Since today is the day that Dr. Phil re-aired the “Brat Ban” episode that I was a part of, it seems only right to have a post about children. If you are new to this blog, welcome. And what took you so long? I hope you will follow me on Twitter and Facebook. I bitch. A lot. I use bad language, say horrible things about people and complain about my job. If you don’t like that, please click here to leave this page post haste. Anyhoo…
Allow me to clarify my statements about banning brats from restaurants. I never once said that no child should ever be allowed in a restaurant. What I was trying to say was that if a restaurant wants to have that policy, then they are free to do so. When I said that people should take their children to a place that serves chicken fingers and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I meant that maybe a restaurant that only serves lobster and high end steaks is not the place to take your screaming devil spawn of a child. (By the way, lady, I do think your child should eat processed chicken. Not because he doesn’t deserve steak, but because you get on my last fucking nerve and the processed chicken will make him have an extra stinky poop that you will then have to take care of.) As for Katie, who suggested I get another job, I like her. We are friends. She was playing a role and I thanked her for saying the name of my blog again. She’s cool.
I do think children should be allowed in restaurants, of course. However, there are a few things they should not be allowed to do while there. They should not:
- Run around unsupervised. If I spill a pot of hot coffee on your tot because he was playing with his Hot Wheels on the floor, I will feel horrible about it because I hate to waste a perfectly good pot of freshly brewed coffee.
- Lean over the booth and have conversation with the people behind you. Those people will pretend to like it, but they will not. Trust me.
- Be parked in a stroller that is blocking a side stand, the walkway, or your own table making it impossible for your server to do his job. Take the kid out of the fucking stroller, fold it up and find a place for it. You can store it in the coatroom, a closet or up your own ass, I don’t care. Just keep it out of my way
- Go to the bathroom unattended because they always end up wandering around the restaurant after they pee all over the seat.
- Cry incessantly while the parents pretend they don’t hear it. Everyone else hears it and it’s annoying as fuck. Take it outside.
- Order something that isn’t on the menu just because that’s what they want. We don’t have to make a grilled cheese just because we happen to have bread and cheese in the kitchen. We also have the makings for Cockroach Ceviche but that doesn’t mean we are going to make it.
- Scream. Period.
- Use a cup that does not have a lid on it. You may think your son is ready for a “big boy glass” but we don’t want to mop up an apple juice just because you are trying to prove how wonderfully advanced your child’s motor skills are.
- Eat Cheerios. Unless you can be certain that the whole grain goodness won’t end up smashed on the floor and in the cracks of the booth, we don’t want it any where near our station.
- Be barefoot. Do you have any idea how many glasses are broken each week in a restaurant and how half-assed we clean it up? Put those stupid fucking Kiddie Crocs back on those stubby ass feet and deal with it. If a child in my station cuts his foot on broken glass, I will be saddened that I have to mop up blood. Not in my job description.
- Sit at the table alone while their parents go out for a quick smoke. Servers are not babysitters and we don’t want to “watch them for a couple of minutes.” Seriously, parents?
I could go on and on but I will stop there. It’s no secret that I am not a fan of the kids and people always assume that must be because I don’t have kids of my own. They would be wrong. I have a baby. His name is Albert. He is cardboard and he is prefect.