So the big news of the day isn't that our server last night at Buzzard Billy's was horrible. But she was.

Let me give you a rundown of everything she did wrong, even though I'm sure I'll omit something because--despite being an unforgettably awful experience--there were just too many things she fucked up to possibly be able to recall them all.

First, she didn't know what a Category 5 was. Hello, you work at Buzzard Billy's! It's only your signature drink made from REAL fruit juices and FIVE shots of rum, and it's on special tonight AND I'm drinking three of 'em.

Me: "I'll have a Category 5." Her: "You'll have a what-y five?" No. Just no. Not a good way to start.

Second, she brought us our drinks, but no straws; and believe me, this drink CANNOT be ingested without some type of sipping device. Unfortunately, I didn't realize she had forgotten the straws until she had already walked away from our table, leaving the drinks strawless and neglected.

Even after she took five minutes to amble back around toward our table, she was still empty-handed.

"Could we get some straws please?"

"OH! I'm sorry, I'll get some now!"

The straws go in the front pocket of your apron, but I mean, who were you to know that, really? It's not like you're A WAITRESS or anything like that.

I wondered if she had ever actually dined in a restaurant before.

...

So she walked off, and didn't return, and my Category 5 sat there weeping watery tears from the melting ice.

I got the straws myself, from the bartender.

...

After she finally returned--with no comment about straws, whatsoever--she took our order and brought us our food. But, did she forget to bring a) silverware, b) water c) napkins or d) all of the above? Strikes three, four, and five.

Did you refill my drink once? No.

Did you ask me if I want another Category 5? No.

When you finally remembered to bring a straw, did you bring a SHORT one that was impossible to put in a TALL Category 5 glass? Yes.

The icing on the cake? She forgot to bring us a pen after delivering our credit card receipts.

Not to mention she was painfully, painfully slow.

What a debacle.

The tip wasn't pretty.

But like I said, that's not the news.

The news is that Ben Spadt and I are related.

No, this isn't a joke. We are, in fact, related. And seriously, are you even the least bit surprised?

Here's the breakdown: his grandpa's brother (great uncle) married my grandpa's sister (great aunt), making us second cousins, or something, I guess.

It only makes sense, though.

And you're lying if you say you hadn't suspected it all along.