Plastic plates.  The place isn’t bad enough already without adding cafeteria style dishware to the menu.  A few weeks ago, I mentioned to my boozy ass of a boss that we needed more salad plates.  I show up a few days later to a plastic atrocity, stacked 30 high on the crumb littered counter.  We may not have linen napkins, but my god, I thought we were above toddler plates.  Couple this with adding hamburgers to our Italian menu and the gas station quality, see thru napkins, it’s obvious that my boss doesn’t give a damn and that I need to get out of there.

It’s a long time coming and I know that I’ve complained about my indentured, marinara infused servitude to practically anyone within a mile radius of my lips; but this is it! I refuse to use the plastic plates, secretly stashing them under cupboards and behind doors but I shudder for the day when all the porcelain ones are finally gone and I, with a hanging head and a depressed air, must use the plastic horrors thrust upon me to take out soup or coffee.  And so my friends, I am pleading with you, don’t let me fail in my mission! Push, prod and paddle me into leaving this place and escaping the inevitable disgraceful plastic plate fate which only awaits me there.

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