I never ever post two things in one day so don’t get used to it or anything. But I learned a new word yesterday and it has moved to the top of my list of favorites surpassing verisimilitude, onomatopoeia and douche. The word is “hutch.”
Defintion: a combination of the words ho-slut-bitch.
Used in a sentence: That hutch at table 32 wants lemon slices for her water.
Please add this word to your lexicon and use it frequently. It is a very good word. You’re welcome.
The Bitchy Waiter
See the Urban Dictionary for the official definition.
Here is a brief list of all things I wanted to say to Table 32 a few days ago:
- Do you really need to be reseated that many times in order to find the perfect seat?
- It’s tacky to tip the host and then still complain about where you’re sat.
- The drink has Blue Curacao in it, so yes it is actually going to be blue.
- The Real Housewives of New Jersey asked me to tell you to give them their accent back.
- That blouse looks like it came from the $5 and under bin at Chico’s.
- Black is not slimming.
- You have on way too many sequins. The only person wearing that many sequins should be on an episode of “Toddlers and Tiaras” or be named Liza Minnelli.
- You don’t need to call me over to hand me an empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
- I see that your reservation was for two but you are alone now. You don’t have to tell me that you decided to take yourself out tonight. It’s obvious that your husband bailed on you and is at home relishing the two hours of solitude and trying to recall what it’s like to not have his ears bleed from the sound of your voice.
- Your hair is scaring me. And scarring me. For life. Frosted is not pretty.
- You don’t need to call me over to hand me another empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
- Do you really need more napkins or are you just trying to think of something to ask for every time I walk by you?
- Seriously bitch, stop calling me over to take empty shit from your fucking table.
- Using the phrase “it’s a delight” does not make you sophisticated. It makes me think you heard it on that episode of “The Three Stooges” when they were plumbers at that fancy party and that one snobby rich lady said it.
- Using the phrase “it’s a delight” more than six or seven times makes me think you are supremely dumb and a trifle desperate.
- Yes, I can get you an order of hummus and chips.
- Yes, I can get you more chips.
- I see you waving me down again. Let me guess. Your plate is empty and you want me to take it. Stop it.
- The people next to you are sick of hearing you talk. They don’t know you and don’t want to be your friend.
- Yes, I will get your check for you. You don’t have to ask me for that. It’s on my list of things to give to you along with a dirty look and a fist up your puss.
- Yes, we take American Express. Your American Express card does not impress me. It’s a green one.
- You looked stupid when you took a picture of the performer after her show and told her she was “a delight.” Enough with that phrase already.
- I hate you. You annoy me. Don’t come back.
Things I actually said to Table 32 a few days ago:
- Can I take your order?
- Yes, ma’am.
- Good bye.
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So I was watching television today and saw about two minutes of The Real Housewives of Wherever the Fuck. Honestly, I was just switching channels and this scene caught my eye. I don’t normally waste my precious time watching such mediocre crap on television. I use my boob tube time for important shit like So You think You Can Dance, The Biggest Loser, America’s Next Top Model, Top Chef, Survivor and 60 Minutes. Okay one of those is not true, but I will let you guess which one of those things is not like the others. Anyhoo, one of the women was ordering at a cocktail at a restaurant. Not sure of her name or which one she was, but she was blond and had really big fake-looking tits. Does that narrow it down at all? When she ordered, I hated her immediately. I actually grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down what she said:
I’m gonna do a Cadillac margarita but I like it with Sterling Silver with a little bit of Grand Mariner and two fresh limes squeezed in it with soda water and only salt on part of the rim.
Is she for fucking real? Then she bragged about how she likes to order food in a certain way because she is so particular. She calls it particular, while I call it cunt-like. The waitress had a big ol’ smile plastered to her face but you know it was only there because she had this fucking reality show camera all up in her ass. I bet as soon as she got to the side stand, she found the skankiest glass she could find to give to the bartender. And then she probably said to the bartender, “this lady is a fucking cunt.” And then I bet the bartender took the two fresh lime wedges that she wanted and he dropped them onto the floor before he dropped them into her glass and then when he salted the rim (partially) he used dishwater to adhere the salt and the Grand Mariner was probably just cheap ass triple sec. Because that is what she deserved. Honestly if you need something that specific, make it at home.
I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did. I could feel the pain of the waitress and I wanted to reach into my screen and pat her on the shoulder and tell her that everything was going to be okay. And then I wanted to cunt punch that “real” housewife because she needs that to happen to her for once. And it would have made great reality television.
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You know, I don’t give a shit who pays for the fucking check. It does not matter to me (or any other waiter) who paid last, who owes whom, who’s turn it is to treat, who’s birthday it is or who makes more money. We just want you to pay the damn check and get out so we can start talking about you. Nothing is more irritating than listening to two old ladies argue over who will pay for the two soups that weren’t hot enough and the two hot teas that weren’t Lipton. Just split it or give me two credit cards and shut up.
It happens all the time. Someone asks for the check and then the other person has to say “Oh no, you don’t! I’m paying.” “No I’m paying'” “No I am…” and so on and so forth. Or what really cracks my shit up is when one person says they are going to the bathroom and then sneaks over to me in the sidestand to interrupt my mimosa drinking to slip me a credit card. And then ten minutes later the other person does the same thing because they both want to be the big shot and be the one who pays. I always ask who is going to tip better. I have seen people get seriously upset about the whole stupid thing. A few years ago two men were both grabbing for the check to pay for it and prove who had the biggest penis when they got too into it. They were grabbing and pushing and eventually tilted the table and knocked over a few glasses that fell and shattered. Now who do you think had to clean that shit up? I just grabbed the check and said “DECIDE!” Now when two people argue about it I have a system. The first credit card that touches my hand is the one who pays. No exceptions whatsoever. A man once gave me his card and then the lady was saying “No, wait I have to pay because it’s his birthday. Wait wait! Take my credit card.” She continued whining as I swiped his card and made the man pay for his own birthday dinner. When I came back to the table I told them my rule as she shot me a look of hatred. I shot it right back to her and as I handed the check to the man, I smiled and said “happy birthday.”
I think everyone should be a waiter for six months of their lives. It would make the world a much better place, I just know it. Most people have never waited tables or if they have they forgot how goddamn shitty it can be to depend on total strangers to pay your income. Do you know what waiters usually make hourly? Less than minimum wage. I make $4.60 an hour. That means if I work 40 hours, I would only get $184 for the whole week. That does not even pay for my internets and phone service. Out of that humongous sum of money, I have to pay taxes on tips (whether I get them or not) and my paycheck is usually zero. That’s right, I said zero. Waiters pay taxes on a percent of their sales even if they got stiffed on a check. If I ring up a $75 check and Cunty McCuntcunt decides to leave only $5, the government is still going to tax me as if I had gotten a 15% tip. Uh huh. I pay taxes on tips I don’t even get. It sucks. Which is why customers must leave at least 15% for the tip. Some people are too stupid to figure it out, so they just leave 10%. Ignorance is not an excuse. If you need help, just double the tax so you would be leaving about 16%. Out of the tip that we are given then we have to tip out of it to the bartender and the food runner and the busser. I worked at one place once and we had to tip 40% of what we made. That sucked and I only lasted there for three days. But plenty of people work there and have to tip out the coffee girl, the guacamole maker, the hostess and the ass-wiper in the bathroom. If you have a crappy waiter, sure, maybe they don’t deserve more than 10%. But a good one deserves 20%. I deserve 25%.
So many mothers have this sense of fucking entitlement like she is the first woman to ever push a baby out of her Sweet Potato Pie Hole. It’s been happening for thousands of years, no big whoop. I cannot write enough about my disdain for children in my station. I don’t want them in my personal life so why the fuck would I want one at work? But people bring their babies in and then they think it’s my responsibility to make sure the music is not too loud. Or they have the nerve to ask me to heat up their baby food. Why would they think I have time for that? It’s not my baby. I am supposed to ignore my other tables and then bother the kitchen staff to heat up a bottle of milk? I’d rather you just breastfeed if it means I don’t have to do anything. Not that I want to get a close up view of your areola when I refill your Diet Coke. These are the same people who bring babies to an R rated movie and think it’s okay for everyone else to listen to it for two hours. No one cares about your baby except the people who know your baby (and some of them only act like they give a shit.) No one in the restaurant wants to step around your giant stroller or listen to it cry or watch you whip out your tit so it has an appetizer. Leave them at home with a sitter. Or just leave it alone while you come out to eat. I am sure it will be fine, whatever. Just leave a post-it note on it’s head with your cell phone number so if there is a problem the police will know how to reach you. You could always take it to Chuck E. Cheese where they live for that shit. The people who work there love it when they have a room full of screaming babies. Or better yet, order in. We have take out menus. Just don’t sit in my station.
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