Category Archives: Uncategorized

Woman Goes Ballistic For Meatball Marinara Sub

screen-shot-2016-09-22-at-2-37-47-pmAn unidentified woman at an unidentified Subway had a serious meltdown when she was unable to get her Meatball Marinara Sub. I mean, this woman melted more than the cheese does when they pop my 12” turkey club into that little mini oven thingy. Thankfully, someone had a cell phone and recorded the entire scene and even more blessedly, that person filmed it in horizontal mode. Will wonders never cease?

The video is long, but if you want to hear the best part, just skip to the 2:20 mark where she claims to hate being an asshole to the sandwich artist. For someone who doesn’t want to be a bitch, it turns out she’s really, really good at it.

“Get a fucking meatball sub! Get it!! Fucking get it!!”

She seems on the verge of tears and her throat sounds drier than her hair looks. I gotta give it up to Mr. Subway who remains calm through the whole scene. If I was behind that line, I would have reached over the glass, pulled her pants out of her ass crack, shoved her keys up her culo and told her to settle for a cold cut combo. I also notice that she appears to be holding rolls of coins. Classy. The woman screeches that she has been having this Meatball Marinara Mystery every time she comes in for the past six years. Ummm, if they never have what you want, why do you keep coming back? My suggestion to her is to walk out the door, turn right or left and look for another Subway. If it’s anything like New York City, there should be another one next door.

This video is traveling fast across the Internet so you know it’s only a matter of days before the woman comes out and explains her side of the story. Hopefully, before that happens, she takes a moment to do a deep hot oil conditioning treatment on her luscious locks and washes her dirty jeans which looks like they have had a rough couple of nights at the Greyhound bus station.

People, if you are going to freak the fuck out on a service worker in a public place, please know that someone is going to film it and the world will know about your behavior. Before you lose it and run the risk of being the next viral sensation, take a deep breath and really consider if it’s all worth it. It’s just a Meatball Marinara Sub. I get it, they are delicious. But sometime restaurants run out of food and all you can do is accept that fact and keep on living your life.

What Your Silverware is Really Thinking

screen-shot-2016-09-22-at-12-51-30-pmPerhaps you saw this video when I shared it a couple of weeks ago on my Facebook page, but I am sharing it again for two reasons:

  1. I think it’s clever, well-written and has great production values.
  2. I want to be in the next one and play the knife that gets wedged under a wobbly table and is stuck there forever and if I continue to share their video maybe I can guilt them into casting me.

Seriously though, I think the video is great and it reminds me of a story I wrote about a fork that was accidentally tossed into the trash can. That story used to be on the blog, but it’s in my book now so if you want to read it, you can go buy my book.

If you want to go to the Facebook page of Knives & Forks, click here. And tell them I said hello.

Why Can’t My Waiter Be a Better Photographer?


September 16, 2016

Dear Diary,

Ugh. Tonight I went to dinner at Essex Bar & Bistro with all my besties for Lele’s birthday and I swear to God, it was basically awful. I mean, the food was good and everything, but our waiter was like, totally lame. Like, we asked him to take a photo of us and he couldn’t even do that right. Like, oh my God, who can’t take a picture with an iPhone? How dumb do you have to be? By the way, my Daddy bought me the new iPhone 7 in Rose Gold and it is almost as beautiful as I am. Almost. Ha ha! The waiter wasn’t very good at his job which does not surprise me at all. Like, I asked for four lemon wedges and he just brought me a bowl of them and I counted only three. Umm, I asked for four! And then, when I told him I needed a gluten-free menu he told me they don’t have one. Dafuq? In this day and age, every restaurant should have a gluten-free menu. So then I asked him what I could eat there and he told me that it was my job to know what I could and couldn’t have if I was avoiding gluten. How rude! Anyways, I ordered the mushroom flatbread and it was so yummy. Since he couldn’t be bothered to give me a gluten-free menu, I hope that the crust didn’t have any wheat in it. If it did, welp, there goes my diet! Ha ha! I also ordered the Essex Ginger Berry cocktail, but asked for it with no ginger and instead of vodka I had tequila. And instead of a martini glass I asked for it in a regular glass. Frozen. With a sugar rim. He seemed all irritated with me, but whatever. Anyways, we asked him to take our picture like ten times. He always acted like he was so busy and couldn’t’ be bothered. He kept going to other tables and doing things for them like filling their water and carrying out their food and stuff like that there. Umm, hello?? If I’m tipping you 10% then you need to do what I say, alright? Finally, he took a picture of us and it was so bad. Like Lisa’s head was cut off and you couldn’t even see that I had just gotten my highlights done this week. We asked him to take another one and it sucked too. The lighting was bad. So we asked for another and this time Ashley had her eyes closed. So we asked him to take one more and he basically told us he was too busy. Welp, there goes his tip! So I was forced to take a selfie because I wanted to check in on Facebook. His photography skills were about on par with his serving skills. (That’s what I wrote on Facebook too. Sick burn, right?) Anyway, diary, I had a fun night. I just don’t understand why waiters aren’t required to take a photography class or something. It would be really helpful for people like me who lost their selfie stick. And waiters are supposed to be there to do stuff for us like wipe up the table when I spill my drink, sweep under the table when I drop my bread and take a picture of me when I need it. Happy birthday, Lele!! Sorry about the crappy photo of your special night. Waiters suck.


(This may or may not be an actual entry from her diary. We cannot be certain.)

This Guy Does NOT Want to Date You

14388857_10206306045284726_955405714_nAlright, ladies. In case any of you are out there searching for Mr. Right, I just found someone that you should 100% not waste your time on because he is so not into you. If you see him on Tinder, make sure to swipe left with an extreme sense of urgency. His name is Jonathan and, despite his athletic build, tiny waist and gigantic pectoral muscles that are bigger than my ass, you aren’t going to like him. Well, I mean he will not like you, so why bother?

PLEASE do NOT message me if you are a waitress, bartender, stripper, Scorpio, or have implants…..things will not work out.

That’s right, he has 86’ed a whole group of women because they work in a restaurant so too bad for you. What’s that? You wait tables part-time because you are getting your masters degree in philosophy? Jonathan don’t care! Oh, you just pick up shifts on the week-end for extra money because your full-time job of being a high school teacher doesn’t pay you enough? Jonathan don’t care! So you used to have a 9 to 5 job in an office and it was slowly killing your soul and then you learned you could make more money waiting tables so you left that job to be happier? Jonathan don’t care.

He is also going to hate you if your birthday happens to be somewhere between October 23 and November 21, so do not, I repeat, DO NOT swipe right. (Sorry to Katy Perry, Emma Stone and  Shailene Woodley. You’re all hot, rich and famous, but he don’t care). And strippers can forget about getting a date too. Or any woman with implants because it’s very important that Jonathan has the biggest tits in the relationships.

It’s quite the shame that none of you hard-working, beautiful slingers of the hash will ever get a chance to date him because he sounds like such a prize. I mean, just take a glimpse of the six things that he cannot live without:

1. Food. Umm, I don’t think any of us can live without food, Jonathan. And some of that food might be brought to you by a waitress.

2. Water. Again, we kind of all need water. If anyone goes for more than three days without it, they’re pretty much knocking on the death’s door. And by the way, your waitress is more than happy to get that water for you.

3. Shelter: Wow, Jonathan needs shelter. I bet he lives in a man cave.

4. Standup-comedy. So if Jonathan doesn’t make it to his local Comedy Cellar every few days, he will not survive? Having waited tables for many comedy shows over the years, I think the world would be alright if a few of those guys who go see stand-up went extinct.

5.. Sex until 6 AM. No word on what time that sex starts, but there is a good chance that it began at 5:55 AM.

6. Deep conversations involving philosophical views. Uh huh, Right. Sure. But if you are that waitress who is waiting tables part-time while you are getting your degree in philosophy, then nevermind.

Maybe it’s wrong of me to publicly demean Jonathan for his views, but then again, who cares? It’s his public profile and he has a right to feel what ever he feels and I am doing him favor by showing his profile to even more women. I’m basically helping him by making sure more women know not to waste his time.  I do think it’s unfair of him to immediately disqualify a prospective date simply because that person wears an apron at their job. Then again, most waitresses I know are too smart to fall for that whole “deep conversations involving philosophical views” thing.

An Open Letter To the Meanest Boss in the World

14397921_10157393907640403_1009427315_nDear Mean Boss,

I have spies all over the world and if there is some social injustice happening in a restaurant, I eventually know about it. A reader recently sent me a photo that they snapped at your restaurant, Scarolies Pasta Emporium. “I went down the wrong hallway  when I was going to the restroom and realized I was headed toward the kitchen. A little note over the sink caught my eye and, because I am a nosy person who also works in a restaurant, I wanted to see what it said. I was surprised and figured it was a joke, but I took a photo of it.” Well, that photo made its way to me and the note says:

Waiter, Waitress, Busboy, Bartender
If anyone is caught talking to another staff member during their shift, you will get an automatic 2 week suspension.

Umm, what the fuck, Mean Boss? Are you seriously threatening suspension to any of your employees who talk to each other? How are they supposed to communicate? With fucking smoke signals and Morse code? What if a server needs some help but can’t ask a co-worker to please go fill the waters at Table 207? Is the guest supposed to sit there and dehydrate because you don’t allow your servers to talk to each other? Please, Mean Boss, tell me this is a joke. Tell me that someone posted that note just to get a laugh. I refuse to believe that any employer could be that much of a dick.

But perhaps you are. Maybe you see your staff as chattel and you have have complete disregard for the people who do their best to make your restaurant a success. Maybe you are one of those bosses who is so friendly to the customers and pretend like you have a heart, but behind closed doors you’re a monster who charges employees when they accidentally break a glass or you make them stay two hours after work to do deep cleaning but don’t pay them extra. I dunno. If this note is a joke, please let us know. Somehow, I don’t think it is.

As for the staff, I hope you have figured out sign language or have the ability to pass notes to one another like fourth graders during a math test. If you can’t speak to each other, I venture to guess that it is the quietest kitchen in the world. Since I don’t see cooks on the “Do Not Talk” list, I guess they are allowed to use their vocal chords. And I assume that the servers, bartenders and busboys are permitted to speak to them as well. That’s awfully nice of you, Mean Boss. I mean if a customer is deathly allergic to fish, it’s helpful for a waiter to actually be able to convey that to someone else. It would definitely suck if a customer died because of your stupid little note:

Police: What happened? How did the lady die?
Waiter: Well, she was allergic to shellfish, but someone else ran my food and he picked up the wrong plate and gave it to her.
Police: Why didn’t you stop him if you knew he was taking her the wrong plate?
Waiter: Oh, our boss doesn’t allow us to talk to each other, see that sign over there?  So I was writing out a note to tell him it was the wrong plate, but by the time I wrote it down, the customer already took a bite and then she died. Bummer, right?
Police: Wow, your boss is an asshole.
Waiter: Totally. Sorry about the dead customer, but rules is rules. And I couldn’t afford to be suspended for two weeks.
Police: Oh, yeah, I totally get it.

Mean Boss, feel free to reach out to me to explain your bizarre rule. And if anyone who works there wants to reach out to me, please do. Thank you to the person who sent me this little hidden gem. I hope you found your way to the restroom but I’m sure glad you snapped this very important photo.

Mustard and mayo,
The Bitchy Waiter

When There is a Roach At Your Table:

imagesWhen I glance back to Booth 15 to see if their waters need filling or if they have finished their red curry mussels, something catches my eye. On the wall, directly behind the nice woman, I see something that is not usually there.  At first, it appears to be a reflection or a shadow but as walk toward Booth 15 it becomes clear what it is: a roach. Not one of those little “I’m gonna sweep you up with a bev nap” kind of roaches, but a much bigger one. The kind that, if I were at home, would be chased around with a shoe until I slam it three or four times and I see its bug juices oozing onto the floor. I quickly veer off to the dish room so as not to bring attention to the unwelcome visitor. “This is what we get for leaving the patio door open on such a nice night,” I think.

From the dish room, I peer out from behind the curtain to access the situation. At once, I am happy and disappointed that the restaurant lights are so dim. If they were a bit brighter, I could see more clearly, but then so would the other woman at Booth 15 who is directly facing the roach. I give a prayer of thanks that the manager likes to keep it as dark as a crypt in the restaurant because that must be what is keeping anyone else from spying this thing that is big enough to have its own place setting. It moves around the wall, just a few inches from Lady #1. At one point, she laughs, tilting her head back, and I fear that she is going to lean directly onto the beast. I assume the other woman is either cataract-ridden, drunk or simply pretending she doesn’t see it, for why else would she not be calling me over to attend to it?

For fifteen minutes, the demon beetle of bitch street hovers on the wall and for fifteen minutes, I avoid it. Knowing there needs to be a cursory check on the women, I zoom by with a tray of glasses and ask if everything is alright. They confirm that it is, so I take that to mean either they don’t see the bug or they do see it and they don’t mind that a disgusting, two-inch cockroach has set up shop at their booth . I am torn. Do I ask them to move and then attack the enemy? Maybe I should discreetly swat it, but how? It is on the wall behind the booth, so it isn’t easily accessible. Or do I just go on pretending I don’t know about it and hope for the best?

Finally, I know what my decision is, which is not to decide. So I go into the restroom and do what every blogger would do in this situation and pull out my phone and do a live Facebook feed:

About five minutes after my live video is over, the women ask for their check. By this point, the offensive creature is no where in sight and the two women happily pay their check and leave me 20%. When it comes time to clean the table, I hesitantly approach it because I know that at any second, the roach could jump out at me and drag me under the table quicker than that thing pulled Barb into the upside down on Stranger Things. Slowly, the table is cleared and wiped down and then I notice some crumbs underneath the booth, directly under where the roach had been. I retrieve the broom and dustpan and, with the broom, reach under the seat.

And there it is! Oh my god, it’s huge. And it’s flying! It’s one of those horrible water bugs that can fly and I know it wants to jet into my hair and make a nest. “Awwwkkk! Blech! Ughhhhh! It’s coming after me. Don’t lay any eggs in my hair, I just washed it today!” And then suddenly, I notice it isn’t flying like those bugs normally do, it is fluttering. Softy, it flies out from underneath the table and heads to the light fixture above me. It’s a moth! It was only a moth this whole time which would explain why the woman who was facing it didn’t scream with terror and demand that her ribeye steak (medium rare, sub fries) be comped. For the last twenty minutes, I had worried about a moth. I laugh to myself and think, “Well, maybe I can write a blog post about this…”