The Real Story of Why That Starbucks Employee Lost It

It ain't gonna be pretty.

It ain’t gonna be pretty.

Maybe you heard about the Starbucks manager who totally lost it on her customer last week. Thank God for cell phone video, because the whole scene is all kinds of awesome. First off, I had no idea that times were so hard for Rosie Perez that she started picking up shifts at Starbucks. As if being on The View wasn’t bad enough, now she has to take orders for decaf fucking macchiatos all goddamn day. According to news reports, the customer wanted a cookie straw (whatever the hell that is) to go with her Frappuccinno and it all went downhill from there.


Of course we don’t know what went on before someone reached into their pocket for their iPhone and started recording. Since I am always willing to give the benefit of the doubt to the employee rather than the customer, I would like to hypothesize the events that transpired that caused Rosie Perez to flip her lid:


Customer: Ummm, excuse me, but I’m in a really big hurry because I am super important and my needs supersede everyone else here.

Rosie Perez: Yes, miss. What can I get for you? I will do it right away because we here at Starbucks care about all of our customers and want to make them as happy as poss-

Customer: Yeah, anyway. I’m ready to order.

Rosie Perez: What would you like?

Customer: Ummm, I dunno. I kinda want a Caramel Frappuccino but I’m on a diet. How many calories are in that?

Rosie Perez: There are 410 calories in that beverage with 140 of them from fat.

Customer: Oh my God! Are you trying to make me fat? That is horrible. Can you make it with skim milk and leave off the whipped cream and use less caramel? Wait, maybe I want one of those Organic Ginger Limeade drinks.

Rosie Perez: Those are delicious and only have 120 calories and no fat.

Customer: No fat? Okay, I want a little bit of fat. Can you add some caramel and whipped cream to that drink? I’m in a hurry.

Rosie Perez: No, I am sorry. That beverage is bottled and I can’t do that for you.

Customer: Figures that the one thing I want more than anything in the world is something you can’t do for me. Typical. Ummm, okay…lemme see. I just don’t know what I want. Maybe I’ll just get a decaf iced coffee with caramel, but can you blend that and then add whipped cream to it? And also, I’m in a huge hurry. I’m very important.

Rosie Perez: Well, if I do that for you, it would basically be the Caramel Frappuccino and you said you didn’t want that because of the calories. Is that what you’d like?

Customer: Excuse me, but did you just give me attitude?

Rosie Perez: No, miss, not at all. I am trying to help you make a decision. Maybe you would like to take another minute to think about it and I can help one of the people who are behind you?

Customer: No, I know what I want. I want a bottled water but can I get it with the cookie straw that comes with the Caramel Frappuccino? And can you dip the cookie straw into the caramel and then put some whipped cream on it? And I also want a cranberry orange scone, hold the cranberries and oranges and substitute caramel and whipped cream. And I’m in a hurry.

Rosie Perez: I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that.

Customer: You know what then? Just give me the goddamn cookie straw. You people can’t do anything here. I don’t know why I keep coming back here every day?

Rosie Perez: Yes, ma’am, absolutely. Here is your cookie straw. That’ll be $1.39.

Customer: What??? I have to pay for the cookie straw? It comes with the Caramel Frappuccino.

Rosie Perez: Well, it does, but you aren’t buying the Caramel Frappuccino, so I have to charge you for the cookie straw. $1.39.

Customer: This is bullshit. There is no way this cookie straw is worth $1.39. I will take this goddamn cookie straw and shove it up your ass, do you hear me? I am the customer. I am always right. And I am in a huge hurry because I am so important!


At this point, this is when someone begins filming the incident and we all know what happened next. There are two sides to every story, people. And I choose to believe that my (totally made up) version of the story is exactly right.


A Comment on Comments; the “Why I Hate Hot Tea” Edition

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

Earlier this week, I posted a photo (see below) on the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page about how much of a pain in the ass it is to serve hot tea. A few people who don’t understand what the “bitchy” means in Bitchy Waiter got their panties in a twist and came down on me for it. First off, I am not going to apologize for speaking the goddamn honest truth: preparing a hot tea is something that makes a little piece of my soul dry up and blow away in the wind leaving a bitter dusting of hatred all over my section. I am not saying it is justified for me to feel this way, but I am saying that it’s true. And, as is always the case with someone so small-minded like me, I have decided to respond to a few people who have the gall to disagree with me.

Deronious said: How hard is it to bring out hot water and tea bags? Cripes almighty.

Oh, Deronius, if only it were that simple. You see, though, it’s not. Getting a hot tea for someone has about as many steps to it as your name does vowels: too goddamn many. When someone says they want hot tea, their next question is inevitably “What kind do you have?” This is when I have to dig deep into my brain cells to recall all of the varieties of dried leaves that people have the option of stirring into hot water. I have to spout out that we have black tea, green tea, cinnamon apple, English Breakfast, Earl Grey, peppermint, red zinger, lemon zinger, mandarin orange, chamomile, country peach and whatever else the fuck is in that big dusty box I never refill. They will usually ask for Lipton and then I have to go find it. I also have to find a clean looking coffee cup because unlike with coffee, they will be able to see inside this mug of water when I place it before them. I also have to find a saucer, a teaspoon and then go to the bar to get a lemon wedge and something to put it in. Then I go to the reach-in to get the milk and/or cream to pour into the non-existent creamer that seems to mysteriously disappear the moment I need one and I also have to pick up some honey from wherever the hell we store honey. It’s a lot of steps for something that costs $1.50 and will maybe increase my tip by about thirty cents. So, yeah, it’s a pain in the ass.

Brenda said: So what about serving hot tea is so demeaning? I would think it would be easy as coffee or anything from the bar.

Listen, Brenda, no one said it’s demeaning to serve hot tea. I mean, it’s no more demeaning than serving a burger or a plate of pasta and we do that all goddamn day. It’s not as easy as coffee because of all the steps I mentioned earlier and it’s certainly not as easy as ordering a cocktail because I don’t have to make that. All I do is ring that in and the bartender has to deal with it. Let the bartender start his own blog about what a pain in the ass it is to make a mojito.

Elle said: I’ve heard it all now. This ‘bitchy’ (/whiny) waiter needs to go and get a real job and see how hard the rest of the workforce has it when you factor in shitty co-workers/bosses/customers AND the fact that you’re doing an ACTUAL difficult job.

Elle, please go the nearest computer, log in to Amazon and order yourself a bag of dicks to chew on, because I’m sick of the “get a real job” argument. It’s as tired as you probably are after a long hard day at the whorehouse when it’s “buy one whore and get a blow job for free” day. You think the rest of the workforce has it so much harder because they work with shitty co-workers, bosses and customers while working an “actual” job? My job is more actual than your imagined boyfriend, Elle, and some of my co-workers and bosses are the most horrible people on the planet. (I’m talking to you. Mo.) If you truly have “heard it all” you can now stop removing the wax and semen from your ears because there no longer a need for you to listen to anything else for as long as you live. Close up your earholes, close up your legs and close up your mouth. We’re done here.

As always, thank you for your comments. It’s my most sincere pleasure to read them and they fill my heart with love. Best wishes and 25% tips to all of you, bitches.


Fuck you and your hot tea.

Fuck you and your hot tea.




Asteroid Could Destroy Earth Tomorrow; Here’s What to Do At Work Tonight

Buh bye.

Buh bye.

Well, I want to prepare everyone and myself for the possibility that this could quite possibly be the last blog post ever written. As scary as that may seem, it is a reality. According to an online report, tomorrow May 14th, a huge asteroid is going to skim past the earth, barely missing our big blue marble of a planet. Astronomers have calculated that it will not hit us, but if that asteroid changes its mind as often as the bitch at Table 12 did last night, it could slam right into us and end life as we know it.

“It would undoubtedly lead to the deaths of around 1.5 billion people, we are looking at a mass extinction of humanity. To understand the impact of something on this scale, you would have to look to the science fiction writers, it is incomprehensible,” said Bill Napier, professor of astronomy at the University of Buckinghamshire. Since this guy is British, I tend to believe him even though his university sounds like an omelet I would serve at brunch.

We must prepare ourselves and since this could be your last shift at the restaurant, you need to make it count which is why I have advice for everyone. Tonight, as you wait tables, I urge to you to say and do everything you are thinking. When a customer is on your last nerve, don’t swallow that frustration. Instead, swallow a shot of tequila and head right back to that customer and tell them how you feel.

“Really? Are you going to die if you don’t get your well-done burger in the next five minutes?” you should tell them. “Because we are all going to literally die tomorrow when an asteroid the size of 100 Kim Kardashian asses hits our planet and kills us all. The only things that will survive are cockroaches and our special of the day, the baby-back ribs. Thank you for coming in and have a nice night, jack off.”

At the end of your shift, do not bother filling the salt and pepper shakers because tomorrow at lunch, no one is going to care after a a huge lump of moon rock careens into our planet at 30,000 mph. Okay, there will be that one goody two-shoes waitress that nobody likes who will care, but other than that, no one. I can just see that waitress running over to the manager and complaining.

“Ummm, it seems as if the night crew is shirking their duties once again. Look what I found: half empty salt shakers. Honestly, if we can’t work as a team, this restaurant will never achieve its full potential,” she’ll say. And then a a ball of fire will swoop in through the employee entrance and burn her to a crisp while everyone else at work watches, too lazy to go find the fire extinguisher to put her out.

Tonight when you are batching out your credit cards and adding the tips to each them, I say add a thousand dollars to each one. No, you want actually get that money because banks will likely be closed tomorrow as the earth falls off it axis and drifts out into the Milky Way, but at least for one brief moment you can see what a tip report looks like that says you earned $100,000. Customers aren’t going to know unless they have text messaging set up on their credit card and even then, who cares? We’re all dead tomorrow anyway.

Perhaps the asteroid will not hit the earth and tomorrow will be just another day. If that’s the case, you may have some explaining to do when there is no sidework completed, Yelp has exploded with bad reviews about you and the FBI is knocking at your door for credit card fraud, but I say live a little. Don’t you want to make sure that if tonight is your last shift at the restaurant that it’s a special one? I mean, if the earth is going to go out with a big bang, shouldn’t you at least aim for a little one?

Good luck tomorrow. Most of us will probably be gone, but for the few of you who survive, I only wish the best for you. Loot, pillage, get what you can and make the most of it. I think the best thing about life as we know it ending will be that I no longer have to to see anymore goddam fucking Buzzfeed quizzes about which Disney princess I would be.


Is This the Worst Costumer Service Ever at Olive Garden?

Poor Isabel.

Poor Isabel.

It’s Thursday morning and I have nothing better to do than to troll the social media pages of popular restaurants to find something to write about and make fun of. When all else fails, I know I can go to Olive Garden’s Facebook page and scroll down through the posts until I find a gem. And here it is:



Had a very disappointing costumer service down to the management, from there restrooms to the tables and the staff it…

Posted by Isabel Portillo on Friday, May 1, 2015


Poor Isabel had a disappointing costumer experience it and I feel so bad for her. Nothing can ruin a day more than going to your local Olive Garden and not getting the costume that you wanted.

You see, it appears that Isabel was having a masquerade party this weekend and she had her heart set on dressing up as a Marie Antoinette. She thought it would be funny to scream, “Let them eat cake” all night to her guests and then hand out slices of Olive Garden’s White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake. Well, Isabel went to Olive Garden to pick up her costume and cake only to learn that the Marie Antoinette costume had already been rented out that day. Isabel had forgotten to make a reservation for the costume and her arch enemy, Lucinda, had already rented it. The only costume left for Isabel was that of Betsy Ross.

“But I don’t want to be Betsy Ross,” whined Isabel to the manager.

The manager apologized to Isabel and explained that the Marie Antoinette costume is the most popular costume at the restaurant, but Isabel would not listen.

“I demand that I get to be Marie Antoinette. If you don’t give me that costume, I will never come back here again!!” she screamed.

With slow and deliberate speech, the manager explained that the costume was gone and that if she wanted it badly enough, perhaps she herself should ask Lucinda to trade with her.

“I am so angry right now that I need to go take a poop! Where is the restroom?” she wanted to know.

The manager pointed to the back of the restaurant, because really, where else would it fucking be? When Isabel got inside the restroom, she noticed that it was sparkling and clean. It smelled of bleach and on the counter were fresh-cut gardenias. The porcelain toilet sparkled like diamonds and the floor was clean enough to eat off of. (Isabel proved that fact by reaching into her purse to find a handful of Ritz crackers which she promptly threw upon the floor and then picked up again to ingest.) Still angry with the restaurant manager for giving her such a disappointing costumer experience, she decided that she would defile the restroom in order to exact revenge. She pulled all the paper towels out of the dispenser and unrolled toilet paper and tossed the refuse around the restroom. After she finished the business that she went in there to do, she reached into the toilet to further defile the restroom, but thought better of it. She washed her hands, but left the water running.

“Your bathroom is filthy!” she screamed at the manager as he was packing up her Betsy Ross costume.

“Would you still like thirty orders of the White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake?” he asked her.

“No!” she bellowed. “My God, NO! Why would Betsy Ross give out cake? That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard of. Give me thirty orders of Dolcini instead! God, I HATE this place! This is the most disappointing costumer service I have ever experienced!”

She grabbed her Betsy Ross costume and her desserts and stormed out of the restaurant, unknowingly leaving behind the wig and hat. The manager saw this, but didn’t bother calling after Isabel because he was tired of being mistreated by this sad woman who failed to reserve the Marie Antoinette costume.

When Isabel got to her car, she pulled out her phone to snap a picture of the worst Olive Garden in San Antonio.

"The worst," according to Isabel.

“The worst,” according to Isabel.

She logged into Facebook so she could properly vent her frustration on their page with the hope that she will eventually receive an email coupon for a free dessert the next time she comes in. She posted her picture and expressed her severe disappointment with her costume experience. She went home to prepare for her masquerade party.

Later that night when Lucinda showed up as Marie Antoinette, Isabel could hardly take it.

“Nice costume,” Lucinda said to Isabel. “You sorta look like you tried to be Betsy Ross, but where’s your wig and hat?”

Isabel snatched the wig off of Lucinda’s head and grabbed three orders of Dolcini and shoved them down Lucinda’s throat, effectively ending the party and ruining the night.

As the last party guest ran out of the house, Isabel sat on the floor alone sobbing.

“Why Olive Garden? Why? Why must you give such awful costumer service?”


A Comment on Comments: the “I’m An Asshole” Edition

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

I dribbled out a post last week about our new bus boy, an eager 17-year old who I did not know I was working with until I got to work. His arrival was a surprise to me and off-putting because I had been working sans busser for almost a year and now suddenly I was going to have to give up a portion of my tips to someone who was doing things that I could easily do myself. His age also took me by surprise because being thirty years older than a co-worker depressed the living shit out of me. Seriously, it made me defecate into my Depends and for once, it wasn’t due to the prune juice I have each morning with my Fiber One cereal and skim milk. Well, lots of folks read the post and found it to be insensitive and downright asshole-like. And to those people, I shall comment on their comments:

Bob said: You had a first job at one time. Did someone treat you as shitty as you treated this kid? You’re an asshole.

Yes, Bob, I did have a first job once but I don’t know which part of the story you read implies that I was shitty to this new bus boy. Oh, maybe you are referring to the part where I said I gnashed my teeth like an old poodle, is that it? Do you really think that I actually growled at someone and pretended that I may bite them? It’s called satire, Bob. Now who’s the asshole, asshole?

Dawn said: Sorry, I usually agree with you, but, this time as I read your post I actually thought your new coworker was a special needs child and I was waiting for the moment the light went on in your head and and started being nice. I have a disabled son who sounds like your description. It was painful to read in not angry, I know it’s a joke, I know your style and read your blog regiliously (sic). It just struck a chord. I thought you should know.

Dawn, I have never and would never make fun of anyone with special needs. Ever. My father spent many years of his life teaching children with special needs. When I first started college in the late 1800’s, my original major was Theater Education with a focus on special education and it was my intent to teach drama to special needs kids. (That idea went to hell in a lazy hand basket…)The description I wrote of our new busser and the things I had him say were a fictional representation of events that transpired. You don’t really think he went wee wee in his Underoos, do you? Methinks you were looking too hard for something that was not there.

Gilbey said: Please proofread and edit, after years of writing these posts I shouldn’t see several glaring instances in each post where auto-correct filled in with a different word than intended, non-words, random characters and missing words.

Duly noted. I blame this on the fact that I wrote the post in twenty minutes before I went to work.

DHB said: The Bitchy Waiter is an asshole for having an agist attitude. I’m older than he is and I don’t treat the high schoolers who work in my shop like that because they are human. They are just starting out. And another thing, Bitchy Asshole Waiter, learn the meaning of the word “literally.”

DHB, again, I would like to know how I mistreated this kid. He asked me a couple of questions and I answered them. That’s not asshole behavior. I did not mention this in the blog post, but since he was training, he was not expecting to get tipped out. However, the bartender and I did tip him out because we both know how lousy it is to train at a restaurant job and not get any tips. We threw him some money at the end of the night because we, just like yourself, treat high schoolers we work with as human beings. You’re not the only person in the world who does that, so climb off your high horse and eat a bag of horse dicks, okay? And another thing, Bitchy DHB Asshole. I do know the definition of literally:
adverb: literally
in a literal manner or sense; exactly.

I also know that in recent years, people have begun to use it incorrectly and it is becoming more and more common for it to be used in that manner. For example, if someones says, “I laughed so hard, my head literally exploded,” we can be relatively certain that the room is not covered in blood, skull fragments and brain matter. The usage of the word is slowly changing whether you like it or not. My use of the word in the title, “I Literally Work With a Baby” was meant to be funny since I wrote the story as if the 17-year old busser was an actual baby. Of course, he was not. He did not learn about colors and shapes at school that day, he did not jump off the booth claiming to be Superman, nor did he try to use a cell phone that was actually a toy from Fisher-Price. As with Bob, the definition of “satire” is lost upon you. I will now use the word “literally” in its correct form: DHB, is literally a pompous asshole who does not understand how satirical blogs work.

I have not worked with the busser since, (I literally do not remember his name) but I hear he is doing great. He’s a hard worker and very friendly and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he is promoted to server and my old ass is booted to the curb next to the bag of recycling. As always, thank you for your comments and thank you to all of those who knew it was a heightened version of actual events.


I Literally Work With a Baby

What a fucking baby.

I arrive to work for my normal Thursday open to close shift, getting there at 4:00 and preparing myself to stay until we close at 11:00. I am the only server on Thursdays and I split the tips with the sole bartender. It’s a good system and I have no need of a food runner or busser. As I am mopping the floor (more like dragging a damp mop around the restaurant…), I see a kid knocking on the door of the restaurant. I assume he is selling candy bars for his basketball team and I do the same thing to him that I do to customers who want a fourth glass of water, which is pretend I don’t see them. He continues to knock and I think, “Damn, this kid really wants to sell some candy.” I ask our cook Juan if he recognizes the boy at the door and what Juan tells me chills my heart:

“Oh, that’s the new bus boy.”

Wait, what? Bus boy? When did this happen? Why do we need a bus boy and more importantly, how much do I have to tip him out?

I reluctantly go to unlock the door and he rushes in apologizing for being late. “I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t get out of school until 3:30 and I had to run home to change before I came to work.” With that, he zooms down to the basement to deposit his bag and begin work. When he comes back upstairs with his apron tied around his waist, he sees that I have already “mopped” the floor, something I have done every Thursday for months upon months.

“Oh, you already swept the floor and mopped? I’m sorry.”

Now, I’m not only pissed that I am going to have to share my tips, I am also pissed that I did something that I didn’t have to do. I go to find the manager.

“What’s up with the kid? We have a busser now?”

“Yeah, he’s training. Now that spring is here and we are about to open the patio, you’re gonna need some help. He’s 17 years old, so be nice to him.”

Seventeen. He is even younger than I thought he was. My mind is spinning as I think of how many things I own that are older than this bus boy; certain pieces of furniture, photo albums, my Birkenstocks, the t-shirt that I sleep in… I am depressed. I am old enough to be his father and quite possibly older than his parents are. I am going to have to share my tips with someone who is younger than certain bottles of scotch. He told me his name, but I filed it into the same part of my brain that stores the list of our bottled beers, so unless he writes his name down on the menu, I will never recall it.

When our shift meal is presented to us, I get my plate and head back to my usual spot ay Table 16. Like a puppy, he follows me and when he gets too close to my table, I look at him and gnash my teeth like an old poodle who doesn’t want to share his food. He obediently sits down at Table 15.

“Where did you go to school?” he asks me.

In between taking photos of my ugly shift meal for Instagram, I answer him.

“High school? It was in Texas so I’m sure you don’t know it. And I went to college at Hunter.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of Hunter!” he says excitedly. “I love school. Today we learned all about colors and shapes. And my teacher, Miss Stephanie, sang a song to us about the rainbow.”

I snap another picture of my shift meal and concentrate on which filter I should use.

“This one time? At lunch? This kid was throwing his food up and then catching it. Well, not throwing it up like vomiting, I mean throwing it with his hands into the air. It was so funny. But then Miss Stephanie told him to stop it. Then it was nap time.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hey, I know my A,B,C’s, you wanna hear ’em? And I can jump high in the air too. Watch this!”

I look up from my phone and he is leaping off the booth and onto the floor. He does it three times and after the last time, he falls to the ground laughing.

“Man, I felt like Superman! But I like Batman better, don’t you? I mean he lives in a cave! I wanna live in a cave. But my mommy says we can’t live in a cave because Batman isn’t for real life.”

He continues his incessant babbling until he abruptly stops. His eyes widen and his mouth forms a pouty little frown. It looks like he is about to cry.

“Uh oh,” he says. “I think I just went wee wee in my Underoos.”

Finally, he has said something that interest me.

“I used to love Underoos. I didn’t even know they made them anymore, that’s awesome.”

He is not listening. Tears are streaming down his face and he is trying to call his mother on his cell phone, but his phone is one of these:



My point is: the new bus boy is a child! I work with a child.