Dear Dude Who Slings My Soup:
When you first started working at my soup shop of choice, I have to say that I found your enthusiasm and attentiveness most pleasant. The way you'd chat me up while discussing my soup selection was extremely charming.
I thought you were a real sweet kid and it was a nice change of pace from the usual grunting sour pusses I often encounter in the food industry.
Over time, I sensed that maybe you had a wee crush on me. You'd light up when I walked in and elbow past your coworkers to wait on me. In fact, as I recall, your glowing testimonial of the Spinach and Asparagus Bisque was laced with flirtatious patter and a bit of mild innuendo. But it was rather innocent and you were right -- the soup was delish -- so no harm, no foul.
But lately your behavior has veered in the direction of... well, FUCKING CREEPY. For example, the impassioned "Mmm! Mmm! MMMMMM!" you showered me with the other day was rather unsettling. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad if you didn't have a cold, steely look in your eyes and weren't sucking on your teeth as you said it.
Frankly, it sent shivers down my spine and I couldn't help but envision a ball gag, duct tape and a chalk outline surrounding my battered, lifeless body.
I just wanted some soup, dude.
Now, a different person might have marched up to your manager and complained but well... I like my soup without spit in it. If you were to be fired or disciplined, I would imagine my photo hanging in the kitchen like a wanted poster inspiring all your ladle-bearing brethren to hock loogies and worse into entire batches of the Broccoli-Cheddar-Mashed Potato I love so much.
I can't have that. And gross bodily fluids and city-wide outbreaks of food poisoning aside, I just don't like telling on people.
So just give me my soup, dude. And don't forget the crackers. However, you can forget about getting with this cracker, if you will.
Best,
Curly McDimple
