...which is why I deduct 15% from my bill. 10% if I've been lackluster, or 20% if I feel that I did a really, really good job as a customer.
Last night, at a hip upscale Mexican restaurant, they didn't like my strategy, and I was broke like smoke, so I was soon presented with a choice between washing pots, and going to the police station. I picked washing pots, because I don't know how to play the harmonica.
As I was scrubbing, I said aloud, "It's odd that some nations have a tradition of spicier food than others. There must be a pattern. I can think of two possible heuristics to guess how spicy a nation's food will be. The first one: The lower the GNP, the spicier the food. The second one: The closer to the equator, the spicier the food. Both seem to match examples fairly well, with a few exceptions, and both mesh well with intuition. So which is a better metric? Answer me, O Silent Grillpan, which is a better metric?"
I did, in fact, receive a response, but not from the grillpan.
Standing haughtily atop a shelf above my sink basin was a tiny, tiny woman, no taller than my sponge, but achingly beautiful. She was lean and athletic, with high cheekbones, large cat eyes and pointed ears. She wore her hair in an elaborate braid, and wore a tiny, expensive-looking dress, in the style of a 17th century Spanish noblewoman, but with one change: she wore, hung from a belt, a graceful and well-made miniature rapier.
"We'll be rendering your question meaningless, good sir," she said, with a lofty yet apologetic mein.
I was too tired from pot-washing to be frightened or confused, so I just answered, still working, "And how're you planning to do that?"
Out from behind the Hobart sanitizer stepped another tiny nobleman. He was as small and as beautiful as the other, but dressed all in black. Simple black, somewhat ageless, but with his own sword. His hair was flaming red.
"We're building a machine to install a new level of causality. Asking why is too difficult these days. So we're making something that reorders and simplified causality. Every even happens as a direct result of whatever happened immediately before." He said, lofty and little.
"Um, can you explain that further?" I asked, seeking third-party exposition.
"It's simple. You'll never have to ask why again, once our apparatus is in place. The answer is obvious. Let's say that you're feeling sad, and you don't know why. All you'll have to do is think about what happened right before you felt sad - maybe you picked up a shoe, for instance. Picking up the shoe made you sad. It's much easier. Why did you just cough? Because a brid flew by. Right now, this seems naïve. But once our apparatus is in place, it'll be clean and natural."
"Why would you want to do that?" I asked.
"I had the idea because I tied my shoelaces," he replied proudly, "At least, that's all you'll need to know, within a few hours. Let me show you my design."
He showed it to me, all laid out on brilliant-mad sketchpads. The whole thing was made of bells, to be hung around the particular kitchen where I was working. Some of them small silver bells. Others large brass hand-bells, with handles of fragrant wood. Three huge ones up near the ceiling.
"How will hanging all of these bells lead to a simplification of causality?" I asked.
"Oh, it'll cause it, because it'll happen right before."