I am generally a patient man. I can rise above bad service before I reach my breaking point. So, when I am pressed to make comments about restaurant service, Christine knows to sit up and pay attention.
Skippy McWonderfuck is not a single person, but an amalgam of people – like Ted from the Dilbert cartoons. Skippy McWonderfuck has many faces. Tonight, Skippy McWonderfuck turned out to be a short British boffin unable to sort out what should be an appetizer and what should be a main course. This, despite being told repeatedly and clearly when to bring each dish. Skippy’s greater crime was bringing us a dessert menu and then disappearing for half a bloody hour. Do not ever leave three tired, hot, weary travellers totally alone for that long. Heaven only knows what Skippy was up to in that time – frankly, the amusement of imagining this ended long, long ago.
When we flagged down another waiter to bring us our desserts – NOW – Skippy did manage to reappear, plates in hand. Too little, too late, Skippy my friend. You’ve earned the title.
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I haven’t spent nearly as much time with you as Christine has, but even *I* knew that if you were calling the waiter Skippy McWonderfuck, then it really just wasn’t me who was pissed off with the service.