"Uh...bacon."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. That's why it's called a bacon omelet. I can put cheese into it, and then it's a bacon and cheese omelet, or if I add onions, it's called a bacon and onion omelet, but if you just order a bacon omelet, all it has in it is bacon."

"What about eggs?"

No, actually, instead of eggs, we use our own blend of eraser shavings and shampoo. Oh, no wait, I've got it. They're eggs, but they're duck eggs! Platypus eggs! Fish eggs! ALIEN eggs!! Wockawockawocka! Wait, this is even better. Eggs were getting too expensive, so we just throw the eggs out and use the eggshells instead, but don't tell anyone.

Blink. Blink. Deep breath.

"Yes. Omelets are made from eggs, ma'am."

Some day, I will snap. All the dumbasses will feel my wrath. The funny thing is, I don't think my tips will even suffer. It's amazing what you can get away with saying, if you smile while you're saying it.

There's also the You Go Girl factor. If I say something a little sassy to one table, there's always the chance that the next table overheard it, and will give me a little extra. The You Go Girl factor also applies to large groups of young men. If one guy says something stupid, and I make the rest of the table laugh at him, he might be a little pissed, but his friends will reward me.

I'm not really the Evil Waitress. Most of the time, I don't even think things like this. Amanda told me once about a restaurant where the gimmick is that the waitstaff are blisteringly rude to all the customers. I don't think I could do that. Most people are intelligent enough to read a menu, and I'd be forced to take cheap shots at their clothes or something, just so they didn't feel ripped off. ("I went to Friendly's last night, and the best the server could do was that my shirt was a funny color." "Man, that place has really gone uphill, you know?")

***

And now for something completely different:

I mentioned fish eggs up there, and now I'm in Reminisce Mode. When I was a kid, my Grandpa used to make fish eggs. See, long long ago, my uncle, age 6 or so, was served scrambled eggs. He hated eggs, so his uncle told him these weren't ordinary eggs, they were Fish Eggs. Little Uncle Dan ate the eggs, and thought they were the best thing ever. Grandpa wasn't around that day, so he was confused when Danny asked for fish eggs for breakfast the next day. Grandpa's solution was to scramble an egg, fry it flat, and cut it into the shape of a fish. This was of course, even cooler that Uncle Merle's fish eggs, and a legend was born.

The next weekend, the family was at Camp, and after the other kids saw Danny's fish egg, they all wanted one too. (Dammit, now I have to explain Camp, just a little. Camp is not really a camp. It's land, with communal buildings, on a lake, collectively owned by about 30 families. There's between 60-100 people there on a weekend, and they all help out to make sure everything gets done. My mom's family has been members for about five generations. Anything else I say will give you the wrong impression. Let's just say it's heaven for a 10-year-old and move on.)

By the time my cousins and I were old enough for fish eggs, they had been improved even more. Now the eggs got details drawn on with a chocolate chip, and M&M eyes. Every Saturday, at least 20 kids would wait patiently in line for one of Glenn W's fish eggs.

Eggs with semisweet chocolate are surprisingly good. Or, at least they were, 20 years ago. I wonder if I'd still like them today.

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