I often spend time spilling my brain droppings (as George Carlin called them) on dead trees using dead tree-bound carbon rods. I was traveling for business not too long ago and, when traveling alone, I often write whilst having dinner. I write as was taught back in the day (probably in a one-room schoolhouse, while carrying my lunch in an actual pail. Unless that was “Little House on the Prairie.”). That is, I write longhand in cursive. The pretty young waitress complimented me on my handwriting perhaps a tad too exuberantly. An interesting trend I’ve noticed: the prettier the waitress, the more likely she is to compliment you for something. I had terrible writing in grade school. Though right-handed, I wrote almost exclusively with my left hand the first couple of years of college. I began to focus on the aesthetics of my writing only a few years ago. Since then, I have been meticulous about maintaining consistent sizes and angles throughout any piece.
Nevertheless, I know it’s not Thomas Jefferson. I’m sorry, honey, but your tip doesn’t change with flattery.
Note: despite the entire “tip” model of service work being a means of screwing both the servant-class and the consumer-class, it is an absolute requirement by current standards.
Thanks to “Dear Abby,” if I recall correctly.