Tip Me, Motherfucker.

Whenever I ask a customer if they'd like to sample a flavor, I secretly hope that they say no. In an ideal world, they'd tip and walk out of the door. Of course, they do not oblige the secret desires of my heart. I must serve them mini-sterling silver spoonful after mini-sterling silver spoonful of gelato and sorbet--ice cream and sherbet's pretentious second cousins once removed. Things could be worse, though; they could ask me to pronounce the Italian name. To which I'd like reply, "Do I look like my name is Rosetta Stone?" ...if I couldn't be fired for sassing the always-rights.
A girl can dream.
While physically stuck in the land of glorified ice cream, I imagine a life filled with big tippers who exchange non-platitudinous greetings with me and who reply to "how ya doing" with an adverb instead of a demand.
The unfortunate reality remains the same: On average each shift I serve 144 samples, I scoop 33 two ounce servings of gelato (the purported size per scoop), I "pull" 15 shots of espresso (oh, I forgot to tell you we serve coffee, too! yay!), I bag five pastries, and I make $20 in tips.
This data was collected over the course of two weeks.
If you don't tip in proportion to the amazing service I just provided, I hope your piccolo-sized creme brulee melts as you burn in hell. Sorry, but "a nigga can't shine off $6.55."