Horror/Whore Stories

I don't do this very often, but I am actually promoting someone else for a freakin' change. Hopefully karma will come around and someone will promote me too. Honestly, what does a bitchy waiter have to do to get some promotion other than the the self kind?

FoodServiceWarehouse.com is having a contest and they are offering a $100 gift card from Amazon. Their prize is much better than my broke down shitty ass $25 gift card I gave away for my contest. (Thanks, FoodServiceWarehouse.com for making me look like a cheap bitch, but I will promote you anyway because I am cool like that.) You can go here for all the details. Basically, they are looking for horror stories that happened in your restaurant. And just to clarify, it's horror stories not whore stories so don't be writing some cute little vignette about that chick with the cold sore who gives blow jobs out by the dumpster for $10. Well, actually, that is a horror story in itself, so do whatever you want. It's not my contest...

If you send a story in (and you totally should, but good luck because you know my poor ass is already composing something) you might want to mention that you heard about it from The Bitchy Waiter. That way, they'll know that I really tried to help them out a bit and maybe they will throw me some appreciation in the form of a gift card to TequilaIsUs.com. (I can't believe you clicked that...)

So there you have it. Someone else is having a contest. I may be having another of my own soon. I am thinking of a photo contest asking people to send in pictures that happen at work; the more daring the picture the better. Like a picture of that annoying fat ass who shows up one minute before closing:

Or a picture of the mess that the ugly baby with the dent in his head left at table 17 when he "ate" crackers. You get the idea? But that's another contest.

Thanks,
BW



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A Comment on Comments

Last year I wrote a blog post regarding Cracker Barrel. It was a positive , upbeat, praise-my-waitress kind of post so who in the world would take issue with it? I'll tell you who: my arch nemesis (other than Reichen), Anonymous. Observe:

first off, you're an idiot. i work at Cracker Barrel and the stars DO NOT signify how many years you've been employed and you are a LIAR because you have NEVER seen 7 stars ANYWHERE. The highest you can achieve is FOUR!!! and that is based on your level of numbers you produce per hour for the store you work in!!! Don't talk about stuff you don't know about.

Ouch, Anonymous, why so harsh? i must commend Anonymous on her spelling and punctuation while her use of capitals needs some polishing. i stand corrected. The stars DO NOT represent the number of years the waitress has worked there!!! i guess i did not actually see a waitress with seven stars then. Maybe i dreamed it in the most perfect dream ever where i was sitting on a pile of biscuits next to a maple syrup waterfall while a waitress made of bacon fed me cheesy hash browns with a fork made of BUTTER!!! Thank you for the clarification, Anonymous, but here's my beef. Why the hell are you so upset about it? Chill the hell out, lady. i understand the level of pride you must have for the Barrel of Cracker for i too would be bursting at the seams with pride if i got to wear one of those brown polyester apron with the yellow embroidered STARS!!! i truly am a liar, liar pants on fire, hang it on a wire, liar asshole face. i totally deserve the scolding from you. How dare i misrepresent what the STARS mean at CRACKER BARREL!! i will no longer talk about stuff i don't know, i promise. (That is another lie, by the way).

Good luck, Anonymous and thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to clarify the whole star ISSUE. Many a sleepless night has passed with me in bed pondering if the blog post i wrote over a year ago was accurate or not. i sure do appreciate YOUR comment. Thank you. i mean, THANK YOU!!!



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Say Cheese, Asshole

I have a new job which is keeping me quite busy for a few weeks. With no time to write today, I decided to post this old story from the first day at my last job. Yes, I said I have a new job, but never you fear. I am keeping both of my other jobs too. I will now have three jobs because I am desperate to prove I am not a lazy ass. In time, I will give some details about the new job. In the meantime, please enjoy this post about this asshole who made me hate him on my first day of work. -BW


My first day at my new job went off without a hitch with the exception of one huge asshole who sat at table 24. Do they follow me? Am I an asshole magnet? My fellow co-workers were shocked that this guy treated me the way he did. "We never get people like that. I am so sorry you had to deal with him." Poor me, destined to deal with assholes no matter where I work. I may as well be a fucking proctologist.

So this place I work at now is pretty nice. Did I mention we have candles? Yeah, candles. Most of the folks that come in for the shows are prepared to drop a pretty penny for the cover charge and the two-drink minimum. But this guy was different. He plopped his fat ass at his seat. I gave him the shpiel about how he had to have two drinks while there and how helpful it would be to tell me both of them now so as not to interrupt him during the performance. "Do you gots Bud Light?" Being new to the job and seeing that he had a list of beers in front of him, I paused and told him I wasn't sure. I looked at the list and said, "No, sorry just Amstel Light and Sam Adams Light." He informed me that he would have an Amstel Light.

"Alright, sir. And would you like that for your second drink as well?"

"I dunno." Long pause as he stared at me. "I'll tell you what I do want though. Get the biggest glass you have. Fill it with ice. Then fill it with water. Then put a lemon in it. I want two of those right now." I make my way to another table and he calls me again. "Do you have any food?" I suppose he doesn't understand the purpose of the menu sitting in front of him.

"Yes sir, we do. I have hummus and pita chips, spinach artichoke dip-"

"No, no no. Food. Real food."

"That is food sir. We do consume that."

"Meat. Do you have any food that is meat?"

I was staring to hate this guy. "Then no sir, we don't have any food."

"What kind of food do you have then?"

I have now crossed the line from starting to hate this guy to actually hating this guy. I reiterated our food options and he finally agreed on the cheese plate and then berated me for not knowing the price without looking at the menu. He almost choked when I told him how expensive it was, but he ordered it. The table next to him told me "good luck" as I went to ring in his order. He yelled out to me he also wanted a shot of Jack Daniels. When I brought out his beer, shot and two waters (which he never touched) he told me he needed a Coke chaser and he was not paying for it because where he comes from you just automatically get a Coke chaser with a shot of Jack and he was not paying for it and he would not be paying for it. Got it, ass. Fine.

Halfway through the show he leaves his seat to come to the bar and complain that he is dissatisfied with his cheese plate. He was not paying for a plate of crackers with one piece of cheese. He would not be paying for it. Got it, fine. Meanwhile the other server went to retrieve said cheese plate and showed him several pieces of cheese that were still on it proving that it did have more than one piece as he claimed. "Well, I don't like swiss!" (It was edam.) "And I don't know what those other cheeses are!" (They were gouda and brie.) I guess he just didn't recognize his old stalwart cheeses of American, cheddar and Whiz.

We took the cheese plate of his bill. After the show, he walked around the room talking to some of his friends and ignoring me as I waited to accept payment. About fifteen minutes later I hear the other server calling after him as he walked toward the door. "Sir, are you going to pay your check??" Asshole laughed. "Oh my Lord. I totally forgot about it. I'm sorry. How much do I owe you? Hardy har har."

I ran his credit card and you know what the asshole did? On a $49 check, he left me ten bucks; a totally surprising 20% tip. I swear to God, I just don't get people.



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That Famous Guy Left a Big Tip

Does anyone know who Sean Parker is without Googling him first? The name is familiar and you know you have heard it, but you're not quite sure why you know it. My first thought was that he is Spiderman's alter ego, but that's Peter Parker. And then I thought he was that actor from the American Pie movies, but that's Sean William Scott. Who the fuck is Sean Parker? Oh, yeah, he's the guy who had something to do with Facebook and Justin Timberlake played him in Social Network. Well, he's rich because he tipped a waitress $5,000 on a $6,000 check last week.

According to the Internet (so you know it's true) he partied at West Hollywood’s Beverly Club with friends Clark Kent, Diana Prince, Bruce Wayne and Tara Reid. The bar tab was $6,000 because Diana and Tara were doing body shots off of each other and they went through 21 bottles of Belvedere Vodka and a case of Red Bull. The one time I was at the Beverly, I don't recall it being that expensive. It was real nice though. It had a pool and a complimentary basket of chips and was surrounded by palm trees. It is possible I am thinking of a different Beverly though, so don't quote me. I stayed at the Beverly Garland Holiday Inn once so that might be what I am thinking. So this Sean guy has money flowing out of his butt like an ATM and he wanted to be generous, right? Or was it that the cocktail waitress had really big boobies and he was trying to impress her? Hmmm, I wonder which one it was:


Waitress: Is there anything else I can get you tonight?
Sean: Do you know who I am?
Waitress: Um, no I'm afraid I don't, but would you like anything else tonight?
Sean: You're pretty.
Waitress: Thank you very much. But seriously, do you need anything?
Sean: You have great tits. You sure you don't know who I am?
Waitress: Okay, I give up. Who are you?
Sean: Ever hear of Napster?
Waitress: Yeah, why?
Sean: I invented that.
Waitress: Oh my God, you did? That's amazing. I have one of them. My cat loves it.
Sean: I'm sorry, what? Your cat has one?
Waitress: Aren't you talking about the combination sleeping hammock/scratching post/cat nip dispenser thingy they sell at K-Mart?
Sean: No, Napster was an online music sharing site that I created.
Waitress: Oh, I always get those confused. That's cool, but I heard that you were just an early employee of Napster and that it was actually developed by Sean and John Fanning and you tried to take credit for it...
Sean: Never mind. I was the president of Facebook. Justin Timberlake played me in the movie The Social Network. Pretty cool, right?
Waitress: Yeah, I don't use Facebook. Is there anything else you need because I am wrapping it up here. Your check is $6.000, so if I could just get a credit card or something...
Sean: Sure, babe, yeah. Here, just put it on my black American Express card and put a $5,000 tip on there for yourself, alright? Did I mention you have pretty boobies?
Waitress: Oh, thanks. I'm a model.
Sean: So just put that $5,000 tip on there, alright?
Waitress: I will, thanks.

(two minutes pass)

Waitress: Here's your card Mr. Parker. And thanks for the tip, that's really sweet of you.
Sean: Yeah, well, I'm rich. I was president of Facebook.
Waitress: So you said.
Sean: And there's plenty more where that came from...if you know what I mean. Nice tits, man, I mean, seriously.
Waitress: Yeah, thanks nerd. Good night.

So I suspect that Sean Parker was flashing his money around and trying to impress everyone. Since no one knows who the fuck he is by looking at him, his only choice is to constantly remind people that he is important. Meanwhile, the waitress is at the bank depositing her money and planning on another boob job. I wish Sean Parker would sit in my station. I could use a $5,000 tip, that's for sure. My tits may not be as nice as the waitress's but at least I would know who Sean Parker was if he sat in my station.

Bitchy Waiter: Hey, you're that guy that Justin Timberlake played in that movie, right?
Sean: Yes! Yes, I am! I'm Sean Parker!
Bitchy Waiter: Cool! Can I have $5,000 now please?





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Louise's Story (Frat Boys and Margaritas)

My friend "Louise" told me a story about how she got a shitty tip at her Mexican restaurant job. The bill was $93 and she got four bucks and eventually five more making it a solid 10%. This is my version of her story:

It was long tough night at Big Brother Bubba's Burrito Bar Buffet and Mexican Style Olde Timey Cantina where Louise had been punching the clock for five years. Bubba's was a nice neighborhood Mexican restaurant with good food, good service and a good staff. One of Louise's co-workers had called in sick and there was no one to cover for her, so Louise had the whole restaurant to herself. It was a tall order, but for a Tuesday night, it would be okay. The tips that night were average. Despite stellar service, for Louise knew no other way to serve, she was getting 12-15% at every table. "What the hell?" she thought. "Is rent due today? Did the stock market crash? Why is no one giving me the 20% I am earning?" She shrugged it off and headed to her next table.

It was a four-top; three frat boys and a young woman with blond hair and dark roots and she was wearing a t-shirt that said "Men are like snow storms: you never know when they're coming, how many inches you'll get or how long they'll last." She was a real class act. Each of the frat boys were wearing their caps backward because they thought it looked cool when really it just looked stupid as fuck. They sucked down a few margaritas and asked for more free chips and salsa too many times, but Louise served them with a smile because she is a real pro. When she set their bill down, the check came to a total of $93.00. She saw that they were having difficulty dividing the bill; some had cash and some had credit cards and all of them were drunk bitches with no recollection of simple math skills or the ability to use the calculator app on their phones. They finally handed her a a pile of cash and one credit card.

"Here's sixty dollars in cash and put the rest on this credit card," the wannabe blond slurred out.

Louise touched on her own nose in the hope that it would signal to the girl that she should wipe the salt off of her face. The girl didn't pick up the hint and Louise went on her way. Moments later, after the group had stumbled out, Louise saw that that the credit card slip had a four dollar tip scrawled onto it. "Four freakin' dollars? Four? Are you kiddin' me? After all those chips, they're gonna give me four feakin' dollars on a $93 bill?? Uh uh." She headed to the sidewalk to find the dumb fucks and ask them if there was some non-existent problem with the service.

On the street, she saw two of the frat boys smoking cigarettes, leaning on each other because they were both a little drunk and the shorter one had always admired the taller one's calf muscles yet he only seemed to notice them when he had been drinking and he thought this was a good time to tell him how attractive his legs looked, no homo.

"Hey!" Louise said. "Four dollars? Are your feakin' kiddin' me? Are you kiddin' me here?"

Shorter Frat Boy quickly pulled away from his friend and thrust his hands into his pockets. "What, we weren't doing anything, I didn't even notice his sinewy calf muscles and I have never been attracted to a man in my entire life, what?" There was an awkward silence. "I mean, what was that you were saying, miss?"

"On a $93 check, you're gonna leave me four bucks? Why? Why?"

Taller Frat Boy, who had moved away from his friend by at least six inches, said, "Our friend was supposed to leave more of a tip on the credit card. She didn't?"

"No, she didn't. She left me four dollars."

"I'm sorry. She's a real cheap skank. I hate her." Taller Frat Boy reached into his pocket and dug around for more cash. He couldn't help but notice that Shorter Frat Boy was eyeing him as he did it. Shorter Frat Boy's line of vision moved from his friend's crotch and then to his eyes, catching him staring back at him. Shorter Frat Boy said abruptly in a lower than usual voice, "Dude, I fuckin' love football, don't you?"

"Look, this is all I have, five more dollars, take it." He handed the money to Louise and ignored his friend who seemed to be adjusting his crotch.

"Great, so now we've made it a 10% tip, thanks so much," she said, the sarcasm dripping in much the same way that Shorter Frat Boy's penis was dripping with pre-cum.

Neither Louise nor the Frat Boys noticed that a few feet away was someone with their flip cam recording the scene because the young videographer felt that it could lead to an altercation that would be fun to send to Facebook later.

"10% is a crappy tip, just so you know. You think it's easy working at Big Brother Bubba's Burrito Bar Buffet and Mexican Style Olde Timey Cantina? Well, it isn't. I depend on tips because in New york State, my wage is $5.oo an hour and all of it goes to taxes, so my check is never more than twenty bucks. Next time you go out to dinner, you best make sure you have enough money to leave a freakin' tip, alright? Or just stay out of my restaurant."

The girl with the camera made sure the sign to Bubba's was in the background.

Taller Frat Boy began to say something but before he could, Louise continued. "Save your breath, save your apologies and save me the misfortune of ever having to wait on you again. Go away and don't come back, alright? Fucking douche bags. You make my balls ache and I don't even have any!!"

At this point, Shorter Frat Boy said, "I know what you mean about balls aching. I feel like mine are-"

Louise interrupted him. "And you need to get laid. I've been watching you stare at your friend all freakin' night. Get a room already, Jesus. Yeah," she said to Taller Frat Boy. "Your friend here has the hots for you. Do yourself a favor and let him go down on ya already. Jeez, it's so freakin' obvious." Louise spun on her heels and went back to work.

Girl With the Camera continued filming and saw Shorter Frat Boy melt into a pool of tears and then turn and run down the street screaming, 'I love women. I love football. I am a heterosexual male!" Taller Frat Boy then threw up for the camera and the girl knew she had something good to put on the Internet.

Ten minutes later, the video was posted on YouTube, Facebook, Google+ and MySpace and had over a 1,000 views. Everyone wanted to see it. By the next day it had over 25,000 views and by the end of the week it had been featured on D-Listed, Perez Hilton and Broke Straight Boys. The two frat boys were infamous and so was Louise. For the next three months, Big Brother Bubba's Burrito Bar Buffet and Mexican Style Olde Timey Cantina was packed with people wanting to sit in Louise's station. Everyone was eager to meet the woman who had made a frat boy cry and they all wanted to leave her big fat tips. It all turned out perfectly. Well, except for the two frat boys. Taller One eventually married the wannabe blond cheap skank bitch and Shorter One joined a pray-the gay-away clinic that was owned by Michele Bachmann's totally not gay husband, Marcus.

But for Louise, it tuned out great.



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Your Astrological Forecast Courtesy of Bitchy Waiter

Hey baby, what's your sign? Astrology is never wrong, out of date, stupid or made up. I spent hours and hours studying the stars and charts in order to provide you with the most up-to-date- astrological forecast possible. I hope you can use this as a guide for your day.

Aries March 21-April 19: Today is the day you have been waiting for. You may or may not finally achieve what you have been working towards your whole life. Look for a man in a dark coat to guide you to the next step and when you see him, make sure you pass on the secret phrase so he knows that you are the one he has been looking for too. Secret phrase: how would you like your burger cooked?

Taurus April 20-May 20: Grab the bull by the horns, Taurus and just say no to bullshit. With the stars in alignment today, you may find yourself with some extra cash in your pocket. But don't spend it too quickly because the universe may have other ideas. At the end of the day, you might end up printing a sales report and have to take a lot of that cash and give it to a manager who is sitting in his office and doing "paperwork" when really he is in there looking at Internet porn.

Gemini May 21-June 21: With only a few more days left in Gemini, now is the time to make things count. If you have considered a change in direction, go for it. Once the moon moves out of Uranus you'll have a lot more room up there for better and more exciting things.

Cancer June 22-July 22: Your love life is about to change so get ready! After a long drought of loneliness and desperation, a homeless person is going to show up in your life and make you realize that love can be found anywhere. Even in a stinky toothless man who lives under a bridge. (If you are a male Cancer, then you are going to turn gay for this homeless man. It's in the stars.)

Leo July 23-August 22: Leo, your pride will take a beating today when someone is going to ask you to do something you would rather not do. Suck it up though because after all is said and done, you will be the bigger person for following through on it. Just scrape that gum from under the tables and await your karmic reward.

Virgo August 23-September 22: We all know how you are Virgo. You want everything in its place and done your way. Well get over it, because the planets say you need to pull the stick out of your ass and get over yourself.

Libra September 23-October 23: A new job opportunity is on the horizon if you know how to play your cards right. A man in a feathered hat and leopard skin pants will show you to your corner and introduce you to your new job prospects. Take it easy your first day though, Libra. You want to enjoy the start of your new career as a whore.

Scorpio October 24-November 21: The gentle sting of reality will nip at your heels today as you realize that the job you took a few years ago "until something better comes along" is what you will still be doing ten years from now. Take a breather and take a bong hit. It's the only way to satisfy such crushing disappointment.

Sagittarius November 22-December 21: Your likable demeanor will be challenged as people constantly push your buttons. Push back. Hard. If someone rubs you the wrong way today feel free to spit in their food or ruin the metallic strip on the back of their credit card.

Capricorn December 22-January 19: Buy a lottery ticket today. You are not going to win, but you need something to hope for since everything else about your day is kinda crappy.

Aquarius January 20-February 18: A co-worker will reveal some interesting information to you today that can help you in the long run. Keep that info to yourself for a while until you know exactly how to use it to get what you want. Not necessarily blackmail, but kinda sorta.

Pisces February 19-March 20: An old friend will reappear in your life today. It's someone who was there for some of the most important moments of your life. This old friend will not recognize you and walk right past you. Don't be too sad though. This old friend never really liked you that much anyway. They thought you were a bit of a whiner.

If September 29th is your birthday: Happy birthday, Libra! Go to a restaurant today and be sure to tell your server that today is your birthday. He really wants to know because he so totally gives a shit. He can't wait to gather all his co-workers together so they can sing "Happy Birthday" to a perfect freakin' stranger. And make sure you ask him what you get for free! You know, since you were born and everything, it's a really amazing feat.

(The truth is, this is from about a year ago. I got a new job and have been crazy ass busy. It's amazing that I have not put up a repeat already. I have completed 24 out of 120 hours of training. Exhausting. It is not a restaurant job, so Anonymous might be all excited for my "real job" ass.)



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A Discussion About Race and Tipping

This post is a little different. Someone sent me a news story about a restaurant in Queens that is being sued by two patrons because they had a tip added to their bill. When they asked the manager why they had an 18% tip added to their check, they were told, the gratuity is added to “Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi customers because they never tip." Ouch.

As servers, we all know there are certainly specific groups of people who seem to tip less overall. Maybe it's a cultural thing and yes it is definitely a stereotype, but maybe stereotypes are based in some small truth, right? I myself fit many of the stereotypes of the gay man: I like Barbra Streisand, I use my hands when I talk and I have an impeccable eyebrow situation. Stereotypes? Yes. True? Yes, girl (snap, snap). Of course, I have had amazing tips from people who I may have expected shit from and shitty tips from people I thought would leave more. We can never tell and it's part of our job. However, I have never heard of someone flat out adding the tip to someone because of race. Not only is it insulting, it's incredibly ballsy.

Let's discuss this topic today. It's a road I seldom take because any time one discusses race, it's a slippery slope, but let's try it. Do you believe there are certain races that tip less than others? Do you change your service when you have a table of African Americans as opposed to a group of Asians or Hispanics? It's touchy, I know. As for me, I honestly try to give the same level of service to every table because if I get a crap tip, I want to know that is was because of them and not me. If I deliberately give less than stellar service to a table of black women, then don't they have a right to give me a 10% tip and thus perpetuate the stereotype? (See, I told you it's touchy.) Race and tipping is the elephant in the sidestand. Seldom is it talked about at work, so let's talk about it here.

I want to know what you think about the Queens restaurant adding the gratuity to those people. And what are your thoughts on different races and they way they tip? Please comment. Do it anonymously if you want, but please keep it respectful.

Thanks.

-BW

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Detachments LP out now

Detachments - Detachments LP now on sale in the Thisisnotanexit webstore.

Only 20 copies for the UK so be quick...

http://thisisnotanexitrecords.bigcartel.com/product/detachments-detachments-limited-edition-lp

Don't Touch My Tray

Dear Customer,

It's sweet that you want to help me by taking your own beer off of my tray as I am standing at your table, but don't fucking do it, alright? It does not help me. Here's the deal: I have been waiting tables for a really long time; like since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Therefore, I have 235 years of experience and I have an amazing ability to balance trays. If you Lucy Goosey take a glass off my tray without letting me adjust where my hand is positioned underneath it, that balance is going to be off and the tray will come crashing down and I will be one pissed off bitch. Don't do that. It's my job so let me do it. Do I show up at your office and try to staple some papers together for you? Or do I try to bag my own groceries? Or pump my own gas? No, I don't because that is your job and I know you are just about the best darn gas pumper this side of the Mississippi.

Also, dear customer, when I am reaching across a table with a martini glass filled to the rim with the sweet luscious nectar called vodka, let me put the goddamn glass down before you try to grab it. I know your greedy alcoholic ass can hardly wait to put your lips on the glass and suck down some love, but gimme a goddamn minute to set it on the table, will ya? If you grab at it, there is a good chance that it will spill and if I waste vodka it will send me into a deep deep (so deep) depression. I will spiral out of control thinking about how many thirsty children there are in famine-ravaged Africa who could have shared that cocktail and here you are wasting it it by grabbing at it and making it spill all over the fucking table. And I have to clean it up too. So it's a double lose. In closing, keep your hands to your self. Don't touch my tray, don't touch shit on my tray and do not touch my ass (unless you can back up that grab with a 30% tip, in which case, feel free.) Please keep these things in mind when you see my approach with my tray, okay? Thank you.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter


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When I Say It's Hot, It's Hot

Dear Customer:

When I tell you something is hot, please believe me. Just because you see me holding a hot dish does not mean that your fingers have the same super-human strength to withstand heat like mine do. You see, I hold hot plates all the time, so my fingers have built up a tolerance to this silly thing called fire. Is it sad that I no longer have fingerprints? Sure, but it allows me to carry things to your table after they have sat under the heat lamp for twenty minutes and it's all worth it. When your food is ready, the cooks put it "in the window" under this big strong light bulb that will keep things nice and warm until I finally get around to bringing it to your table. It will sit there and sit there until you ask me, "Is our food ready yet?" When you ask me that, it is my cue to bring it to you because as a server I like food to sit in the kitchen for as long as possible until I know you really want it. Consequently, the plate gets really really hot. However, since I have been doing this since I was a fresh-faced young boy of 20, my fingers are callused, bruised tough, angry and rough. They're like my heart.

When I approach your table with steaming piles of nachos, wings or calamari and I say "Be careful the plate is very hot," I mean it. You don't have to reach out and touch it to verify what I said is true because you will more than likely burn your hand and then shoot me an angry look that you will then have to take back because you will realize I just fucking told you the stupid ass plate was hot, you dumb as a bag of hair ass wipe. It's just not hot to me. Please don't be jealous of this amazing talent I have to be able to hold hot things because it is nothing. The cooks in the kitchen can practically reach into a vat of hot oil to pull out french fries. They can stir pots of soup with Their arms. They can light cigarettes just by touching then with the tips of their fingers. They are the true heroes.

In closing, let me say one more time: when I say something is hot, it is hot. Don't touch it. I will laugh at you when you recoil in pain and I won't feel bad about it. i will not try to hide my laugh either. i will say something like, "See, I told you it was hot. What, you didn't believe me? Let me get you some butter to put on that burn, it will make it all better." And then I will laugh again, because putting butter on a burn is an old wives tale. It will make it burn more. If you are dumb enough to ignore my warning about a hot plate, then maybe you will be dumb enough to smear butter on a burn.

love,
The Bitchy Waiter


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Entitled Parents, This Is For You:

It may seem lately that the blog should change its name to "I Hate Babies," but I just can't help it. Maybe it's time I come clean and fully admit that it's the parents I hate. I mean, what did babies ever do to me other than give me the occasional stink eye? I am trying to retrain my brain into knowing that it's the entitled parents who let their spawn become the center of the world.

I went to the green market this morning looking for something to make for dinner tonight. I always hear about how cool and wonderful a Farmer's Market is, but the one in my neighborhood sucks. All they ever have is fresh vegetables and fruits that come right from the farm and jars of honey and jams and shit. I have yet to see anyone selling anything remotely useful like chicken mole enchiladas, fresh tequila or Pizza Rolls. As I was making my way down the sidewalk, I noticed the people ahead of me were parting to make way for someone. "Is it a big foodie celebrity like Rachael Ray?" I wondered. "I certainly hope so, because now I can tell her what a cheap ho she is." I walked ahead to see what was going on and it was none other than some stupid ass Dad pushing his toddlers in a double-wide stroller being completely oblivious to how people were accommodating him. The stroller was huge. It's like when he went to Babies "R" Us they asked him he'd like to "super size" it and he was so used to saying yes at McDonald's, he agreed to it and ended up with a stroller almost as big as his ass. He was probably on his way to a restaurant so he could park it between his table and the server. A few years ago, I took a picture of some ladies at my job who set up their own Stroller Wall. When I first posted the picture on my blog over two years ago, I took the time to black out their faces and made the picture very small, but now I don't care:


Bitches. What is it with these strollers, can someone explain it to me? Is it a status symbol that I just don't get? Is it a way for parents to show how much money they have to spend on their children? Please tell me.

A friend called me yesterday and asked me to please write a blog post about entitled parents. Laura is a mom of two kids ages 6 and 3. I know them well, because I took care of the six year old for almost a year when she was a baby. (Yes, I was a "manny."). She called me and said she was somewhere waiting for the cab that she had ordered. It was pouring down rain and she had the foresight to call ahead for one. She did not have her kids with her. When the car arrived, a woman came up and tried to take it. Laura explained that this was the car she had called for, but what did the lady have to say about that? "Well, do you mind if I take it? I have two kids." So having two kids in your possession allows you to steal a cab from someone? In my experience some parents think it also allows them to:

• cut in line at the bank
• get their food out faster in a restaurant
• cut in line at the grocery store
• eat food in a grocery store before paying for it
• cut in line at a movie theater
• take up three extra seats on the goddamn 7 train so their fucking diaper bag has a seat while I stand
• cut in line at the bus stop
• have free reign at a department store as their kids play under the racks of clothes
• cut in line at the department store
• and about a million other things

I am over it. Laura probably let the lady take the cab because she is nice that way. You know my ass would have given that bitch a "sorry-your-kids-are getting-all-wet" look and hopped in the cab and been on my way. But that's just me: bitchy.

A word to entitled parents: get over yourself. They're kids. No big deal. You aren't the first person to bring a life into the world. Little Johnny and Suzie are the center of your world, not ours. Yours. And stop bashing processed chicken, what did it ever do to you?


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A Comment on Comments

I can't let this comment go by without responding to it. I tried to ignore it, but I just can't do it.

Stevie said...

Ok so i watched the segiment on Dr. Phil and i think that you are ridiculous and the whole "brat ban" bullshit is stupid. You are only a waiter what the hell have you done with your pathetic life to make you think that you are someone to tell parents to take their children anywhere you are a waiter that is all so you need to learn your place in society you serve people for a living the children you are setting here trying to ban from your place of business are the same kids that you will be serving later on when they are older because you probably wont go out and try to find a real job yea being a waiter is work I've been there kids have never bothered me. But once you pass the age of 21 get a real job. The audacity of a waiter to tell parents such as myself, to take our kids somewhere else is crap. You don't know the struggles that I've have gone thru with my sons health when he was first born. My son deserves to eat anywhere with me, regardless if a "bitchy" waiter likes it or not my goodness your only a waiter know your place in society and that is serving me and my son when ever we choose to go to your establishment.

That is how i feel I have worked to get to my status in society Im probably half your age and i resent that i have worked so hard to get where i am at to have a "waiter" tell me anything. People setting here on this site saying your so cool "bitchy" your so true bitchy blah blah blah need to quit sitting around the t.v. and get themselves a life aswell we all know that you run home from your ball busting jobs that leave you with little reward, tired and wore-out well maybe if you did something with your life earlier on your have a job that you enjoy you wouldn't be so stressed when you go out to eat. You know what you are trying to keep my child out of eating in public well i guess we can try and keep all of you cry-baby ass adults outta public. It would be easier to tell yall to leave than it would to try to make children do what they don't wanna. So u know what why don't yall stay home because i am taking my son out and if yall don't like they way he acts come see me and see if yall like the way i tell yall to grow up and act your age not your status my goodness hes a waiter and yall are flocking to him like hes some kind of a saint get over it HES A DAMN WAITER. Thats it nothing more sure he makes this snazzy web page about his bitches his moans his complaints and yall set here and feed into them like yall are social parasites. Get a real life.

Dear Stevie:

Fuck you and your crotch dropping. Learn to spell. Learn punctuation. Periods are your friend; use them. I will get a "real" job when you get a real name. Stevie? Who in the hell over the age of twelve goes by the name of Stevie?

love,
BW

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Time for another installment of Dear Bitchy. I dug into the mailbag and found this question that perhaps I can shed some light on. You can email me here if you have a question that needs attention. Or email me to say hello. That's nice too.



Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I need your advice. I work at a bar and grill and for whatever reason people constantly ignore the HUGE "please wait to be seated" sign and mosey on in and seat themselves. I have tried very hard to be nice when it does happen but it has become a daily occurrence and I just can't take it anymore! What would you do?


signed,
Alicia

Dear Alicia,

Oh this problem again, with those stupid buckets of Thousand Island Dressing that we call customers. No matter how HUGE the sign is, they will not read it. They will ignore it the same way they ignore menus, their children and my crushed dreams. I once worked a restaurant with a patio which had a HUGE sign that said, "Please see the hostess if you would like to sit outside." People constantly sat directly under the sign paying no mind to it. Even if the sign had been lit up with neon and sparklers and had photos of naked men and women on it, they would ignore it. It's their way.

What can we do? Here is what I suggest: when someone sits down at a table without being seated there by a hostess, ignore the fuck out of them just like they ignored the fuck out of your sign. I have done this many times and it's very satisfying. When I see someone sit down without the proper protocol, I walk past them continuously until they practically have to pull their arm out of its socket in order to wave at me hard enough to get my attention. They will usually say something all Bucket of Thousand Island Dressing-ish like, "Uh, excuse me, but we don't have menus." My reply is then, "Oh, that's odd. I don't know why the hostess didn't give you one when she sat you. I apologize for her behavior, she does this all the time. It may be time to mention it to the manager so they can get someone in here who knows how to do her job. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I hope she has her resumé up to date because it looks like tonight may be her last night." And then Thousand Island Family is all, "Oh, well, we sat ourselves...we don't want her to get fired...uh, we're sorry, we're dumb." Then they feel stupid and like shit and it makes me feel better.

Or maybe after sitting there for ten minutes, they'll say to me, "Uh, is someone going to take our order??" And then I can reply, "I thought this was so-and-so's table, have you been waiting long?" And then they will say, Uh, yeah, for like thirty minutes." And then I say, "He must not realize you are here. Did a hostess seat you or did you seat yourself, because that would make all the difference in the world." And then they mumble, "Oh, well, we sat ourselves here..." And then I say, "A-ha! Now we know why no one came to take your order. It's because you sat yourselves. You should always wait to be seated by the hostess so these things don't happen."

Basically, there is no way around stupid people ignoring signs and seating themselves so all we can do is try to embarrass them enough so that the next time they will do it correctly. It is highly unlikely that embarrassing them will teach them anything at all, but from our point of view it is immensely satisfying. Try it. You'll love it.

(Anonymous, this is your cue to tell me that "the customer is always right" and that I should be ashamed of myself for trying to embarrass a guest just to prove a point. But here's the thing, Anonymous: I don't care.)

Love,
BW

Please email me here if you have a question for me. I love to help people. It's in my blood. Also in my blood is a very alcohol content.


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Old Ladies Can Be Annoying

Everyone is born for a reason. Perhaps you were born to make a difference in the life of someone you have yet to meet or maybe your purpose in life is still being determined. Or it could be you were born simply to trap the baby-daddy in a relationship he didn't want because all he did was hook up with your mom one night at that club after she had too many Long Island Iced Teas followed by two Fuzzy Navels and a hit of poppers. Who knows? What I do know is this: the women who sat at table sixteen last week were born with the sole purpose of getting on my last fucking nerve. Mission accomplished, ladies.

Two old women came into the restaurant. I only call them that because they referred to themselves that way. They both had their hair in buns and they looked like they just popped in from the Amish flea market and needed a quick bite to eat before auditioning to be one of the little old ladies in The Producers. In truth, they were probably in their 50's, but they were the old kind of fifty-something, not the young cool hip fifty-something.

"Table for two, ladies?" I asked all chirpy and happy because that is my natural demeanor when wearing an apron.

Old Lady #1 cleared her throat and said, "Well, there are going to be three of us." Fine. No problem. I began leading her to a table but she stood still. I turned around to see what the problem was and she said, "One third of our party is not here yet." Well, I kinda figured that, Miss Pythagoras but thanks for the math lesson. Unless your friend is the Invisible Lady or you have her hiding in your back pocket, I assumed she wasn't here yet. I told them they could choose a table and sit wherever they wanted and I would bring them menus. This confused them.

They looked at each other and muttered back and forth, "Do you want to sit here or do you want to sit there or should we sit on the patio or inside? Oh my God I don't know what we should do." Old Lady #2 said, "Why don't we sit at that last booth?" to which Old Lady #1 replied, "But how will Old Lady #3 find us when she gets here if we sit all the way back there?"

Keep in mind this is a very small restaurant. It only has fourteen tables. It was ten minutes after we opened and there was no one else in the place. Unless Old Lady #3 was blind and/or retarded, she would easily find her friends.

After much discussion and thought, Old Lady #2 finally made the decision. Waking me up from my self-induced coma, she said, "We are going to sit at that back booth but if you see another woman come in who looks uncertain, that is our friend." So let me get this straight: if another old lady with her hair in a bun comes into the restaurant and tells me she is meeting two other old ladies who have their hair in buns, then she would be referring to you, is that it? Thanks. Got it.

By the time we eventually made it to table sixteen, it was time for me to color my roots again. They were so fucking slow, examining every table we passed as if it might be the one they should sit at instead. Before they sat down, Old Lady #1 said, "And who would we need to talk to in order to discuss the volume of the music? It's too loud and we want to be talk. We're old ladies and can't hear very well." Okay, you just fucking contradicted yourself, old lady. If you can't hear very well, then I should turn the music up, shouldn't I? Isn't the truth that you just don't like the Pandora 1980's music channel I created so that I could listen to the music of my youth while at work? Maybe she would have liked me to create a Pandora channel of music from her youth, but who in the hell wants to listen to an Andrew Sisters and Doris Day channel. (Okay, honestly, I would totally listen to that channel...) I agreed to turn down the music.

About ten minutes later I saw their friend come into the restaurant. Of course she immediately spied her friends and headed towards them. It was truly remarkable how she found them. It was like she was Christopher Fuckin' Columbus or something. She walked right to them like she knew where she was going. The bartender told me that she must have studied a map of the restaurant in advance or we decided she may have been equipped with a GPS because how else could she possibly have found her friends among all the empty tables and nobody else? The woman was a true super-sleuth with the nose of a bloodhound and the problem solving skills of Jessica Fletcher. It was amazing.

They stayed way too long and never said anything when I turned the music back up about fifteen minutes later. They were pretty self-sufficient after they got their food. Two of them had a glass of wine so that must have chilled them out. They were probably trashed and were going to leave the restaurant to go home and do some wild and crazy drunk old lady stuff like embroider pillows with with dirty sayings and can some peaches without sterilizing the lids first. They left me a good tip which I appreciated since they occupied my booth for so long. I will be ready for them the next time I see them. The booth will be prepped with a flare gun, some knitting needles and Pandora will be set to play the Top 40 hits of the turn of the century.

(And yes, they sat at table 16 even though there are only 14 tables in the restaurant. I don't know why there is no table 6 or 10 in the restaurant, but there isn't...)



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Miracle of Miracles

Ever have one of those blasts from the past that take you by surprise? Maybe your brain filed something away a very long time ago and then something happens that opens up that compartment and you are flooded with memories. It's weird when it happens. The brain is funny that way. I got an email today from someone and she wanted to let me know that someone we knew had died last week. His name was Lee. I met Lee when I was about twelve years old doing a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof in Victoria, Texas. He played Motel the tailor and I loved watching him sing "Miracle of Miracles." He was seven years older than me but to a twelve year old, nineteen is a total grown up, no doubt about it. The last time I saw him was in 1984 when he directed me in Annie. (I was the dog catcher.) We were never really friends seeing he was so much older than me. I moved away from Victoria to pursue my acting career and the next thing you know almost thirty years have passed and I find out he died at the age of 51.

So what does this have to do with The Bitchy Waiter? I'll tell you. When I did my first community theater production, I knew I had found what I wanted to do with my life. I saw people like Lee and Cynthia and Mike and Mr. Trowbridge and realized, "Hey, they're grown ups and they get to play? This is cool, I wanna do this when I grow up." I continued doing community theater and when I graduated high school I went to college to get a degree in theater. Yes, it is possible to have a degree and wait tables. When it came time to move to New York City, I needed a job that would pay me good money in a short amount of time and give me the flexibility to audition and do shows and pursue my real dream. Waiting tables is a means to an end. I have heard this a lot in my life:


The reason I don't get another job is because this is what I do. I wait tables and when I get a show, I go do it. If I was a teacher, I can't imagine the school district being cool with me saying, "So hey, I got this show and I'm going to Maryland for six weeks. I'll see you then. The students will be fine." And I write about it because I like writing and if my words can make people laugh or smile or think, then maybe I am making a difference in someone's day in some small way.

When I heard that Lee died, I thought back to the summer of 1980 and how much all those adults in Fiddler inspired me. I watched Lee sing every night. Cynthia was so funny as Yente and when that girl who played Chava cried as her father walked away disowning her for marrying outside their faith, I was so blown away by the fact that she could cry real tears. That production shaped my whole life and Lee was a huge part of it. I can't imagine that any of them ever think of that 12 year old boy who didn't have any lines in that play they did thirty years ago, but little do they know, I think of them. They made me want to be an actor.

And that is why I don't get another job. I already have one. I am an actor. And a writer. Thank you Lee and I hope wherever you are, you are singing;

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles-
God took the tailor by the hand
Turned him around and- miracle of miracles-
Led him to the promised land.

Follow your dreams, people. Even if it means you have to wait tables to do it.

(By the way, the lady who told me to get another job is named Kate and she is actually very sweet. Just sayin'.)



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Choco Taco and a Gay Wedding

It was a beautiful day on Sunday in the Catskills. The sky was blue, the air was crisp and I had free food and drinks at a wedding. It was a day to celebrate the love of two people who were joined in holy (and legal, by the way) matrimony. With all the love and joy floating around, you would think it would be enough to distract me from how hard the cater waiters were working, but it wasn't. Despite my best efforts to enjoy the reception, my thoughts kept ending up with the servers. Have I served for so long that even the wedding of two good friends is not enough for me to not think of the servers first? Nope.

The first thing I noticed was how far away the kitchen was from the cocktail reception. It was an outdoor wedding, so the kitchen was set up in a tent over by the chicken coop over the little wooden bridge and past the pond. All I could think was, 'That is a long fucking way to walk carrying a tray of pigs in a blanket and crab cakes, that sucks." Seriously, it was about a hundred yards. The best part of it being so far away was that guests couldn't crowd around the exit to the kitchen tent so they could latch on to a deviled egg before anyone else. I noticed a server walking back to the kitchen with one crab cake on her plate. I knew what that sneaky bitch was up to. She was saving it for herself to eat as she made the trek back to refill her tray. I kept my eye on her and sure enough; after she crossed the bridge, I saw her pop it into her mouth. Smooth move.

The cocktail reception ended rather abruptly when an old lady passed out and fell flat on her back. Everyone was screaming to dial 9-1-1 but it was the fucking Catskills so cell phone service was as rare as a cater waiter who doesn't stuff crab cakes into her mouth when she thinks no one is looking. This lady in the grass looked like she needed some major help. There was doctor and a nurse at the wedding so they went right to work on her. I took advantage of the distraction and headed to the bar where I knew there would be no line. Within two minutes, the banquet manager was ushering us to the barn where dinner would be served early. In other words, "Let's move away from the old lady who may or may not be dying on the happiest day of two brides' lives." As the crowd headed over for dinner, I watched the manager urgently speak into his walkie talkie and say, "Start icing right away, they're coming over. Now! Now! Now!" I felt uncomfortable because I knew that the timing was off and the servers were going to be stressed out. I was still probably more comfortable than the old lady in the grass underneath the cocktail table.

When we got to the barn, I saw waiters running around icing waters and then then I noticed that the bartenders were breaking down the bar in the pond house and dragging all that shit over to where we were now. "Totally shitty," I thought. I have to hand it to the crew though. They were all so nice and a special shout out to Devon and Barney who were my bartenders for the day. Dinner went off without a hitch. Okay, it was a little awkward that the ambulance parked right next to where we were eating. It's not very appetizing to watch a lady in a gurney get wheeled over the river and through the woods past the goats and put into an ambulance, but I took another sip of wine and felt better.

When it came time for each table to choose a champagne bottle captain, I designated myself and took charge of the situation. The champagne toast was coming up any minute and I wanted to make sure my glass was full. It's like when I am on a plane; I always volunteer to sit next to the emergency exit because in the event of an emergency, I trust no one more than myself to get that door open and get myself the fuck out. At the wedding, I trusted no one more than myself to get that champagne bottle open and glasses poured.

As the sun set, the plates were cleared. It took a lot of effort to not get up and grab a tray and do it myself. It's a sickness I have really, this need to clear tables, but I resisted and went instead to the ice cream truck that took the spot of the ambulance. I had a Choco Taco and another beer. It was a good wedding. I left before the wedding cake action happened because I was facing a two hour drive back to New York City. Besides I had already had my Choco Taco so anything else would have paled in comparison. Not to mention, I would have wanted to grab the cake slicer and help divvy up slices for 110 guests. It was time for me to go. The wedding was great. The food was wonderful and the service was even better. Thank you to all those cater waiters who make events like this wedding so special. Congratulations to Kim (Not Kardashian) and Randie who had the most awesome wedding ever. It was a privilege to be there.

p.s.
The old lady was talking as she was put into the ambulance. Word is she was released from the hospital the next morning and is fine now. Her biggest regret other than the grass stain on her new dress was that she didn't get to enjoy the reception. I am not a lip reader, but as she rolled by on her way to the ambulance, it looked to me like she was saying, "I just want a goddamn Choco Taco before I go, is that too much to ask?"



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Stinky Lady Alert

I am on my way to a wedding today where I will witness two women joined in holy matrimony. The theme is a 1950's vintage Iowa farm wedding; leave it to the lesbians to come up with that one. I expect it to be fun and I am very happy for my friends, especially since their marriage will actually be legal now. I look forward to seeing their love bloom but even more than that I am looking forward to the bar. Since I am going to the Catskills for the wedding (again, leave it to the lesbians...), I have no time to write today, so I offer this post about a funky smellin' regular. Enjoy your day and congrats to Randie and Kim!

~BW

In keeping with my pledge to refer to certain customers as characters from 1970's and 1980's television shows, I would like to discuss one "Mary Ann" who comes in on a regular basis. I refer to her as Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, not because she is cute and perky and from Kansas and has a subtle beauty that makes men want her more than that whore of movie Star, Ginger Grant. I call her Mary Ann because she smells like what I imagine Mary Ann to smell like after three years on an island without a shower or soap. Or maybe she smells like one of her coconut cream pies that have sat in the sun for too long and it went bad so she tried to make it smell better by farting on it and that didn't work so she threw some monkey poop on it and that didn't work so she just gave up and went to my station and sat at table three.

I don't know why this woman smells so bad. The first time I got a whiff of her, I wasn't sure what the smell was. Perhaps some errant rat that had eaten poison and died under a booth or a homeless man who had taken a nap in the lighting booth. After several passes of the table, I narrowed down the odor to this regular. It's like a mixture of body odor, skunk and frustration. When I leaned over to ask her what she would like for her second drink, I was punched in the face by her breath. You know what a piece of dental floss smells like after a good tough round of flossing out roast beef and broccoli? That dental floss smells like a a Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds compared to the stench that comes out of her mouth. I swear to God, it smells so bad that flies even avoid it. Imagine a fly sitting on a pile of dog shit on 6th Avenue:

Boy this dog poo sure does smell bad, but I don't mind. I'm a fly. I love poo, garbage and germs. The stinkier the better, bring it on. I'm a fly, ain't nuthin' gonna breaka my stride, nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin'... (the fly flies away and gets into the airstream of Mary Ann's breath) Oh, my God, what the hell is that stench? This is awful, I can't take it. (The fly pulls out a tiny revolver from his tiny coat pocket and blows his tiny brains out.)

When I see Mary Ann come in, I immediately start sending out vibes that she sits anywhere except my station. Since there are only two of us at work, I have a 50/50 chance of breathing in her funk. When she sits elsewhere, it's like winning the lottery. Except I don't win a million dollars, I just win the right to breathe. And in my book, that's worth a good chunk of coconut cream pie.

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A Comment on Comments

Every now and again, I get a comment that is just begging to be responded to. Since my appearance on Dr. Phil, the comments have gone through the roof and I had plenty of winners to choose from. For the most part, the people who bothered to come to the blog were overwhelmingly in my corner. I got some great comments about my hair and I am seriously considering giving it its own blog. Thank you to everyone who appreciated what I had to say. However, there were a few people who had some negative things to say and it is to them that this blog post is directed to.

Anonymous said...

I don't appreciate your comment about food allergies. I am severely allergic to several things. The way I see it, I pay your salary. If I don't come eat and no one else does the restaurant closes, you lose your job. If I ask for certain things to be left out of my dish I expect them to. You are just a waiter shut up and do your job.

Hey anonymous, shut the fuck up, you allergy-ridden filthy whore. Take another does of Valtrex and move on. I was referring to people who say they are allergic to something when in actuality they just don't like it. Big difference. I understand your confusion; sometimes syphilis does irreversible damage to the brain. You're excused.

And then there is this long-winded comment which I edited to take away some of the bat-shit-crazy but I left their misspellings, run-on sentences and bad grammar because it shows what kind of person wrote it: a dumb one.

Anonymous said...

I strongly believe you have some serious issues with society and you should see someone that will help you deal. Children are the future you may have issues with them we all do from time to time but telling a child or his parent that he or she has to leave a restarauntan> is obseen. No one has the right to tell someone they are not allowed to eat in a casual restarant or fine dinning establishment, if they are a paying customer they have a right to be there. I believe it is people like you that are the problem today if you cant deal with a situation you take it to a extreme instead of figuring it out for yourself. Part of your job is dealing with children whether they irritate you or not. I understand people have said this before but if you dont like the job or soceity for that matter you should take the little possessions you have a move to a city that has a small population. Do you honestly believe to have the right to be any different? If the issue in question was a big deal to anyone besides the server would the owner of the establishment not band children himself or herself? they dont do you know why? Ill tell you its because the owner would rather get the money from the customer (which is why he is in business) they appesease you a lowly paid waiter. In society you have no contribution easily replacable an no proper business owner would put you before a ten dollar childrens meal which also brings us to why you have to voice your concerns to the general public instead of starting your own restarant and solving you problems that way. As far as im concerned you are a coward pure bully picking on little kids to make your life seem more managable while you waste everyones time with this nonsense instead of dealing with the real problem which is you. Anti-depressants may help you if you believe your life is garbage picking on little children however cannot. I would have liked to have been at that show to voice my concerns and meet someone so ignorant face to face. It astounds me that you believe anyone should put a bitchy low end waiter before a child that may one day contribute ten times as much to the world then you do. It would make me very pleased to see a father put you in your place because if you were to tell me my child is being to loud, or I need to shut my kid up that would be the end of your career and probably mine but would be well worth it. Get a life!

Okay, where to start? I had to read it about ten times to even get what the fuck this crazy bag of nuts was trying to say. I love how she calls me ignorant but she can't manage to string a complete sentence together and has no use for punctuation. Yeah, I'm the ignorant one, uh huh. And she thinks I am the problem? No, it's the parents who are the problem if they think it's okay to let children rule the roost in a restaurant. (That's how it's spelled, by the way.) Maybe one of the children I serve will contribute ten times as much to the world as I do, but they better get crackin' because this blog isn't all I do. I have a life and waiting tables isn't it. It's just what I do 24 hours a week. The other 144 hours per week is where most of my my life happens. The only way anti-depressants are going to make my life any better is if I am allowed to drop them into the glasses of juice I serve to bratty kids so they can fall asleep while they are in my station. Thanks for the comment, lady. I'm sorry you are so angry and I'm also sorry that you can't appreciate the joys of processed chicken.

Thank you to everyone who commented on the blog or Facebook. This week was wild ride and I really enjoyed it. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

love,
BW