1994. Denver, Colorado. Glendale, really. VillageInn. Known more often as PillageInn, since it's where all the LARPers and RenFesters and things end up every night. How I wound up there is a longer backstory starting in 1988 and seven hundred miles away, so I'll skip that bit and get to the point.

So, I'd go to PillageInn. Though I didn't call it that. I actually call it Grot's. And the reason for that is part of this backstory. Because the manager of Grot's was this behemoth: three or four hundred years old and taller than me, where I'm about 6'5"; she claims to have once been a model; I've always assumed that was back before cameras were invented. She also claimed that her name was Dee. But I didn't buy it. I decided that her name was Grot. And most people agreed with me.

Grot had this unfortunate condition in which she wasn't fucking dead yet. And that was tragic, because it allowed her to remain alive, retarded, and annoying.

I'll cover this next bit quickly, since I also covered it in News of the Stoopid. So some of you have already read it. For those who haven't...that's not my fault.

I tend to lurk in restaurants. Me, coffee, an ashtray, a laptop; it's not a big deal; I don't tend to take up tables when the place is busy; I just kinda drink coffee and write stuff and stay out of the way. The servers love it. The managers hate it. Possibly because they're doing the same damned thing, but using a pen and filling out boring restaurantine paperwork. Also not my fault.

Managerial proclivities aside, it usually works out. Grot's was a noteable exception. Because Grot didn't want me there, but, being a moron, she never thought to prevent it in any functional way. Instead, she simply decreed that servers weren't allowed to talk to me.

Yeah. I know. And hence.

If I wanted food, or more coffee, or whatever, the servers were required to keep walking. I could order stuff and pay for it; but they weren't actually allowed to stop at my table. They had to circle about in these weird little drivebys to discover what I wanted from them. That was Grot's stupid little plan.

So. It's 1994. And I'm at Grot's, working on stuff, learning to talk quickly in little half sentences as servers circle the smoking section at me.

Coffee, please.

And a double cheeseburger.

Barely cooked.

With double Swiss.

And a bowl of red chili.

Fries are good.

Maybe some ranch on the side.

Thanks.

Then I'd go back to writing for a while before my food crashlanded on my table because they couldn't slow down to give it to me correctly. That was Grot's.

It was bad enough one night in 1994 that I pulled out my mobilephone [remember those massive flipphones in 1994 with the ten-minute battery?] and ordered a pizza from Domino's. The pizzadude, of course, was allowed to stop at my damned table.

Eventually, Grot got fired. Or killed. Or something. Got lost, anyway. And I figured it had just been her, there, then, and that everything would be fine from then on out.

So I was wrong.

In 2002, another manager sucked at me. By that point, of course, I had the website; so that's all documented at NewsoftheStoopid.com under VillageIdiot. Read it if you like; I won't bother mirroring it here.

That problem solved as described, I wrote off that VillageIdiot as just another fucked up place.

Fastforward again to today. Half an hour ago. Possibly because I forgot to stop and read through NewsoftheStoopid.com and notice the date first. Because it's LabourDay. A day to sit around and relax. With coffee. And a cigarette. And a laptop. But not at VillageIdiot.

The one I tried to go to today has never really sucked. Unless you count the food. Even the managers are pretty cool. And they don't even go smokefree on weekends. They do, it seems, go smokefree on holidays.

So. I walk in. And just like that, really, since they hurried over and opened the door for me. Yay. And they ask me if I want Smoking or Non, as though I really need to tell them anymore. But I answered anyway: Smoking.

She grabs a menu and leads me off to a table in the totally empty smoking section. All set. I start to sit down while she goes off to find me an ashtray, since VillageIdiot are somehow incapable of leaving them on the damned table in the first place. But:

She comes back and tells me 'Sorry; I guess we aren't smoking today, since it's a holiday. Is that okay?'

Is that okay.

Y'know...I've maintained for years that it's not okay. Okay? The rules are simple: if I can't smoke at City Hall, then don't tax my cigarettes. Because I don't pay people to fucking oppress me. If there'd been a harbour nearby, I'd have ordered tea and thrown it in. Instead, there's a reservior a mile away, and it didn't seem all that important.

No. It's not okay. And neither is fucking fraud.

You know what fraud is. Like, backpeddling out of a contract? Baiting and switching? Offering Smoking, letting me consider, and arriving at mutual consent? That's an oral fucking contract, see. I contracted to sit in Smoking. These criminals pulled out of the deal. Damages to date? Wasted time, disappointment [arguably mental anguish in this fragile country], defamation of character [who knew smokers weren't good enough for VillageIdiot], and so on. Also, it's a federal fucking crime.

I could also discuss their stupid fucking slogan. Good food; good feelings. The food is deplorable. Let's be real. No one goes to VillageIdiot; they end up there. It's open. It's a roof over a bunch of ashtrays and bad coffee. Why do I go there at all? Cool servers and walking distance. No one plots out a visit to this zerostar greasyspoon. It's next door to the bar; people end up there to dry out before driving home. Good food. Cigarettes are good food too. Why? Because it's a stupid, catchy slogan.

Good feelings. Take a fucking guess.

I have difficulty feeling tremendously good when Grot won't let servers slow down to cruising speeds within a zipcode of me, or when Tony assures me that VillageIdiot Corporate will believe his lies over my facts, or when I'm defrauded and discriminated by the only restaurant on the planet Denny's are allowed to make fun of. Why the fuck do I keep trying....

Cool servers. Walking distance.

Because VillageIdiot suck to the extent that, for the most part, they fucking worship me. It's not about sleeping with most of their waitresses; the guys dig me too--and they're not all gay. I'm just getting seriously tired of these unexpected bursts of tyranny.

The rules are simple. I'm the one with the money. I'm hiring you to do a simple job. Do it or you're fired.

That's it. That's the moral of the story. I refuse to employ morons. Don't be one at me. I run a moronfree environment. Stay out.