Category Archives: douche bag

Please Don’t Beg to Your Waiter

Please don't beg.

Please don’t beg.

At the club I work, there is a two-drink minimum. That’s just how it is at certain music venues in New York City and ours is no different. We tell the customer when they make the reservation, the hostess tells them when they arrive, it’s written on their seating pass and I tell them again when I take their order. It should be pretty clear. I can tell Table 31 is going to be a problem just by the way he doesn’t want to sit where we have seated him. When a customer gets to the club two minutes before showtime, their seat might not be good as someone who arrived at the recommended 30 minutes before showtime. As I take the drink order for him and his friend, I remind them that at some point during the show they can let me know if they want another round or something else entirely. They order a coffee and a seltzer.

“And I guess we will just have to figure out what else we want to order since there is this two drink minimum thing.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Throughout the show, I notice they are barely drinking their beverages. After passing by their table several times I decide that since they aren’t drinking alcohol I am going to let the two drink minimum slide. Five minutes later, Mr. Coffee wants my attention. I can tell he wants it by the way he is waving his arms overhead as if he is stranded on a desert island and he sees a plane flying overhead. I make eye contact with him and head across the room to see what he needs. He continues to wave his arms until I am within six inches of him.

“Another coffee,” he says as he holds up two fingers.

Two coffees?” I ask looking at his two fingers.

“No, just one'” he tells me as he continues to wave two fingers at me. Maybe he is giving me the peace sign, I dunno.

I add the second coffee to the check and when the show is over I give them their bill, which has two coffees, one seltzer but no cover charges because they are guests of the performer. Remember, I could have forced a fourth beverage or rang in a minimum charge but out of the goodness of my bloated black heart, I do not.

He gives me his credit card but then comes to find me a few minutes later to question his bill.

‘Why are there two coffees on here?”

“Because you had two coffees.”

“Can’t you count that as a refill?”

“No, I have to ring in each coffee.”

Suddenly he gets desperate.

“I’m begging ya, please. Please, my brother, I got a hundred dollar parking ticket today. I’m in a rough spot. I’m practically on the streets. C’mon, take one of the coffees off the check.” He points at the two coffee charges, tapping them repeatedly with his finger as if doing so will magically void them off. “Right there.” Tap, tap, tap. “Right there. Take it from $11 to $5.50 and then I’ll just pay you that in a tip instead.”

(Yes, our coffee is $5.50 a cup. Why? Because it is hand roasted by Peruvian children who grow each bean and take care of it as if it’s their own child. The coffee is brewed using water that comes from a glacier and we don’t use just any old coffee filter. Our coffee filters are made by specially trained Black Widow spiders who weave them out of fibers of organic cotton that we grow in Central Park. We then serve the coffee in golden goblets from the Renaissance period that are on loan to us from the Metropolitan Art Museum. Naaa, not really. It’s a New York City cabaret room. Shit’s expensive.)

“C’mon, my brother. Take off one of the coffees and let me tip you extra big instead. I’m begging you.”

I cannot understand how giving the $5.50 to me instead of the club is going to make his financial situation any better.

“I already swiped your card, sir, it’s done.”

“I’m begging you man, I can’t afford the three drinks. Take a coffee off and I’ll tip you real big. Cut me a deal. I’m in a rough spot. I’m practically living in my car.”

“I already did cut you a deal. We have a two-drink minimum so you guys should be paying for four drinks, but I only charged you for three.”

He finally relents and pays the check which has a grand total of $17.87. He leaves me a $3.00 tip, which I am totally satisfied with.

“Thank you, my brother. You have a great night.”

I watch as he heads over to his friend the musician and they make plans to go out for a cocktail.

My thought is this: if you are in such a jam and you are almost living on the streets or in your car because you can’t afford rent, then maybe you shouldn’t be going out to music venues to hear jazz. Maybe you shouldn’t be making plans to go out for cocktails. Maybe you should sit your ass at home and eat some Ramen Noodles that you make in a hot pot. Or maybe you should go to McDonald’s and lift some ketchup packets and mix them with hot water for some cheap-ass tomato soup. What you should not be doing is begging your server to give you free shit. It’s pathetic.

The bartender hears the whole story. “Was he for real?” he asks. “What a dick.”

“I know, right?” I say. “But it’s cool. I didn’t know what I was going to blog about tomorrow but now I do.”

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Three Douchebags Walk Into a Bar

So, three douchebags walk into a bar. No, that’s not the opening line to a joke. It’s what happened last week as I was trying to enjoy my Monday afternoon cocktail at place called 508 Gastropub. After a hard day of shopping and playing miniature golf, all I needed was a simple cocktail to soothe my nerves from the stressful situation that was happening at the golf course; in front of me and behind me, there were children playing who had absolutely no respect for the sport of miniature golf. The kids were running from hole to hole and dropping their balls into water hazards. (That whole sentence totally just reminded me of the summer between my sophomore and junior year in college. No, not because I was a big ol’ slut but because I was the manager at a Putt-Putt Golf.) By the time I was at the bar, the Blood Orange martini was calling my name.

The lovely bartender whipped it up very quickly and placed it before me. I worshipped its beauty and then snapped a picture of it because my cell phone gallery is a sad but meaningful testament to my everlasting love of cocktails.

And then three guys walked in and sat right next to me. They were loud, not funny, loud, pretentious, loud and annoying. The one in the middle wore his sunglasses backwards in the very same manner that The King of all Tools, Guy Fieri does. I think when you go to Douchebag University, that must be the the first thing they teach you. I have never seen anyone but card-carrying douchebags wear them that way. Tool #1 says to the bartender, “Hey, it’s his birthday,” pointing to Tool #3. Tool #2 was busy checking his Blackberry.

“Happy birthday,” said the bartender. Maybe she meant it, but it was clear that these asswipes were not going to get anything for free just because one of them happened to be born. Save that trick for Hooters or Friendly’s.

They ordered two glasses of wine and one Old-Fashioned. It seemed like Tool #3 had just watched the season finale of Mad Men and wanted to be like Don Draper. I studied the behavior and dress of the three guys trying to pinpoint what it was exactly that made them seem so all-encompassing douchey. Maybe it was the Live Strong bracelet one was wearing or maybe it was the way one of them kept laughing way too loud at his own jokes and then looking around to see if anyone else thought he was funny as he thought he was.

They went on to order three dozen oysters. Knowing that oysters are an aphrodisiac, I imagined them sucking them down along with way too much to drink and then going back to one of their apartments to “watch a game” and then blaming the oysters and alcohol on the accidental blow jobs that happened.

Through the course of their conversation, I learned that at least one was a hedge fund manager. I don’t know what that means exactly, but I am pretty sure it has something to do with removing errant hedgehogs from vaginas. Or maybe that’s a Christopher Durang play. He mentioned that his company wants him to move to Houston and he is seriously considering it. “They’d pay me more, it’s 30% cheaper to live there and they have this amazing place called Treasures.” I Googled Treasures and it’s precisely what I figured it would be; a tacky upscale men’s entertainment club.

“Please move to Houston,” I thought. “Right now. Or at least right after you convince your buddy that your penis would never ever fit into his asshole, but you’ll prove it if he wants you to. And if it does fit, then you’re alright with being wrong.”

They continued talking too loudly and getting on my nerves. I finished up my second martini and polished off the onion rings and paid my check. I walked up to the bartender and told her that I write this stupid blog. She was sufficiently unimpressed but I told her that I would be writing a story about the three guys at the end of the bar if she’d like to check it out. I doubt she will. They probably tipped her well, because she was very pretty. They would have tipped her more though if she worked at Treasures.

Farewell, Douchebags. Thanks for the story and thank you for letting me take your picture even though I didn’t ask your permission.

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