"Where's the coleslaw? I get coleslaw with this. Can I get some coleslaw?"

I have a few quick rants that are anything but eloquent. Ignore them, respond to them, learn from them; do what you will.

• Who actually likes coleslaw? Where did this disgusting food come from? Is it one of those foods that people of a certain generation like, their children don't like, but then their grandchildren do like? When I remember to supply it, customers don't eat it. When I forget to supply it, they come at me like I forgot to supply them with oxygen.
  
• Who doesn't eat their pickle?! Worse yet..who takes a bite of their pickle and leaves the rest on the plate? Can't you just finish it and stop tempting me to pick off your plate? Do you know how often this happens? A piece of me dies when I see a poor helpless wasted pickle abandoned on a plate. Eat your pickle or donate it to someone who likes them.
  
• During my shifts, most people get meals that include a basket of really nice bread (I know this because we servers slice the bread and I've sampled more than my fair share). Why wouldn't you touch the bread? It's so good. I swear I didn't do anything to it. It's so so good.
• Why do so many of the waitresses tease and entice the kitchen staff? Are these girls that hard-up for male attention? For instance, I saw DGA proudly showing Abdul a picture of her in a revealing Halloween costume and he was begging her to come into work wearing it. Maybe you had to be there, but ew.
• I don't think I can accurately describe the fury and frustration felt when one's silverware, hidden and waiting to be wrapped, is taken--nay, stolen--but I'll try. It's like you found out you were adopted, had your first born child kidnapped, got stuck in a traffic jam for 3 hours, forgot to study for a huge test, and got dumped by your true love...all at once. It's happened to me twice so far, and I've never quite gotten over it. Both times I felt like crying, screaming, and challenging the unknown thief to a duel (Why not? I had nothing else to live for at those moments). What hurts the most is the fact that my name was written, large and beautifully, on a piece of paper in plain sight with my concealed utensils. This could only mean someone saw my name and thought, "That bitch deserves to have to scrounge around for more silverware like a dirty, homeless dog desperately searching for scraps of food."