Eager Biz-Econ Freshman
POINT: Dining Hall Workers Can’t Serve for Shit
Is it so bad to want for more in life? Is it such a sin to want the best for me and my health? I’m not paying out-of-state tuition to be served slop by a grungy little caffeine-addicted chihuahua of a human being. Every time I seek sustenance in our dining halls, I don’t dread the food — such is the nature of college, that the food is fit only for mud-hopping peasants — nor do I dread the ambiance. (Whoever said 64 Degrees is a sad, sad little cave? It’s lovely!)
No. I dread the eyes of that Easter Island facial expression, that dead-fish stare of the humanoids in starchy blue uniforms who look at me like they want nothing more than to dive back into the deep sea and never return. Is it too much to ask for some basic customer service? Some modicum of joy to be here in this university, getting paid, and in the best era of our lives? Where did all of that fresh eagerness go? I’ve been away from home for two months, and after acing my midterms and becoming the new president of a club, I feel as if the world is at my fingertips. And I’m not doing any of this for money!
Be free from monotony! Smile a little! Do yoga before your shift! Work that grill like you mean it! You’re providing sustenance for an entire school, for God’s sake! That’s a blessed purpose, and all I ask is just a little bit of propriety at the register. And for goodness’ sake, can’t you read mobile orders properly?
Hall Mother
COUNTERPOINT: We Serve Cunt
Stand up. Face me. Look me in the eyes. Take off your bootleg Ray-Bans and put on those dollar-store prescription glasses that I know you hide in your pocket.
You, in fact, are me, and I am you. We shop at the same shitty on-campus Target and are subject to the whims of a gacha class registration system and markets that George Orwell would fear more than the Iron Curtain. But you have issued an accusation that misses the most crucial, the most vital of acknowledgements of our cuntiness. Who are you to say that we cannot serve? We are getting paid, my out-of-state peasant brethren, and we serve cunt like it’s nobody’s business. You think anyone can pull off jigsaw-puzzle pins, this cerulean polo-shirt? And this apron? My cheekbones were meant to be paired with this hat, my ass was meant for these pants. You, in your Revelle T-shirt that you got for free at orientation, are simply beneath me.
For shame, you humble bitch. For shame. You think your 24-karat gold iPhone case means anything to us when you ask us whether or not your order’s ready? You cannot read, you can only be read. Your cuticles are dry, your face is unmoisturized, you scooter around buzzing like a filthy and foul fly, you don’t sanitize your hands after you leave the RIMAC gym to get food, and you cannot serve jack shit. I am your god. You — you are simply a bumbling fool so oversaturated with the happy chemicals that you cannot see what is ahead in the coming years. I look forward to handing you your triple-shot caramel macchiato with oat milk and hazelnut syrup during finals week, you shitgibbon.
