hamburger joint

  • A former president of a foreign nation: *cites a particular Kpop group as one of the reasons teenagers in their country are learning Korean and even knows of their fave hamburger joint.*
  • Most kpop group fandom: Omg!!!!!!!! Our stans are so popular a foreign former president knows about them!!!!! #whenwillyourfaves #legendsonly
  • Shawols: What the hell kind of AU is this?! Is Taebama real?!

dating roman godfrey would include

  • sex all the time
  • like all the time
  • there would be no point in buying underwear because he’s gunna rip them off
  • blowjobs under the staircase at school
  • getting high a lot
  • baths together
  • taking cocaine of ur tits
  • hands on his crotch under the table at fancy dinners
  • just driving around when you’re upset
  • him kissing your neck a lot
  • hickeys where no one else can see
  • just kissing a lot like have u seen his lips???
  • period sex 
  • being close to Shelley
  • fancy dates ending in you going to a little hamburger joint to makeout
flickr

Half pike with a twist by Don Sniegowski
Via Flickr:
The sign of Parkette Drive-In at Lexington, Kentucky.

An Open Letter To Non-Tippers

Dear Non- Tippers,

Are you thinking about going out tonight? Considering a nice little jaunt to that cozy steakhouse down on main street? Looking forward to a pleasant evening of being fed and waited upon by strangers? Maybe catching a flick after dinner? Good. Good for you. Sounds like a splendid evening. I’m happy that you’ve got the money to treat yourselves.

Oh, but you don’t have it in your budget to tip your server?

Then it would seem that you, in fact, don’t have the money to treat yourselves after all.

My friends, if you have 35 bucks to drop on a meal, but you don’t have the 7 dollars to leave a 20 percent tip, then what are you doing in a restaurant in the first place? You need to hire a financial adviser (well, maybe see if you can get a free consult) because it’s just plain unwise to blow your entire net worth on a couple of entrees at Applebee’s. Save your 35 dollar nest egg, run to Walmart, buy a box of spaghetti for a dollar, and enjoy a home cooked meal.

For a while in my early twenties, after I paid my bills for the month, I usually had about 30 or 40 dollars left over. I often drove by sit-down restaurants and thought, “Hmmm, I wish I could pull in and have a bite to eat.” But then I remembered, “Oh, I’m broke; I have no money, I’m poor,” and so I went back to my apartment and ate peanut butter and jelly or ramen noodles. These are the traditional cultural dishes of Broke People – not big, juicy hamburgers at high class joints like Chili’s.

Oh, but you aren’t broke? You’re going tipless this evening out of some diluted “principle”?

Why should you have to tip, you ask?

Well, you don’t. You aren’t required. Just like you aren’t required to hold the door open for an elderly woman or offer a beverage to a thirsty house guest. You don’t HAVE to do these things. Most of us partake in these conventions because we’re civilized and decent. You don’t HAVE to be civilized and decent. But maybe you can at least do me this favor: if you aren’t going to tip, and you know that from the outset, have the courage of your convictions and inform your waiter upfront. When your server comes to welcome you and give you the daily specials, kindly inform him of the situation. “Good evening, Brad. I’m happy to be here. I won’t be tipping you tonight. Anyway, do we get free refills on the house salad?”

To withhold this information is a lie by omission. You know that Brad will be working under the assumption that a tip is forthcoming. You, therefore, benefit from the illusion of a potential tip, even though there isn’t any potential for a tip at all. This is a lie. You’re lying. You’re being manipulative. Stop it.

And what is this principle on which you stand?

I often hear that the owners of the restaurants should pay a decent wage and then nobody would have to tip. Why should YOU have to pay the server’s wage, you insist.

Good point. Let’s require all restaurant owners to pay their wait staff, what, like 12-15 dollars an hour? Yes, now we don’t have to tip and everyone is ha-

Oh. Wait. What’s this? All of prices on the menu just doubled? No more 2 for 20 deals? No more free refills? No more 9 dollar burgers and 12 dollar steaks? No more obscenely humungous portion sizes?

What’s going on here? You’re telling me that the financial resources of the restaurant’s owners are finite, and a massive increase in operating costs must be logically offset by a hike in prices and a reduction in services?

Oh no! Now my favorite joints are closing earlier! Hold on – no more happy hour?!

This has gone too far.

I want good food, low prices, huge portions, unlimited refills, happy hour special, fast service AND I don’t want to be expected to tip! Kindly point me to the wormhole that will transport me to the dimension where such a thing is possible.

See, non-tippers benefit from the tip structure, and would not be willing to forfeit those benefits, yet they don’t want to pony up the tips themselves. They reap the rewards of the tip system while simultaneously pretending to protest it. They’re hypocrites.

Of course, the main justification offered by non-tippers is not so much based on principle as it is on punishment. They say they will not tip when the service is “bad.” But you’ll notice that these people somehow encounter “bad” service almost every time they go out to eat. What an odd thing. They must be cursed.

Personally, I tip. I almost always tip well. Twenty percent is the baseline minimum. But, where some customers complain about how they “can’t find good service,” I am usually quite pleased with the wait staff I encounter at most establishments. Where non-tippers constantly find excuses to punitively withhold tips, I generally find reasons to add an additional 5 or 10 percent to the pot. This isn’t because I’m lucky or generous, it’s because I’m not a pompous, picky, spoiled brat; constantly looking for the smallest reason to feel slighted by customer service workers.

I’d like to hear the thought process when the bill comes and you non-tippers go through your cheapskate mental checklist.

Hmmm. Well, my glass remained empty for 97 seconds while my waitress handled a party of 27 two tables down. Sorry, I don’t care what else she’s doing. I need prompt refills. That’ll cost her 3 percent. Oh, and I didn’t think she was smiley enough. There goes another 3 percent. I asked for ketchup but it didn’t come. And then I had to ask again! The horror! That shaves another 5 percent. The fries were warm but a little soggy. There goes 2 percent. My meal was late by like a thousand hours! Well, almost. It took 26 minutes or so to come out. I have absolutely no reason to believe that this inconvenience was the fault of my server, but she’s going to have to pay for it. Minus 10 percent. OK, so according to my calculations, she now owes me about 12 dollars.

From what I’ve seen, the server is usually punished for things that have nothing to do with her. But you non-tippers know this. You’re not out for justice; you’re out to save a few bucks. You tell yourselves stories about how you were victimized by the wait staff just so you can leave no tip and still sleep like a baby at night.

But we all know the truth about you. You can’t hide your motivations.

Stop the madness, non-tippers.

Tip your server. Just tip.

Trust me, you’ll feel better.

anonymous asked:

Hi! Can I request InoSara please? A scenario where they're slightly older & Inojin is flirting with Sarada, twirling her hair in his fingers etc, & Sarada's just really flustered like she doesn't know how to handle this super intense flirty Inojin :)

Boys

For the most part, Sarada herself didn’t have much of a high opinion on boys. It was a stark contrast in comparison to her best friend, Chouchou, but Sarada didn’t see the the pleasure in them. Especially after becoming a ninja.

She considered them lazy, messy, and generally they were jerks. It probably came from the fact most of the boys she grew up with came off that way, but the ravenette digressed. If anything, her only exceptions to this perception were her father, Sasuke Uchiha, and the Seventh Hokage (who happened to be the father of one particular boy that wasn’t an exception to her perceptions.)

But adults aside, if Sarada had to pick at least one boy her age that didn’t go into her typical generalizing of the masses… It would have to be her Auntie Ino’s son, Inojin Yamanaka.

The two of them had grown up knowing each other outside the Academy. (It was same with both Boruto and Himawari, but meh. This was about Inojin.)

Typically this was because their mothers were both best friends, but Sarada would be lying if she said that she didn’t enjoy the Yamanaka boy’s company.

He smelled nice. Probably from working at his family’s flower shop all the time; but he had a faint gentle fragrance upon him.

Inojin was also a hard-worker in comparison to his teammates. Sure, Chouchou and Shikadai worked their hardest in their own way– but Inojin took the cake in the fact he never ditched his InoShikaChou training.

And above all else, he was actually a gentlemen (as if Auntie Ino would would settle for anything less).

Inojin didn’t fall under the whole category that all men were “perverted animals no matter the age”, something her father told her one day.

At least, Sarada used to think that.

“Inojin?” Sarada managed to ground out as she noticed the pair of light blue eyes close to her peripheral vision. She took a few steps back. “What are you doing here?”

The blonde boy smiled impishly, gesturing to his apron and the immediate area surrounding them. “I work here.”

“Oh.” Sarada blinked, deadpanned. “Right.” That was an embarrassing question.

Sarada was currently standing in the middle of the Yamanaka Flower Shop, crouched in front of a cluster of baby’s breath, and yet she failed to notice the presence of Inojin.

Inojin crouched down beside her, unnervingly close. But Sarada pushed it to him doing this with his usual customers. It’s nothing, it’s nothing. 

“So who are the flowers for, Sara-chan?” Inojin asked. “Does Auntie Sakura want some?”

Sarada shook her head, “No and it’s Sarada.” She crossed her arms, lips turning into a frown. She hated the nickname he gave her from back when they were toddlers. “Konohamaru-sensei was injured this last mission I went on so I’m bringing him flowers. The job got pushed onto me.” Boruto was adamant it was her and didn’t let her or Mitsuki (who was already bringing snacks) get a word in edgewise. Not that she didn’t mind bringing Konohamaru flowers. It just would’ve been more meaningful an activity if it was all of her team.

“Boruto again?” Inojin asked with a sympathetic chuckle. 

“Yes.” Sarada replied without missing a heartbeat. “So how much for a bouquet?” She stood up, her knees feeling sore.

Inojin stood up as well, “You just want a simple mix of flowers?” 

Sarada nodded. “You’re the flower expert, so I’ll just leave it to you.”

“The language of flowers is a lot more important that you think, Miss Glasses.” Inojin crossed his arms with a sigh. “What if you give someone the wrong message?” 

“I doubt that Konohamaru-sensei actually knows the meanings behind any flower.”

“But it’s the thought that counts.” Inojin persisted. “What if you were giving the flowers to a loved one and you gave them orange lilies?”

Sarada failed to see the young artist’s point.

“Orange lilies mean ‘hatred’.” Inojin sighed.

“Then don’t put any orange lilies in the bouquet.” Sarada snapped. She was already irritated because of Boruto, and Inojin wasn’t making her feel any better.

Inojin sighed as his gaze swept over the various plants in the shop. “Just wait for the day you give the wrong kind of flowers to someone you like and they know flower language.” His voice had a ‘you poor soul’ tone to it. “You’re going to end up all alone, Sara-chan.”

“Well if you’re such a love expert, tell me the flowers you’d give to someone you liked!” Sarada growled, too annoyed to even correct him on the proper usage of her name.

“Fine.” Inojin replied, looking amused. “I’d give them… Gardenias, to let them know I think they’re lovely. White violets (let’s take a chance on happiness), whenever I felt as if I were ready to ask them out…” As Inojin spoke, he nimbly picked the flowers he mentioned, eyes firm. “A few crocuses to let them know I can’t help but feel cheerful around them. A carnation to let them know they fascinate me. And a couple gladioluses to let them know I’m really sincere.” Inojin then knotted a few blades of grass around the bouquet, tightly securing it. “And a few blades grass to keep it all together to represent submission, because they have me tightly wound around their little finger.”

Blue met black as Inojin placed the new arrangement in Sarada’s hands and the ravenette felt a wave of heat rush over her.

Since when was Inojin so eloquent?

“A-ah…” She couldn’t help but feel a little envious. “Whoever that person is won’t ever feel neglected if they knew all this information. No! She couldn’t be feeling envious! This was Inojin she was talking about, not some chunin with an impressive personality and ambitious goals.

Inojin was just Inojin. A childhood companion who enjoyed playing multi-player role playing games at hamburger joints with Boruto and Shikadai whenever they had the free time.

“Oh, I forgot one.” 

See? Sarada said to herself like she had a point to prove. This is Inojin we’re talking about. But any more of her rambles were cut short as she felt fingers traveling through her bangs. “I-Inojin?”

“A gloxinia.” Inojin said, not removing his hands until he believed the dark pink gloxinia was set perfectly in the girl’s hair. His index finger brushed her bangs one more time as he pulled his hand away slowly. “To let you know I’ve always loved you at first sight… Sara-chan.” He closed his right eye, winking with a grin as he adjusted her bangs.

Sarada blinked. Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

“WHAAAAAT?!?!” Sarada backed away from Inojin’s grip. Was he joking?! He had to be joking. She considered looking back at the blonde to check for any signs that it was a joke, but she couldn’t.

This was something she might have expected from maybe Boruto.

But this was something else entirely.

“Sara-cha-”

Sarada was already running out of the Yamanaka Flower Shop, head hanging low. “Tell Auntie Ino I’ll bring the money tomorrow!”

And as if coming to girl’s call, said woman entered the entrance of her shop, a curious expression in her eyes as she looked at her son. “Was that Sarada-chan?” Ino was impressed at the speed the girl was running at. “Inojin did you do somethin– Inojin?! What’s wrong?”

Inojin had his face completely covered by his hands as he crouched down, his face and ears scarlet. “I can’t believe I actually did that!!!!!”

He was quite sure he wouldn’t be able to face Sarada for a week. 

Stupid Boruto and his stupid advice!

lapidot road trip tropes
  • Peridot is the main driver, she controls the aux cord with vengeance
    • Lapis makes off key techno noises with her mouth until Peridot is forced to change the playlist from Daft Punk to Nikki Minaj
  • Lapis is in charge of the map but they definitely get lost and Lapis takes them to strange backroads with weird rock formations
  • They 100% go to the desert because Lapis is curious about places with no water and Peridot hears that’s where her alien plush comes from
    • they take a second road trip to Canada to do the CPH experience in person
  • After watching 12 hours of Guy Fieri Lapis takes them to every hamburger joint on the way and give them reviews. In person, outloud. 
    • Peridot has a yelp account but she mostly just compares all food to how alike it is to pizza (the first thing Amethyst introduced her to)
  • They gather a total of 67 souvenirs for Steven, ranging from ‘Welcome to Hawaii!’ from an Arizona pitstop and knock off crying breakfast food merch (it’s an “otmeel with emotions!”)
  • they run off into thunderstorms when it rains in the desert and Peridot tries to show Lapis how cool falling water is, and they stare in wonder at lightning and the noise that follows
    • they may or may not hold hands when it happens
C’est Une Bonne Vie

Hey guys!! So I’ve been meaning to write this for some time now, and I hope you guys like it!

Pairing: Benny X Reader
Warnings:  NONE YET
Author: @crowley-trash

      It had been a long week, full of hunting almost every single day. You, Sam, and Dean had been spending half of the time in the Impala, and you were getting antsy to have some free time. Today, Dean had said something about meeting up with a friend in New Orleans, which was somewhere you’ve always wanted to go, but had never been to. The drive from your current case, which was a string of wendigo attacks in Charlotte, was going to be a long one, about a two-day’s drive, but you were used to toting around in the Impala with the boys. Half of the drive you three spent it blasting the radio, singing every song at the top of your lungs, windows down as the smell of the country swept through the car. Growing up in North Carolina, unlike Sam and Dean, the mixed smell of wildflowers and gasoline was your home, so the car ride brought back your happier memories. 

        By the end of the day, you had made it to Alabama, and you had about eight more hours to go the next day. You three made your way into your motel room, snuggling into the bed you were going to share with Sam, since this room didn’t have a couch. You had shared rooms with the boys before, so you were used to sharing. And besides, it wasn’t such a big deal to have to share a bed with your brothers every now and then. 

       The Alabama sun rose with beautiful pinks and purples streaking the clouds as the Impala made its way down the two lane highway, green hills passing by in a blur. Small talk passed between you three.

      “What’s the case, Dean?” Dean hadn’t really elaborated on the reason for the long drive, so you were hoping he would give you a hint as to what was going on. 

     “Honestly, I’m not sure…A friend of mine called and didn’t really explain what was going on, but he said it was definitely something.” Dean explained, sharing a look with Sam. A knowing look, and Sam’s face said the whole, ‘Dean…..’ You three could have a whole conversation with just looks.

      You settled back in the seat, requesting Dean to switch to your favorite radio station before you lost the signal. And, for once, this time he did.


       When you arrived in New Orleans, the first stop was for dinner, at a local seafood place. Dean was disgruntled because he couldn’t find a greasy hamburger joint, but he could settle for seafood for once. You three ordered, with Sam, of course, ordering whatever had the most vegetables and organic foods as possible. Your shrimp and scallops were exceptional, you moaned as you took another bite.

      “Keep it PG, kiddo,” Sam chided, nudging you with his elbow. 

      “Rule number one: seafood is best at the coast, because it’s always fresh from that day. Rule number two: never get “sweet tea” in the north, they don’t do it right.” You stated knowingly, sipping your sweet tea, which was perfect to a southern girl like yourself. Others, especially northerners, would cringe at how much sugar and honey was put into just one glass, but it suited you just fine. 

      “And how would you know that?” Dean butted in, amused.

      “Dude, I grew up on the coast of North Carolina,” you responded. “Remember that family friend, Morgan? I lived with her and her family for most of my life, out in Snead’s Ferry.” You saw the confused looks on their faces at the mentioning of the city. “Super small town.” They nodded and continued to eat their food. 


      You had spent one night in a New Orleans motel, and you were loving the city. Everyone had thick accents, mostly southern, so you felt at home. Every now and again, you’d overhear a conversation in French, which you could completely understand, thanks to taking so many years of the language in school. 

      Today was the day you and your brothers were going to see about the oh-so-important case, driving up the the harbor about six miles away from the motel. Dean brought the Impala to a sputtering stop, in front of a man who’s face lit up when he saw Dean step out of the car. So this is the friend, you thought. You had to admit, he was handsome. He was broad shouldered, stockily built and about as tall as Dean. Stubble peppered his smooth jawline, and his smile was warm. You stepped out of the backseat and walked up behind Sam, slightly shy to meet the new stranger.

      Dean and his friend were making small talk, smiling and embracing tightly, as you could tell that Sam was uncomfortable, his bodily visibly tense. You squeezed his arm to ease some of the tension. Sam looked down at you, his hazel eyes hard. You mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

     “He’s a v-”

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