Monetizing the Monsters
Cheapskates, grabby hands, and hazard pay
You look like you’ve had a kid,” the brash frat boy said to Jade.
“I can tell,” he carried on, pointing determinedly at the faded silvery lines detailing her belly.
Her ‘tiger mama lines,’ she calls them out the back with us girls.
Jade clapped her hands together slowly.
“Well done, you prick. You want a gold star?”
“F%$k off, you stupid c$%t.”
Bad move, kid.
For every pleasant customer, you usually get five horrific ones. It’s much like anything, I guess. You have to learn to sift through the nonsense.
The worst, in my opinion, are the mouthy ones. I just never have any clapback’s on hand for them. I’m the person who leaves a conversation and then kicks myself a couple of hours later, thinking of all the retorts I could have said. Because of my lack of wittiness, I tend to avoid these people like the plague.
You can usually spot them a mile away: big groups with a couple of larger-than-life jokers who like to push boundaries for attention. Sometimes they just want a bit of a laugh and some stripper party tricks — tips between the boobs, a little twerk, that sort of thing. But other times, they are downright rude. Like when they “mooed” at Mak and told her that her (gorgeous, natural E-cup) breasts were too saggy.
