Kill the Messenger

 One busy Saturday night at Bakers Square, the kitchen was a chaotic symphony of clattering pans and sizzling grills. I was in the zone, flipping burgers and stacking pies, when this server came over with a sour look. 


“Hey, can you re-cook this?” she said, holding up a plate of food that looked like it had been hit by a truck. 


I shot her a look that could melt steel. “You’ve got to be f***ing kidding me! I’m not a f***ing microwave!”


The tension was thick. I could feel the eyes of the whole kitchen on me. In a moment of pure exasperation, I grabbed the plate and, without thinking, flung it across the kitchen. It spun through the air like a tragic frisbee before shattering spectacularly against the wall, sending bits of food spraying everywhere.


Everyone froze. 


The server blinked, mouth agape, and all I could think was, “Well, at least I killed the messenger!” But before I could bask in my moment of culinary defiance, our manager stormed in, hands on hips, looking like she was ready to f***ing blow. 


“Who the hell threw a plate?” she yelled.


I shrugged, smirking like a guilty kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 


“Let’s just say… I practice ‘Kill the Messenger’ on a daily basis!” 


Needless to say, that night ended with me cleaning up the mess and a promise to keep my inner thrower locked away. Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s better to just simmer down instead of flipping your lid!


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