Down with the food industry!

The darkness is swallowing me. My only hope is to ride to salvation on the back of my trusty steed, Fluff. But on my way out, I shall fire beebee's into the asses of all of the customers (save Carey, Mr. Mustache, and the daughter of Mr. Mustache). Am I pathetic because the cafe is causing my soul to fester? Am I losing my grip on sanity from too many soiled and improperly disposed napkins? Or does it boil down to the obligitory hat? Dear God, I'm just not sure anymore! Some moments, I think its from too many customers who, upon failing to see the myriad waste recepticals around them, choose to leave their wadded, chewing gum-adorned napkins on the table. I sometimes tell myself 'it must be a present!' But mostly, I feel its the hat. It acts as a blinder - obscuring my vision from above; preventing me from aspiring any higher than my hat brim allows. MADAM, I AM NOT A DRAFT HORSE!