Dear MOMI (Mistress of My Immortality)
Recent laspes in my many vices of time consumption have caused me to consider possible posts. The first of these (which you'll probably clean up a bit) concerns a resturant chain RIPPING YOU OFF.
Attention all large restaurant chains who are obviously trying to imitate me: there is a differance between being ruthless and heartless! I refer to the "Twisted Kilt", a chain trying to piggyback off of my future undying fame.
For those not aware of this place, I should explain that it is a upscale bar and grill trying to lure that likes of Ed Calkins himself into it walls with good food and a large varity of hearty beers (Can you believe it!). They ashalessly (Editor's note: sorry, Ed, can't fix this word; I haven't a clue what it is) advertise the chain's name hoping that I, (who tends to have my kilt twisted a little when I'm wearing it), will see the sign and enter without being singled out. As low as that may seem, consider how they cut costs by exploiting the wait stalf.
It's quite clear when you first walk through the door, that the poor waitresses, (who make little more then the tips they recieve) are issused kilts far too small for them. I realize that a proper kilt is quite costly, but did you have to buy them all in the "small child" section? The white shirts are no better, being to small too even button properly.
Then too, the music is without bagpipes, fiddle, or flute! In fact, there is no live music at all. What sane self-repecting lassie would work in such a hole? One who has been deceived for the sake of profit!
You see, they hire only the young beautiful leggy ladies with clear skin and big...er dreams; each despairing the large crowds of young watchful men, if a vain hope that a certain pot-bellied, middle age bespectacled man will pop through the door and propose to make her one of his many wives, while the other young lasses do their best to console them with small talk and very large tips.
Where else could they have gotton that, but the book!
Now I fully realize that almost every young girl dream of a fat old man with an inflated sense of self importance will one day offer a marrige without the fuse (Editor's note: fuse???) of a ceremony or the tiresome spectacle of romance, but what are the chances that it would be the "real" Ed Calkins?
Nothing is as sad to me as a young waitress sorting through a large stalk of bills with phone numbers written on them, trying to find that single bill, left by Ed Calkins who slipped in unnoticed (like that will EVER happen) that has "Will you marry me?" written on it. It takes some of these girls hours to go though all the greenbacks only to find no offer of marriage, so another working day tomorrow.
Young waitresses, take note: being a wife of Ed Calkins is NOT as easy as it might have appeard in Bryony. In a latter post, I will explain some of the misconceptions these poor young ladies embrace in their vain hope to be known thoughout history as an Ed Calkins wife.
Ruthlessly yours,
Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara
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