LINCOLN, NE -- The ticket printer in Condimensa’s kitchen has been steadily pouring tickets out onto the floor for the past half hour. The flattop and both fryers are dead, the grill resembles a large block of carbon, and the salad station looks like the Jolly Green Giant showed up with a suicide vest on and sent himself out to pasture. All this is going on despite the fact that the kitchen uttered their safe word hours ago. “If I had time to kill myself, I would,” Tyler Johnson, sprinting from station to station while accomplishing nothing, told Sauce On the Side. “We’ve been shouting ‘Winnebego’ since our shift started. They know that that means they need to stop taking orders and let us catch up, but those motherfuckers don’t care. Maybe, if they were running the goddamn food, I’d understand, but we haven’t seen any of those front of house motherfuckers in a grip, goddammit.” Stacey, Whitney, and Jess--the servers in question--are seated at a booth in the empty dining area, scrolling through their phones, blissfully unaware that the kitchen’s ticket printer is broken and printing out all of yesterday’s orders at once. “It was funny, like, the first three times they yelled ‘Winnebago’,” Stacey said, balls deep in a game of 2048. “Should we go back there and tell them that the joke has run its course?” “Nah,” Jess responded. “‘Cause it’s the kitchen. You know they’re just gonna double down at that point. Just ignore them.”

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