society who won't give a penny over what they are charged. This behavior is exhibited regardless of the quality of service. The world is full of nameless "stiffs"-souls who will perpetually waste away in the netherworld of non-service. They wear their intentions like scarlet letters. They often hide behind their children who in turn inherit their chintzy ways.

I'm preaching to the choir of service industry members. I'm your Billy Graham.

The Great Depression was 7 decades ago. Yet oddly stiffs, having never actually lived through a major economic down cycle, feel a need to perpetuate this budgeting philosophy to their children. Unless the wayward child, or "Stifflet", grows up to be in the service industry and renounces their "stifflery", then the proliferation continues. Before society knows it, the fudge-faced kid in the baby seat becomes the whiney butthead at the bag drop because someone was a little rough with his golf clubs that are en route to Phoenix. As the man stammers a tapestry of curse words off into the terminal and an icy, outstretched mitten is met with not a nickel from the Stiff's calfskin gloves, you can give a wink and a smile to the big man working the drop in mutual assurance that the Stiff's bags will be arriving shortly in Duluth, Minnesota courtesy of "To Hell With You Airlines".

This is a case of nature and nurture. There has to be a small, distinct fragment of gene code that programs a man's sphincter to constrict at the sight of a service check. There are also legions of adults who facilitate the development of their children into fine, young mental midgets by sheltering them from the vague custom of tipping, the ability to move their lips in a succession to form the words "Thank" and "You", and the most remote concept-- that most people's lives-- including theirs-are nothing more than a tiny speck. The fact that wants, needs, and demands are utterly insignificant is a real mindblower.

Unfortunately, it's "The-tubby-dude-smacking-his-lips-on-chili cheese-fries-buying- a-12-pack-of-Budweiser-with-a-welfare-check's" world and we're only living in it. I, for one, say, "No thank you".