I got sassed

So I went to this cafe the other day that shall remain nameless (Cantina if you wanted to know) and I ordered my food and got sassed straight out of left field and then out of the fucken ballpark as well. For the uneducated, getting sassed means when someone vomits their attitude all over you but it's also really cold and calculated and bitchy. It's not a coincidence that 'sassed' also contains the word 'ass' due to the people that do it being fucken buttholes. Girls are really good at it and the girl that did it to me may have even invented it.

So anyway it was about 8am in the morning and yeah, granted I wasn't at maximum mental capacity as I'd just woken the fuck up and as a result had forgotten that this place has table service and it's a cardinal sin to order a scrambled eggs on toast and 3/4 long macchiato at the counter (SORRY). I thought everything was going well but as soon as I had politely concluded my request this sassquatch just stops what she's doing all of a sudden, lays her little sassy pen on the counter and looks at her little fucken notepad for a second before letting out a mega sarcastic "uuummmmmmmm, yeeeeaaahhhh....." and slowly looks up at me (she hadn't been looking at me the whole time). I stood there for a second and gave her a few moments to regain her composure because she'd obviously lost her mind thinking she could speak to me like that and then she drops this on me, "See, it's actually table service here?" She said it like it was a question, her sassy little voice rising with every passing syllable, like every fucken sassy sonofabitch does.

I can't stand people like this. They think they have some kind of interpersonal high ground because of the way they talk and the way their beady little eyes roll around inside their sockets. You can't do dickall about it as well because they're so sincere in their ways that you can't do anything but write a blog post about it days later. Dear Sassquatch, here's what I think: You're 8, plain and simple. You don't know how to interact with adults so everything you say rolls up an incline of cheap sarcasm and highly visible self-doubt. All 8 year-olds ever do is ask for shit, so whenever you open your sassy little cake-hole it ends up being a question not only in the literal sense, but also a question of your role in society, of which there isn't one. You got me as well. I walked in expecting the same level of professionalism that I usually receive when I go to Cantina, but you falcon punched those expectations with such precision and experience that all I could do was nod my head in defeat and walk to the outside table. However, what I really wanted to do after our little exchange was suplex you over the counter and into the nearest lava pit.

Lucky you're 8 though, you fucking dropkick.