Here's the scenario: On Sunday, we took my father-in-law out for what, in theory, was a tribute to the great job he has done as patron to his children. He certainly deserves it!
At the same time, being that I am father to Saucy Jr., I suppose it was also somewhat of a thank-you to me for the wonderful job I have done so far. At such an event, you would think it would be cool for me to have French toast, some strawberries, and, of course, a delicious omelette without having to deal with a bunch of nonsense. It's never that simple though, is it?
I spy the omelette station. It is absolutely bedecked with wonderful fillings for your culinary delight. I decided to give it a try. At the time of my approach, there is no line. Just a gaggle of people forming a half-moon around the station. This, in my experience, is the standard mode of operation for an omelette station. You approach, survey the folks who are waiting to order, respond to the crowd when queried by the chef with something in the way of "Has everyone ordered," and when you are sure you are not jumping anyone, you place your order. In my case, it is an omelette with ham, tomato, jalapenos, and cheese. Yummylicious, even without a clear sign of hot sauce.
So after waiting ten minutes for every one to have ordered, I prepare to deliver my request. Only what light through yonder window breaks? Two ladies, having formed their own miniature line, talking shizz about how I BUTTED IN FRONT OF THEM! I hear one asking about whether I knew there was a line, and the other responding with the line, "Oh well! It's Father's Day," as if they were doing me a favor, and not plotting a way to rob me out of my proper place in the pecking order. Having heard enough of their just-loud-enough-for-me-to-hear kvetching, I piped up with "You can go ahead if you were here first!" With that, and a fairly large rolling of the eyeballs by myself, this discourse came to its unceremonious conclusion.
And why was that? Because this lady, who quite frankly looked as if she had consumed enough omelettes for one lifetime, KNEW I was in front of her (in fact, I saw her roll up ten minutes after my arrival), but was trying to make it sound like I skipped her because she found an arbitrary space on the floor that SHE DECIDED was a line. And I don't buy it! Why would the proprietors want you to form a line that, once extended, would prevent people from getting to the salad, the macaroni, the roast beef, and many of the other offerings. NO! The circle around the omelette station, along with proper communication with your fellow customers, is the only way to go.
And as I said, don't pretend you are doing me a solid by allowing me to order first on a Hallmark holiday! I am ordering first because I was in the line way before you even thought about getting an omelette! I waited and worked along with my fellow diners to make sure that nobody got hopped, and you are trying to cheat me! This is the reason I will get this scrumcious menu item before you, not my male genitalia/two-legged heir combo. THE F'ING NERVE!!!
Bottom line: Absent a "line starts here" sign or a gaggle of people standing in a straight arrow when you approach the station, it is not your job to police the omelette distribution, lady! Get your sizeable glutes in the scrum and work it out with the proletariat, and if you see someone who has been waiting an epic amount of time for his meal, don't try and get in front of him with your contemptuous phony civility. Finally, if you are going to complain about your perception of this individual's inability to adhere to your expectations regarding orderliness, save your insincere "well-wishings." I don't know you and I don't need you to "recognize" my status as a proud papa!
As I returned to the table and began savoring my omelette and enjoying the company of my family, I saw this lady and her copious Mom jeans heading out to hang with her surely vile peops. Her plate was so stacked with food you would have thought she was storing up for an upcoming apocalypse. It took everything I had not to extend a leg and send her rightfully delayed omelette airborne.