Hub - Tales of the Tipping Tyrant

Tales of the Tipping Tyrant: When Greed Meets Karma

Ah, life on the high seas! Sun, surf, and the promise of fat charter tips—unless, of course, you’re working under Captain McGreedy and his equally ambitious First Lady. You see, Captain McGreedy was a bit of an artist when it came to tips. But not the good kind of artist. More like the kind who sketches little lies and half-truths in the margins of reality, turning your hard-earned tips into his “retirement plan.”

It all started when we wrapped up a fantastic 12-day charter in New England. The guests were practically swimming in delight over my cooking. In fact, the head guest had initially hated rice with a burning passion. By day 12, I had him eating paella and risotto like it was the nectar of the gods. Exceeding expectations? We were crushing them.

So, imagine our surprise when Captain McGreedy called a “tip meeting” in the main saloon. Now, tip meetings are usually a cause for excitement. The crew gathers, hearts racing with the sweet anticipation of well-deserved cash. But this time, Captain McGreedy had a different vibe—his face pulled tight in a look of faux sadness, like a bad actor in a daytime soap opera.

He sighed, dramatically, of course, before dropping the bomb: “The guests… well, they were disappointed. And, uh, they only left $350 each in tips.”

Cue the crew’s stunned silence. $350?! For a 12-day charter? Even if the guests had hated the sunset views, the gourmet food, and the fresh sea breeze, $350 wouldn’t cover the price of their guilt for breathing oxygen on board.

I refused to believe it. After all, the head guest had been practically begging me for my personal information so I could cook for his next event. I mean, who invites the chef to their house if they’re unhappy? So, I did what any logical person would do: I told Captain McGreedy I was going to call the head guest to ask what went wrong. You know, just to clear the air.

And that’s when McGreedy’s face turned the color of a lobster being boiled alive. “Oh no, you can’t call him!” he stammered. “That’s, uh, not allowed!”

Not allowed? Please. I had the guest’s phone number in my pocket. He had practically hand-delivered it, along with rave reviews about my food. So, I calmly informed Captain McGreedy that I would indeed be calling. I mean, what did I have to lose? I wasn’t about to let a $350 tip and a fabricated sob story fly under my radar.

That’s when McGreedy disappeared into his cabin with his wife—who, coincidentally, had been included in both halves of the tip calculation. Talk about double-dipping! About 45 minutes later, Captain McGreedy emerged, looking suspiciously less panicked.

“Oh, uh, I made a mistake,” he muttered. “Turns out, the guests actually left $3,000 each.”

Mistake? Sure, and I’m a world-class ballet dancer. The little weasel had been caught red-handed, and there was no way to wriggle out of this one.

As soon as the tip hit my hand, I did what any self-respecting crew member would do: I gave my resignation, packed my bags, and left the boat faster than Captain McGreedy could say “shared tip pool.” Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t trust a captain who’s more interested in docking your tip than docking the boat.