She told me this, not because I am a picky bitch, but because sometimes my meat is sliced like I cut it with a butcher knife at home (one person's idea of "sandwich") wherein I get maybe six slices and sometimes I get a bag of shaved mush.
She was the GOOD employee, and I like her for it. We chatted about how gorgeous the shade of her hair was. So, Friday, when I darken your cooler-chest, and ask "I'd like a half a pound of roasted turkey breast. Could you cut it to number 26 on the machine?" do not act as though I have asked you to provide me with a pound of freshly-grated infant!
I'm not requesting you break out the MIT micrometer and test the thickness of the turkey at the molecular level until Critical Turkey Mass is acheived. I'm asking you to turn the knob on the machine to 26 like the nice girl did before. I'm sure you've seen her. She looks like Hermione.. only with really red hair.
So, -DO- turn the knob to 26 and cut my fricken meat.
Do -not- stand there with the turkey breast, mouth agape, looking at me like I've just somehow sucked your brain out to feed my undead lust. Do -not- cut me off SLABS of meat, and go "Like fer sandwich, right?"... when I can see from the floor that the machine is on like a centimetre gap from where you were just slicing someone's hog's head cheese. Do -not- then huff off to your manager, and audibly call me "the f*cking goth"... I have a name, and it's "The Goth c*nt" if you must know.
Do -NOT- sick the manager on me, who then needs me to explain the ENTIRE story so that -she- can cut the meat to number 26 on the machine... and add in "Oh, so just cut it to number 26? God... SHE could've done this!"
Frankly, if you'd just cut my meat to a reasonable thickness I don't care if it's 26 or not. I get a half-pound, and I have to make it last. Thin slices that make an actual sandwich are far more satisfying than a CUBE in a sea of bread. I told you 26 because Hermione lead me to believe it would be easier... and it would be, if you weren't hung up on my clothing, I'm sure.
No love for you, sucky employee,
The very-damned-agreeable customer that wanted to rip your acrylic nails off One. By. One. And. Feed. Them. To. You.