The Biggest Jerkhole Tippers of All Time

If there is one thing I have against some of our visitors from the north, it’s that they love to remind me (and everyone else in the city) that we don’t know the meaning of cold down here. This annoys me for two reasons. One, shut up, who cares about weather, don’t you have anything better to do than brag about temperature? And two, that’s not true. OK, it’s mostly true. Usually, I will admit, even our cold days down here ain’t that cold. But mostly true isn’t the same as always true. And what is always true is that at least a few times a year, we here in New Orleans get TRULY cold days. Truly SPECIAL cold days at that. 

Why are they special?

 I’m so glad you asked! It’s because we are a subtropical city, which means we are filled to the brim with humidity. Now everyone knows that humidity makes hot weather feel even hotter, but you know what a lot of people don’t know? (and you can ask science this if you don’t believe me) It also makes really cold weather even colder. In the same way that humidity in the heat makes you feel like someone is painting hot air on your body with an invisible paint brush, humidity in the cold makes walking down the sidewalk feel like wading in a freezing pool. 

Does this happen often? No. like I said it only happens a handful of times a year at most. But it does happen, and when it does, it’s MISERABLE. 

This story I’m about to tell you happened on one of those miserable, freezing-in-a-pool nights. Actually this night was even worse than the standard miserable cold night thanks to a strong, brisk breeze in the air that whipped that soggy, icy air right into your face and down your jacket and shirt. 

BUT it was even worse than that, actually, because it was also drizzling from above, and those semi-regular raindrops were just a touch away from being frozen, and these frigid blobs of wetness were being caught and slung at us by that frisky wind, like harsh bites of frost sinking its teeth into your face every couple of seconds. 

BUT it’s even worse than that, because I had a couple on my tour from New England who would say out loud every five minutes, “You know, where we’re from this really isn’t that cold.” 

LIke I said before, this sort of statement always kinda bugs me, but especially on one of these miserable nights. But it wasn’t even jsut me who was annoyed, as other people in the group began to take umbrage with them too. 

“Oh come on man, I’m from Michigan, I know cold. This is cold.” 

“Nah, it ain’t that cold,” the man would always reply while his lady just nodded her head in agreement. But the most aggravating thing about all this was that whenever they did this, and whenever somebody argued with them, an odd Cheshire smile would appear on their face, like they knew what they were doing was obnoxious, which was exactly why they were doing it. 

In other words, they were a troll couple. 

Suffice to say, half way through the tour I wished this couple dead. But, being the professional that I am, I was only courteous and polite to the. Pushing my hatred for the cold and for them to the back of my mind, I just try to do this job for the next two hours so I could collect my tips at the end and retreat to my favorite quarter bar and buy enough hot totties to fill a bathtub. 

FINALLY, after two brutal hours, we come to our last stop. 

You know how ex-convicts say you only do two real days in prison, the first day and your last day? Well, that’s kinda how this last story felt. All I had to do was finish this one god damn story about the civil war hospital and the screaming amputees and all that and then I would get my money and be fucking done. But this last story just seemed to never end. Like I was talking in rewind or something. As if each word I spoke only made the story go on for longer. Oh, it was agony I tell you. 

But finally, somehow, I finished, and immediately dived into my tip line, asking for any gratitude that the folks on my tour might see fit to give me (if you don’t think I used my best sad puppy dog eyes while doing this, you don’t know me very well).  

Now how much the group gave as a whole, I cannot say as I don’t remember. Nor do I remember any specific bills, comments, compliments, or faces, that came at me as the tips poured in. I was too tired, and too cold to care about any of that. All I had left in me was just to smile and nod at everyone as I looked them in their eyes and cusped their gratitude in my eager hand. No, I don’t remember anything specific about the very end of the tour. 

Except for them. 

That troll couple who kept announcing how uncold they were at every stop, I remember them now, while I was collecting tips, taking a big step toward me, with those shit eating grins back on their face. And then the man put a hand out toward me, under my nose, that I could see held some money. 

Now keep in mind, the way the tipping portion of the tour works is that I humbly ask for tips (and also answer any questions the group might have) and then wait politely and thank each person while making sure never to actually look down at the money I receive, just reach out with a blind hand while looking them in the eyes. Thems the rules of polite society. 

So I look this couple in the eyes and thank them for their tip while a blind hand reaches for the money that’s under my nose. This is where things get weird. First, I heard the man mutter something in a low voice that sounded like a question but I couldn’t be sure, and then the tips of my finger hit the money in the guy’s and both of them start howling with laughter.

“OH REALLY!” The guy screams in glee, “THAT”S THE ONE YOU WANT, OKAY THEN, IT’S ALL YOURS!” 

LIke I said before, the tour guide is trained to never look down at the tips being offered to him. But after this bewildering reaction I couldn’t help but look down at what he was offering. I found there were two different monetary bills in his hand, both spread out in opposite directions, like a blooming flower. One was a Single Dollar Bill, the other was a Fifty Dollar Bill. I could see now my index finger was touching the single dollar. 

Still cackling, the man cried, “I said you can have either one bill or the other, not both, but the first one you touch is the one you get!” 

Due probably to the cold, to the freezing wind blasting my face, the icicle droplets numbing my cheeks, and my own damn weariness of the night, it took me a moment to comprehend exactly what he was saying. But then I watched him gleefully put that fifty dollar bill back in his wallet and hand me the Washington. 

When I tell you that I wanted to murder this man, I am not exaggerating. I also want to cry. I wanted to cry-murder this man. I don’t know if that’s a thing but that’s absolutely how I felt. 

“Don’t you get it?” his stupid fucking girlfriend laughed gleefully. “It’s a trick. He tricked you! Isn’t that funny!” 

“Are you serious?” was all I could think of saying, hoping the sad, pitiful tone in my voice would make him realize what a sick fucking joke this was and that he needed to hand me that fifty immediately. But instead, he simply laughed once more and nodded his head as he turned his back to me. 

“Next time, you gotta listen better! HAHAHA! Good tour, bro! Come visit ouir neck of the woods sometime and you can see what real cold is!” 

I watched them disappear around the corner, and I fantasized chasing them down and amputising their limbs with a saw that I somehow made from my own frozen tears. 

But instead, I took a deep breath, shoved the rest of my tips into my pocket and headed off to find the nearest warm bar that serves hot, alcoholic drinks. 

I’ve thought a lot about that night, and about that couple and about what they did, and after some serious, thoughtful consideration, I guess what I’ve concluded is this: 

FUCK THOSE PEOPLE

Thanks for listening. 

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