On the rocks with no ice...

In the craziness of da restaurant bidness that is a Friday night, I committed the most unthinkable, heinous act.  I broke a glass - in the icebox.  OH MA GAH.  As Forrest Gump once famously said, 'it happens'.  Yes, indeedy.  Plates break, glasses shatter - it's a common fallacy, people...but breaking a glass in the ICE?? Apparently, it's a food service crime that seems punishable by death.

Yarghhh, if we were all pirates, I would surely be walkin' the plank, mateys.  I had been hustlin' and bustlin' for a large party's waters when it happened; there is no time to waste when you're trying to expedite 12 beverages and you know at any daunting moment another one of your tables will be sat.  So naturally, my brain short-circuits for a second and the corner of the icebox and my glass in hand collide, resulting in a horrific explosion.  I stare at the aftermath, wishing I had telekinetic powers to piece the glass back together.  I even thought, 'hey, it's just a little bit of glass, what can it hurt - don't people eat this stuff on 'My Strange Addiction?'  Kidding!  Anyways, this sitch-e-ayshun is a 4-alarm emergency and it needs to be fixed on the double!

The sound of breaking glass has the following effect: it paralyzes people.  When it happens in a restaurant, employees turn into fucking Dick Tracy and keep asking 'WHO DUNNIT?!'  In this scenario, some questions are better left unanswered.  Whenever this happens, the ice needs to be drizzled with Grenadine and then drained, which makes the scene look unnecessarily grisly.  Like, is there glass in there or a severed finger?  Everyone walks by the contaminated ice, mourning the loss of it with mumbled, idiotic statements like 'party foul!'  Um, excuse me?  First of all, this aint no party and you haven't seen a 'foul' until you've seen someone vomit on an ice luge.

Eventually, the ice rose from the dead and my exile came to an end.  So lesson learned, don't break the glass...but breaking the ice - that's a different story.