A tip? A tip. Uh, let's review your performance, shall we? Let's see, you backed over my luggage, took the causeway during rush hour, stopped the car twice to sell fruit out of your trunk. A tip? Walk away now and no one gets hurt.
No. Look, in the 45 minutes that I've served you, you complained about the food, the coffee, the service, and said that in my case, a sprinkle a day wasn't quite doing the trick. I don't care if you have a pulse, much less a nice day.
Are you kidding? I'm thrilled it's over. Eight years. Eight long, miserable years. Do you know what it's like to live with a foul-mouthed, vicious shrew for eight years?