I should have complained.  I would have had every right to.  I should have thrown the bag over their heads, or at their—whatever.  Someone must have known.  You know how once tuna reaches its expiration, you can quickly smell its deterioration in a matter of minutes when it's in your lap in the bus...well, i do.  So I'm walking with the bag over the bridge, And then at some point the wind hit it, and then from there, it couldn't be ignored.  Bag didn't even make it to my house. Some gravy from their own makeshift containers got on my pinky and I licked it off, nothing could be salvaged.  All three types of gravy, gone diddly on.  I'm done with Thanksgiving for this year.  To think, I was considering throwing this shit on my dogs to get my money's worth.  Now that would be a rampage you would hear on the news.  

The IHOP Killer and the waiter who served him, who was on top of his hitlist, who missed work that day due to personal reasons, and who happened to be black.  The Killer, whose name we will not publicise, refered to his waiter in his manifesto as, and I quote, "phony-baloney," and then goes on to rant, "I gave the guy two twenties and asked for change when I could have gave him 25 and ended it, and he saw me consider the 5; obviously, a message had been sent buy me that wasn't received by his doddi galogh [that could mean a number of things, Janet; we're not ruling out anything].  Then he doesn't bring me back change until I ask him again, and he said he forgot cause the ice bucket or something.  How could he forget about me when I'm the only—No, how could he forget about me when he was staring at me the whole time,I'll kill that mothafucker, oh diary!"

- (Janet) What's "mothafucker?" Is that some kind of raci—

- (Phil) We're Live, Janet

- (background) Party foul!

- (Janet) No, I meant how it was transcribed—whatever, you guys can eat me.  I quit.

late for work again