I tip badly, I re-gift, I save wrapping paper, I invite myself to house parties, I’m an obnoxious haggler, I call my aunt collect, and I skip paying cab fare every time because “I don’t have any change and it was on the way anyway.” I am a cheap bastard and I live to save pennies.
By B.A. Humbugg
I knew it was going to be a good night when my date agreed to meet me on the corner of her street because picking her up in front of her house would have been a hassle… and it would have added at least 3 YTL to my cab fare. Her whole “I’m wearing high heels and it’s cold” argument was ridiculous, and she knew it. After all, it’s not like you’re paying to walk to the corner, are you? Well guess what Miss Spendthrift, I AM paying to go out of my way in a cab, so you do the math.
We split the cab fare and entered the restaurant. I made sure to try and avoid eye contact with the coat-check guy. You tell me what I’d prefer, paying money to leave my coat with the Amazing Human Coat-Hanger, or just hanging it up on my own chair? Could you be even more underemployed please and leave me alone? Thanks.
My favorite part of the evening is the complimentary bread and butter along with the condiments. Now with a little imagination you can make a whole meal out of that lot, and the more you fill up on them, the less you’ll have to spend on those stupid pretentious dishes like cream-of-huh?-soup-with-essence-of-Imadeitallup-and-wild-Tuscan-don’texistberries. Give me a butter-coated hot roll bun filled with pickles, red-pepper flakes and mustard-seed topping dipped in balsamic vinegar any day.
This is where the cloying waiter offered me a wine list that looked like a Latin American used-car catalogue… “1996 Chilean Los Vascos Merlot, $200,” and “2001 El Toro Chardonnay, $175.” Frankly, I’d rather gnaw on leather upholstery that’s marinated in the sweat of rotting walrus carcasses than pay a hundred bucks to pensively sip on fermented grape juice and act like I was NOT just another ignorant git who would rather gulp down a nice refreshing ice-cold soft drink instead. Does your wine come with pearls or am I just paying for the face I’m supposed to make after the first sip, the one that says “Hm, I should look like I know what I’m doing, and although I don’t, I will consider this wine satisfactory because I don’t know any better and my date is waiting for my reaction so we can get on with dinner.”
And so we did. I cut every piece of my overpriced meat with a sense of malice. I chewed every bite with a vengeance. I swallowed every piece as if I were swallowing my pride. My date was talking to me, but all I heard was “blah, blah, blah, I’M COSTING YOU A FORTUNE blah, blah, blah.” I excused myself to go to the toilet, where I was greeted by a smiling bathroom attendant whose job it was to literally sit there as I defecated next to him, after which he would help me turn on the tap. Who am I, Stephen Hawking? I think I can wash my hands without the help of another grown man. I would’ve actually tipped him if he hadn’t tried to help me pick one crappy cologne from the other, but was just honest and said “I work in a toilet, the least you could do is give me some loose change.” But no, he gleefully handed me a paper towel and said “Pleased to be of service!” instead. Hey buddy, at least drunk homeless bums live out in the fresh air while you make a living sitting in a roomful of feces. What do you live on, methane? No tip for you.
I was able to avoid dessert by feigning painful flatulence as I shifted from side to side in my seat with an agonized look on my face, thus successfully spoiling my date’s appetite for the $15 Chocolate Mud Cake. Now the moment of truth was upon me: the bill. I felt my neck tense up and my veins dilate. Cold beads of sweat formed on my forehead. My date was saying something to me. I heard “insensitive pig” in there somewhere, but I was just concentrating on the bill. I blocked the world out completely as I took out my calculator. I counted everything twice. I calculated an 8 percent tip. Everything happened as if in slow motion. I don’t know why, but no matter what I pay and where, I always feel cheated when parting with my money, even if it’s all fair and square. Oh that’s right, it’s because I’m a cheap bastard.
My date told me to go to hell, which lifted me out of my post-pecuniary-partum depression when I thought I wouldn’t have to spend money on another dinner for a while.
