A LETTER: of shoes and ships and sealing wax

And old people. Oh, old people.

Seriously? I don't know what is just so gosh-darn difficult about picking up a tray, silverware and a plate. You shouldn't need people to hold your hand when it's all laid out in line for you. Look! We can do it, and we're so much younger and obviously less self-reliant than you are.

Seriously? I want a piece of chicken. I want rice. I want to be able to get a beverage and get out into the bistro seating area without you standing there for fifteen minutes discussing the appearance of the chicken. My entire meal acquisition and consumption takes less time than you do fishing a plate out from underneath the counter.

We don't care. The commons is not your restaurant. Get thee to Old Country Buffet if you must, or Golden Corral. There is a Bob Evans that you likely drove past on your way to get to the university.

Some of us have classes to get to. Some of us would just rather not have to stand in line while you deliberate the consistency of the tequila-lime chicken until you simply keel over dead.

I, for one, don't want a dead body in my food. The commons staff might get ideas and try their hand at meat pies.