Category Archives: bitches

Why I Would Rather Wait on Men Than Women

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“We are so annoying.”

There is a reason that most servers would rather wait on men than women. A whole book could be written on the subject, but the sort answer is this: women can be real bitches.

While dining out last night at a really great bar, I had the pleasure of sitting next to two women who graciously allowed me to take a photo of them for this blog post.

Let me rephrase that sentence:

While getting trashed last night at a really great bar, I was annoyed as fuck by the two bitches sitting next to me and I took a picture of them for this blog post.

The first thing they do when they sit down at the bar is ask me to move over a little bit so they can have more room. Never mind that if I move down, I will then have less room because the only thing that matters is them and their precious vaginas.

“I want a margarita, but you can make sure it’s made with fresh lime juice? And I want cilantro in it. Like a mojito, you know? But with cilantro instead of mint and tequila instead of rum.” says Bitch #1.

Bitch #2 says, “I want one of those spicy margaritas.”

I watch Oscar, the amazingly cool bartender, begin making their drinks. When the drinks are placed before them, I can see disappointment in their faces. Well, more disappointment than was already there, because it is clear that they are unhappy with their lot in life, you know, being miserable bitches and all that.

Bitch #2 looks at her drink. “Oh, I don’t think this is what I wanted.” She looks at the drink sitting in front of another person at the bar. ” I wanted that one.”

“Oh,” says Oscar. “Well, that’s a Sundia.”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted.” She slides her drink back to he bartender. “Sorry.”

I watch as Oscar takes away the perfectly fine spicy margarita and I hold back a tear as I watch him pour it down the sink.

By this point, Bitch #1 has tasted her drink and has found it to be unacceptable. “Oh this isn’t right. It needs to be sweeter.” She too slides the drink across the bar and Oscar removes it to make it more to her liking. I assume he adds some agave nectar to the cocktail but it is my hope that he simply throws a snot rocket in there that he pulled out of his nose with a Splenda packet. When he gives her the drink back, she seems satisfied. Or at least as satisfied as a miserable bitch like her can ever be.

A few minutes later he gives Bitch #2 the drink that she should have ordered in the first fucking place. Of course Bitch #1 wants to taste it to give her approval.

“Can I get another straw?”

Oscar obliges, of course, and she takes a sip giving her nod of approval as if anyone gives a shit about whether or not she likes her friend’s cocktail. They then pull out a laptop and place it on the bar to look at an online dating website. Hoping for winks, nods or pokes from potential suitors, they sip their drinks and continue on in their bitch ways.

Happy hour ends at 7:00 and at 7:18 I hear Bitch #2 ordering again.

“Can we get one more drink but we want it to be the happy hour price since the first drinks took so long to be made.”

Oscar, being the professional that he is, agrees and begins making another Sundia for them.

“But can you pour it into two glasses and make sure that both of them are rimmed with that spicy salt?”

They are insufferable.

After they leave, the bar lightens up and the air is fresher without their two stink holes polluting it up. I tell Oscar how nice he was to them and let him know that I will be writing a blog post abut them. He writes down the name of the blog and pretends that he is going to go read it.

“I’ll check it out,” he says. I know he won’t. In his eyes, I am just some drunk sitting at his bar and he is counting the minutes until I leave. But I did have a great time there last night. And Oscar, if you read this, give me a sign. Tell me something that we talked about last night. Thanks for the drinks. You were great.

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Welcome to Baby Land


I have been back to my restaurant for two shifts after a six week hiatus. Turns out nothing has changed. As I came up out of the subway to go to work, I saw the same homeless guy with the same cardboard sign saying he had the same disease he had the last time I saw him. I was immersed in depression. Not for him. Me. All of a sudden it was blatantly clear that things were the going to be the same at the restaurant as they were six weeks ago when I left.

Today at lunch, I was reminded yet again how horrible Upper East Side mothers are. Seriously, do they take a class at the Learning Annex on how to be so fucking annoying? Table one: three moms, three babies, three enormous strollers. And as usual, they barricaded themselves in making it impossible for me to serve them anything. They even acknowledged it saying “oh, we’re making it really difficult for you, aren’t we?” but did they move the strollers? Of course not. That would be considerate and also make sense and Upper East Side mothers don’t do those things.

Table two: two women, two babies, two gigantic strollers. I knew these ladies would be a pill when one of them asked me if the Chopped Salad was chopped. No, the Chopped Salad is a sandwich. Bitch, please. Then they sent the Diet Coke back because it tasted funny, even though nobody else in the place felt that way about it. I think their taste buds were off from having their heads too far up their asses. And of course they needed lemons for the water. And when I told one we didn’t have a baby changing station, you’d think I just farted on her. Bitch, please, I fart as I walk by you, not on you.

Table three: two ladies, one baby, one stroller that was bigger than a mid-town studio. This mom was flabbergasted when I told her we didn’t have American cheese for her brat to chew on. “Really? No American cheese?” “Really,” say I. “Well, don’t you think that’s weird?” she asks. I told her that I personally don’t like American cheese so it made me very happy that we didn’t have it. That shut her up and she ordered mozzarella. Her food came out and she was upset that her veggie burger came with fries (read the menu) and needed me to take them off the plate. And then she sent back her brat’s broccoli because it wasn’t soft enough. She prefaced it with a “I hate to be a pain in the neck, but…” Bitch, please. If you hate doing it don’t do it. I hate having my eyes poked out with toothpicks so I just don’t do it. Take a lesson. The baby threw it’s rattle on the ground after banging it on the table for about a hundred hours. When I served their food, I kicked it under the booth so maybe they would forget about it and then I could throw it away when they left. They saw me though. “Oops, I didn’t see that there.” I didn’t get it for them though. I made the fat grandma get it. Who cares?

It’s so nice to be back at work. God how I missed it. I need a drink.

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