Don't Touch Me

I was touched inappropriately at work last night and I am not talking in a good way. It was a very busy night and I was making the rounds to my tables as they were sat for the big show. What people don't realize is if they are not ready when I get to their table, then I will not be able to make it back to them again until I round out my whole station. Sorry, that's how it works. Table 4 wasn't ready for drinks but they did know that they wanted some cheese plate action and some mixed nuts. I took the drink orders for the tables around them and went to the computer to send that shit. I went back to my station and as I was at table 22X, I felt the tell tale sign of someone who his hand chopped off, because table 4 was pulling at my shirt. I turned around and said, "I'll be right with you, sir." My inner monologue was little different:

Oh hell no, you did not just tug at my shirt you sorry ass bucket of 1000 Island Dressing. Do you not see me standing here having a conversation with this other bitch at table 22X? Do you seriously think it is okay to touch my back and feel all up on me without even getting to know my name first or takin' my ass over to the Red Lobster for alls you can eat shrimps and lobster? Get your hand all up off of me. I do not care that you are all in a hurry now to order your stupid ass Rubytini because when I was just up at your table your ass couldn't even be bothered to hardly make eye contact with me but now you're all ready so I'm supposed to drop this bitch at table 22X and hop right over to you? Uh uh. I don't think so. Get your filthy paws off my silky drawers and you best be keepin' your hands to yourself for the rest of the night. I will run over to the sidestand and find the nastiest dullest steak knife I can find and you will see what it feel like to be a double amputee when I hack those hands right of your arms and leave you with nothing but a couple of stumpy ass nubs, you sorry ass bitch.

I smiled at table 4 and carried on with table 22X. When table 22X was done, do you think I went to table 4? Nope. I moved on to someone who hadn't molested me. Eventually, I made it back to table 4. "Okay, what can I get for you tonight? " I looked at their bowl of mixed nuts, half gone, and knew they were probably dying of thirst. The man who had made physical contact with my body mumbled something. "I'm sorry, sir, what was that?"

"If I would have known it was going to take so long for you to come back I would have just ordered the first time you were here, " he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It got really busy. But I'm here now. What would you like?" Again, my inner monologue was a bit different.

Uh huh, maybe you will be ready to order a little faster next time, you miserable sad sack pity fuck. Maybe you learned a lesson tonight. Just because you're the customer doesn't necessarily mean you run the goddamn timetable around here. I got a freakin' system and you better learn it. When I come up to take your order, you better be ready to tell me what you want because you might have to wait a whole ten fucking minutes before you can order your sorry ass cup of coffee or tap water with no ice and extra lemon. And maybe the next time you'll think twice before touching your server because if you have even half a brain inside that big over sized head of yours, you may realize that maybe that's why I took my sweet ass time to get back to your table. Don't fucking touch me unless your cool with me copping a feel of your wife's tits. Strangers don't touch strangers unless you're crowded onto the 6 train, you're in the backroom of a bar on the Lower East Side or you just met on craigslist.

I got the table their drinks. We were fine from then on. I think he read my mind a little bit. Cocksmack.

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