$20 Tip
My company held its Christmas party last Thursday. The restaurant was Italian, the food was decent, and our waitress was lovely. All in all, a very good time was had by your humble narrator.
Late Friday night, the first tingles of illness set in. Not weeping-in-pain-sickness, but just feeling generally foul sickness. I woke in the middle of the night to an alarming fever, sweaty forehead, pounding headache, and a knotted stomach.
By Saturday morning I was maintaining a travel radius of no more than 20 feet from my washroom. My dubious headache had re-manifested itself as extreme dizziness. I’ll spare you any further details except to say that I now know what colour my bile is.
For some ungodly reason I went to work Monday morning. I promptly left, however, after punishing the washroom (and subsequent visitors) no less than four times in an hour. Mercy revealed itself on Tuesday when I finally began to feel better.
So, that leads us to today. Apparently, half the company got sick after the party. Furthermore, another group of people who were there that night also became sick. Weeping-in-pain sick. Like me.
Someone apparently complained, and in an unusual display of speed, the government of Ontario responded swiftly. The Ministry of Health began checking into the situation almost immediately, in fact. I was phoned by an investigator very keen on details relating to the restaurant. She was also wondering if I’d “provide a stool sample”.
Now, normally I would love to fling shit at the government, but… I just want my $20 tip back.

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For fun, you should stoop-n-scoop at the local dog park and provide that sample. Might trigger some interesting follow-up calls from the Ministry, and you could add ‘mental anguish’ to the class action suit against Pappy.
I have no idea why, but I’m suddenly reminded of the following Kids in the Hall “Dean and Lex” exchange:
Kevin: I have to take my friend home first, but I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bring your Mahogany video, The Godfather video, the Paul Simon tape, a bottle of Scotch, and a written apology. I’ll meet you in a half hour.
Dave: OK. Sorry I had to crack the whip.
Kevin: Forget it.
Girl: Shouldn’t you’ve told him I live in Winnipeg?
Kevin: Slipped my mind…