Excuse me… hello? What do you think you’re doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Urban’s 20% off sale or something? I didn’t know they let girls like you into the dining hall, let alone the university. Go find another table. This one’s ours.
Oh, what’s that? Hey, you, how about you tell your friend to finish chewing her food before fighting back? I didn’t ask to see the balled-up cud from her cheeseburger. And by the way, I didn’t realize cankles were in season!
Anyways, we sit at this table every Tuesday and Thursday at 1:15. Not you. You hear me? Now, I don’t want to start anything, I’m just letting you off with a little notice: I don’t want to see your basic little asses anywhere around this table ever again. Especially not on Tuesdays or Thursdays between 1:15 and 1:45.
What’s the problem? Dumb bitches can’t hear? Move! Get out of here! Scram! Or I’ll have my friend who works here make sure they stop serving all the pasta your little fat friend seems to be eating. That’s right. Oh, I can call your fat friend anything I want, sweetie.
In case you didn’t hear, we own this dining hall. Move—or face the consequences.
Come on! Do something! You know, when your lip trembles like that, you look like you have even more chins than usual. Just a little tip for you.
Whatever. Forget this. Let’s roll out, girls. I heard East Quad has ziti. We don’t need to waste our time with these little crybabies. Ta ta for now, whores.
