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If Dr. Seuss Was a Waiter

You do not like green eggs and ham?
Well, that’s our menu. Sorry, ma’am.
If you want treats of prawns or noodles,
Apple pizza, yawns of poodles,
I suggest you go away
And come again some other day.
What you see is what you get,
We do not have a french baguette.
We do not have a pear burrito,
Garlic pie served by mosquitoes.
Our menu has one single thing
That makes the choir of angels sing.
If you don’t like it, that’s too bad
And if you leave, we will be glad.
We truly do not give a damn.
Now, would you like green eggs and ham?

The Story of the Very First Easter

It is the first Sunday after a full moon after the spring equinox of April in the year 30AD and all the restaurants in Judea are packed for brunch. After all, it’s the very first Easter and people are real excited to get their bottomless Bloody Mary’s and Mimsies on. Most of the people crowding the restaurants are even sure what Easter means, but they have an innate sense that they should be at brunch today.

Rhoda is the hostess at Judea’s Applebee’s and she is weeded like she has never been weeded before. “Why are we so busy today? I don’t get it! Is it some holiday I don’t know about it? Jesus Christ!”

At this precise moment and man walks up to her. “Yes?” he asks her.

“Yes, what?” she says back to the man.

“You just called my name,” he tells her. “What can I do for you, my child?”

“No, I didn’t. Whatever. Can I help you?”

The man is disheveled and dirty with no shoes and barely a cloth wrapped wrapped around his nether regions. His hair is long and stringy and he smells of dirt and decay. Still, he is somehow sexy as all hell and his eyes seem to see right to her soul.

“I’d like a table for 13. I’m starving and I literally have not eaten in three days. The rest of my party will be here as soon as they hear that I’m back.”

“Are you kidding me?” asks Rhoda. “We are slammed. You want a table for 13 people, who aren’t even here yet? Look, I’ll put you on the list but it’s going to be at least a two hour wait. And by the way, no shirt, no shoes, no service, so…”

“Two hours? Can I at least get some bread or a glass of wine while I wait? You don’t understand what I’ve been through. I’m exhausted. I just moved a 10-ton boulder from a cave and walked two miles to get here.”

Ignoring the man, Rhoda calls out the next name on her list. “Nebuchadnezzar, party of four. Nebuchadnezzar?”

A man and his three wives approach the host stand are are escorted to a prime booth right next to the window. The scraggly haired man waits patiently for Rhoda to return, for he has the patience of a saint and speaks with her again.

“Look, I didn’t want to have to pull the ‘do you know who I am card?’ but ummm.. I’m Jesus. Jesus Christ, your savior?”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Jesus? The Son of God? I’m kinda a big deal and I’m pretty sure that I’m the reason you’re so busy today. It’s Easter. I have risen. So, if you could just pull some tables together that would be great. Mary Magdalene is out right now gathering my disciples and then we’ll be ready to order. So, chop chop.”

Rhoda, who only has one nerve left, looks at Jesus with a fiery intent. All morning she has been dealing with mobs of people who inexplicably came out of nowhere and bombarded her restaurant for brunch. This was supposed to be an easy shift that she picked up from the other hostess, Ruth, who needed the day off for her brother’s birthday. This dirty homeless-looking man has just gotten on Rhoda’s very last nerve.

“Okay, sir? I’m busy. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know why you think you are more important than any of these other people who are waiting their turn for a table. Go wash your feet, comb your hair and I will put you on the list. If and when your so-called disciples decide to show up, you can let me know that your full party has arrived. Until then, I suggest you wait like everyone else. You may think you’re someone special, but as long as I am the hostess here at Applebee’s, everyone gets treated fairly. I’m sorry you had to ‘roll a boulder from a cave’ or whatever, but that’s not my issue. Every one here has their story, is that understood?”

Jesus looks down at his soiled feet that are covered with blood and realizes that Rhoda is right. Who is he to expect preferential treatment? I mean sure, he died for her sins and was resurrected and just wanted to try that new Nashville Chicken Sandwich before he was whisked away to Heaven to sit down in the place of honor at God’s right hand, but it is only fair that he waits his turn. He turned his other cheek and said, “Thank you Rhoda. Please put my name on the list and I will let you know when my friends get here.”

“Great,” says Rhoda. “Jesus party of 13, got it. I’ll call you when your table is ready. In the mean time, you might want to hop, skip and jump over to to the Wal-Mart and buy some flip-flops and a t-shirt, alright?”

Jesus solemnly nods in agreement and shuffles away from the host stand.

“Bathsheba, party of three!” Rhoda yells out. “Bathsheba! Going once, going twice…”

I Don’t Want to Touch Your Used Toothpicks

I don’t want to pick up your disgusting toothpicks. I’m all for dental hygiene and I can certainly understand your desire to walk out of the restaurant without spinach, meat or anything else stuck in your teeth, although I’m pretty sure that pube was there when you got here. And it does not matter to me where the toothpick came from. If it came from the hostess, the bartender, another server or if you dug it out of your purse, I am more concerned where it ends up. After you have scraped the tartar, enamel and pork chop off your teeth, please put that toothpick someplace where I do not have to pick it up with my bare hands. I can handle picking up your used plates and dirty silverware and I can even tolerate grabbing the napkin that is covered with gravy and lipstick. But if you place that gnawed up fucking toothpick onto the table, my only choice is to pick it up with my bare hands and it’s gross.



When you are done with it, can’t you leave it on the plate so it can be scraped into the trash can along with the chicken bone? If I have already taken your plate, leave it in the glass if you must. Or wrap it up in a napkin. Or take it with you. Or just go ahead and swallow it since nine times out of ten it looks like you chewed it up anyway.

And what’s even worse is when you bite it into tiny pieces and leave those tiny pieces strewn across the table like they’re an offering of some sort. Great, so now instead of one touching one toothpick, I get to touch six or seven tiny shreds of toothpick. I don’t have time to go put on a pair of rubber gloves every time someone thinks it’s alright to do this. And using a napkin to pick them up is difficult too since that freaking toothpick is so tiny.

Maybe this is honestly something that people do not think about it, but I am here to make sure they do think about it. Think about it long and hard. And if another thought tries to force its way into your brain, you should immediately dismiss it and go back to thinking about how wrong it is to expect your server to touch your toothpick. After you have mulled this over for quite some time, I want you to then begin visualizing what you will do with your used toothpick. Think of all the places it should go rather than on the table: your plate, a trash can, your purse or bag, inside a beer bottle, inside your own asshole, etc. The possibilities really are endless. Just don’t make me touch it. It’s gross.



And that goes double for dental floss and whatever the hell these things are called:

Be Glad You Don’t Work For This Manager

Anyone who has worked in the restaurant industry for more than a few years has experienced a really awful manager. Hell, even if you’ve only worked in the restaurant industry for ten minutes, you probably have. For whatever reason, restaurants are full of bad managers. They are ripe for the pickin’. Seriously, you can’t swing a dead cat in a chain restaurant without hitting at least a couple of managers who couldn’t cut it serving so decided that managing was more their speed. If we were to have a contest to see who had the worst manager, I think we have real contender here, folks. This image was sent to me by someone who probably starts every day of their life questioning why they work where they do.

If you going to fucking call in you need to have a emergancy notice or I will take you out of the schedule, you can fuck yourself. Thank’s. James (?)

Okay, look James or whatever your name is since your writing looks like chicken scratch if the chicken was right handed and tried to write with her left hand while on crystal meth and a roller coaster that just came off the tracks and was flying through the air and about to land in a tub of bar-b-q sauce at BWW’s. I get that it’s inconvenient for you, the manager, when someone calls in sick. And I can understand why you would there to be a good reason for calling out, but you do understand that not every “emergancy” comes with the privilege of a notice, right?

For example, if I am driving to work and I get a flat tire after running over a pile of nails and my spare tire is bald so I have to abandon my car on the side of the road and take a bus home and figure out what to do, who is going to give me an emergency notice, the bus driver? Or if I am on my way out the door and my dog simultaneously projectile vomits and has explosive diarrhea all over himself, my bed, the rug, my husband and the ceiling, who do I turn to in order to receive the emergency notice?

Every time someone calls out of work does not necessarily guarantee there is a notice that can be printed out to explain the absence. Perhaps you are frustrated with members of your staff who are calling out because they are hungover or simply too unmotivated to come to work. Maybe if you treated your staff with respect they would treat you the same way in return. To scrawl out a threat in barely legible writing and being told to fuck myself would not make me want to do anything for you.

You’re an asshole, James. And I bet the reason that people feel inclined to call out is because they they also think you’re an asshole. Asshole managers usually have a staff that doesn’t respect them so if you’re looking for respect I would suggest you try to to be a little bit nicer, starting with a revision of your note:

Adventures at the Kalamata Kitchen

Alberta has been working at the Kalamata Kitchen for twelve years. She doesn’t work at the fancy one out by the new mall, but at the old one on the other side of Highway 59. It’s not as busy because as the other Kalamata Kitchen, but it’s a three minute drive from her house and it’s worth it to be so close to home. Most of Alberta’s coworkers don’t like her very much because she tells things like it is. Some people make their feelings known with subtle body language or muttered comments. Not Alberta. She once told a new hire that she couldn’t be in a section next to him because he smelled like a a rotting bag of meat and every time she inhaled next to him it made her want to throw up in her mouth. Granted it was true, but most people wouldn’t have the courage to be so blunt. Alberta has that courage, not to mention, fallen arches, blisters on her feet, varicose veins and a very short fuse.

She’s working Wednesday lunch after working doubles on Monday and Tuesday. Needless to say, she is ready for this shift to end so she can get the hell out of there and wash off the smell of breadsticks and Italian dressing. When her last table of the afternoon decides to sit for forty-five minutes after scarfing down two pieces of tiramisu, Alberta decides it’s time for him to go.

“So, I put your check down almost an hour ago, are you alright?” she asks.

“Oh, yes,” replies the old man. “It’s just so comfortable here and the atmosphere is so vert nice that I thought I would stay for a while and read the paper. You see, I’m a widower and sometimes it makes me sad to be at home all alone-”

“Well, look,” she interrupts.” “Sorry about your dead wife and all that, but my feet hurt because I have worked 30 hours in the last three days. So if you could just pay your check, that’d be great. I’ll be back in two minutes to pick it up.”

And with that, Alberta spun around on her heels and went to the ladies room.

“Somebody watch my station and make sure that old man doesn’t walk out or die.”

Scotty, who is in the middle of his first training shift at Kalamata Kitchen is shocked at the way Alberta just spoke to a guest. “I thought that when the customers were here they were kinfolk” he says to his trainer referring to the famous slogan for Kalamata Kitchen.

“Not with Alberta,” says the trainer. “For some reason, she gets away with anything here. She’s worked here for ever and nobody knows why management doesn’t fire her. She’s pretty awful.”

At this point, Alberta reappears from the restroom. “False alarm, everybody. I thought I needed to drop a load, but turns out it was just gas.” She goes directly to the old man who is fiddling with his wallet. “What’s the matter, your arthritis acting up? Lemme help you.” She reaches into his wallet and pulls out credit card. “A Discover card? Who the hell still uses Discover?” Laughing, she drops the card into her apron and says she’ll be right back.

Scotty goes up to the man to see if he can smooth out the situation. “Hello sir. Is there anything else I can do for you while Alberta runs your check?”

The old man looks up at Scotty to reveal tears in his eyes. “I don’t need anything else, thank you. I guess I’ll just go back home and watch the news or something.”

Scotty feels awful that this woman has completely ruined this man’s day. How can she do that? And why doesn’t anyone say something to her? She’s clearly an awful person.

“I’m back with your Discover card,” she says as she thunders back to to the table. ‘I went ahead and added a 20% tip for your convenience and alls you gotta do is sign right here.’ she forces the pen in his hand and he scribbles out a signature that could have just as well have been an SOS note asking to be saved from this wretched person. ‘Okay, buh bye.” She helps the man get up and puts his coat over his head as he shuffles toward the exit. “Jesus, finally! Alright, I’m punching out, everyone. Tootles.”

She tosses her paperwork and drop onto the bar and is in her car before the old man is.

“Oh my God, she’s terrible,” says Scotty. “She needs to be fired.”

The trainer shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, well, what are you gonna do, you know? She has some kind of power over the managers so it is what it is.”

“What kind of power? Is she blackmailing them or something?”

“Nobody knows. Best to ignore her. The last person who reported her ended up getting fired himself and then he moved away. Well, that’s what Alberta told us anyway. Rumor has it that he just disappeared. I’m friends with him on Facebook, but he hasn’t updated his status since the day he was fired. Anyway, just stay out of her way and you’ll be fine.”

Scotty knows it is not in his nature to stay out of anyone’s way, especially when that someone treats others with such disrespect. He needs to know why Alberta is allowed to get away with her behavior. He can already sense that there will be a level of danger associated with this plan, but Scotty lives on danger. Well, danger and unlimited bread braids which is why he agreed to work at Kalamata Kitchen in the first place. He walks into the kitchen to get his fifth piece of bread for the day and vows to himself to get Alberta fired no matter at what cost.

To be continued…

Proof That Some People Will Do ANYTHING in a Restaurant

Working in restaurants, we have all seen customers doing something that they should 100%, definitely not be doing in a restaurant. Maybe you saw someone cutting their fingernails or perhaps you witnessed some children playing with Legos in the area right in front of the restrooms. Well, I thought I had seen it all until someone sent me this random photo of a person in his dining room who was spinning yarn. Yes, some lady brought in her spinning wheel and while she waited for her Caesar-extra chicken-sub Ranch-add bacon salad to be prepared, she took her sandals off and spun some freaking yarn. Who does that?

My first thought was why didn’t this woman go get some yarn at the Hobby Lobby? She was going to be at the mall anyway to get an ice cream cone from Chick-Fil-A and the Hobby Lobby is literally right next door. But then, I begin to question if this woman had a real purpose for spinning yarn in the middle of a restaurant. There must be a good reason, right?

I flashed back to 1976 when I was in third grade and I took a school trip to see a touring production of Rumplestiltskin.

(Synopsis of the fairy tale: The village miller told the king that his daughter could spin straw into gold and the king, being a greedy son of a bitch as most royalty is, demanded that the daughter be brought to his castle so he could benefit from her talent. “Here’s a roomful of straw, girl. Turn it into gold by morning or I’ll chop off your head,” he said. The girl knew it was impossible and that her father was a lying sack of shit, but in the night a little imp appeared and turned the straw into gold in exchange for the girl’s necklace. The next morning, the greedy ass king got a golden boner when he saw what had happened, so he gave her more straw to turn into gold and the imp again did her the favor, this time requesting her ring as payment. The next day the king gave her even more straw and when the girl asked the imp for help, he demanded that she give him her firstborn child as payment. “Well, I guess so,” she said. “I mean, it’s better than losing my head.” The next morning, the king was overjoyed and offered to marry her. Since she now hates her father for putting her in this situation in the first place and she figures she may as well get what can out of it, she agrees and becomes Queen. Nine months later, she has a baby and the imp arrives to claim his prize. No word on why he wants a newborn baby. I mean, really? What are babies good for, am I right? She begs him to let her keep the baby and says she will give him all of her wealth instead. He does not accept. Weird, since nine months ago he was good with a cheap ass necklace and a ring but now he’d rather have a baby instead of all the wealth of the kingdom. “I’ll let you keep the baby if you can guess my name in three tries,” he tells her. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” That night, she sends a servant out to spy on his little imp ass and that maid hears him singing a song about his name being Rumplestiltskin. So when he shows up the next morning, the Queen is all, “Umm is your name Tom, Dick or Rumplestiltskin? Boo yah!” The imp is so pissed off that he slams his foot into the ground creating a deep chasm that he falls into and is never seen again.)

Anyway, could this woman be a direct descendant of the Queen? Is spinning thread so ingrained in her DNA that she even does it while in a restaurant? Is she still trying to figure out how the imp turned the straw into gold for her great-great-great-great-great grandmother? And even more importantly, what the fuck are those jean shorts she’s wearing and why the hell didn’t the manager go up to her and say something like, “Ummm, bitch? Can you get the fuck out?”

If we look back in time, I bet the Queen did take her spinning wheel to restaurants. She was, after all, the miller’s daughter and came from humble beginnings. Maybe it reminded her of simpler times to leave the castle every now and then and go to Ye Olde Applebee’s Inn and spin some yarn with the local villagers as they waited for their Brew Pub Pretzels and Beer Cheese Dip. Surely this woman is a direct descendant of Rumplestiltskin’s queen. It’s the only way I can justify why in the hell a woman in 2017 would think it’s a good idea to take spinning wheel to a restaurant and spin some fucking yarn.