A few days ago I had a table of two cranky old women. I've never seen so many wrinkles, or smelled so much AquaNet, at one table. One of them was only moderately bitchy, but the other had a shrill, scratchy voice befitting a harpy.
"Where's our beers?" she screeched at me as I walked by, carrying a tray full of drinks for a different table. They had been waiting all of two minutes for said beers, and knew full well we were busy--they'd waited in the crowded lobby for a table. I politely told them the bartender was busy, but they'd be there soon. A while later, Harpy was making snippy comments about where their salads were.
"Are our dinners gonna come or what?" she yowled, again while I was attending to other people.
"As soon as it's cooked, ma'am." I tried to be polite. Finally, they got their salads, and I hoped she'd be so busy stuffing spinach in her pie hole she'd be quiet. After they'd had a few minutes, I asked how things were; they both said they were fine. I then turned to talk to another table, but ended up standing in place for a moment waiting for a coworker to move. So I was still standing next to the old hag, just with my back turned to her ... when I felt a thump! on the back of my arm.
The old bitch fucking smacked me! She didn't even try to get my attention by speaking--if I was close enough to touch, I was close enough to speak to. Instead, she reached out and smacked me with the back of her hand, hard enough I heard it as well as felt it.
I rotated slowly on the spot as she withdrew her claw. "Yes?"
"Isn't there supposed to be some sauce or something to dip this in!" she jabbed at her salad, and I saw that yes, Idiot Expo had forgotten her dressing. Which she could have asked me when I was talking to her fifteen seconds before, instead of fucking smacking me.