I'm a reasonable guy. I understand that when I'm buying a half rack at a stop-n-rob liquor store at 1:00 A.M. and Mr. Pimple Face asks to see my ID when I hand him my Gold card, that he's just looking out for the store, his job, and the safety of my credit score. But what boils my blood is when I go to half way decent restaurant in the early evening, have dinner and wine with my date, pay with my card, and the schmuck asks me for my ID: "Mr, Maniac, may I please see your ID."
"Oh yes, of course. Certainly," as if I'm sucking up to the cop who just pulled me over. "Do you want to see my fucking registration, too?"
Yeah, I know. He's looking out for me. Well fuck him. The only thing I know is that he thinks I'm a fucking thief, that this Gold card really couldn't belong to an ugly bastard like me, that he's thinking "Lady, do you know who you're with," and that he's ready to call the cops on me (in fact, he's got is G.E. Cordless phone in the other hand). You just fucked yourself out of a half way decent tip, you ass hole.
What's really fucked up is when it happens on multiple occasions with the same ass hole wait person.
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