Donald Trump Goes Into an Applebee’s For His Birthday

250663066_4The Applebee’s is rather slow today, but Sarah the waitress is hoping that things will turn around soon. She has a good station with two prime booths, but the nice weather outside seems to have kept people from going out to lunch. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees an orange mass standing at the host stand. At first, she thinks it is an Oompa Loompa or a big bag of Sunkist oranges that have somehow personified and managed to walk into a restaurant. She then realizes that it is, in fact, a man who seems to have been dipped into a vat of olive oil and then tossed into the bottom of a bag of Cheetos.

“Table for one,” she hears the man say. “I want the very best table with the very best waitress and I want her to have nice tits and be at least an 8.5 on a scale of 1 to 10.”

“Well, Sarah will have to do,” says the hostess.

Sarah makes a mental note to key that bitch’s car after work.

“And by the way,” the man continues. “I’m a huge tipper. Huge.”

The hostess escorts the man to Booth 101 even though it is set for six people. Sarah immediately approaches the table to remove the five extra place settings and makes another mental note to definitely key both sides of that bitch’s car after work.

“Hello, my name is Sarah and I’ll be taking care of you to-”

“It’s my birthday, what do I get for that? I would show you my birth certificate, but you’ll just have to take my word for it that I’m telling the truth, because I’m a rich white male and what reason would I have to lie to you? Also, my hands are very large. Diet coke.”

Sarah, somewhat taken aback by the blunt nature of this tan man, tells him that she will be able to provide him with a dessert of his choice at the end of the meal, but he will have to pay for it.

“Oh, and I want everyone to sing to me. Everyone, from the manager down to the dishwasher and everyone in between. And where’s my Diet Coke?”

Sarah goes to get the Diet Coke, on the way, passing by the hostess who is staring at her own hands and admiring her manicure. “Why did you put a single man at my six-top?” she wants to know. “That is my money-making booth and you fucked it up. Are you brain dead?”

“I know, right?” says the hostess, somehow answering the question without actually answering the question.

When Sarah gets back to Booth 101 with the Diet Coke, the man seems to have turned an even brighter shade of orange than he had been two minutes earlier. He now looks like one of Mario Batali’s crocs if had sat under a heat lamp for five hours.

“Where’s my Diet Coke? And I’m ready to order. Bring me the American Standard Burger, well done. So well done. I want it to be dry and juiceless just like my beautiful model wife describes our sex. And American Cheese of course. With fries. Crispy and extra salty, just like my penis. And where’s my Diet Coke?”

Sarah points to the soda sitting directly in front of the man and walks away to put the order into the computer. She puts a rush on it because she is ready to have this man out of her station and out her life. Fifteen minutes later, she carries the food out to Booth 101. Yet again, the man looks even more orange. He now resembles a traffic cone that is wearing a helmet made of the hair from a freshly shucked piece of corn on the cob.

“Is there anything else I can get for you right now?” Sarah asks as the man picks up the burger and begins to eat.

He says nothing so Sarah turns to walk away and throw up a little bit in her mouth. As soon as she takes two steps the man yells at her, “I’m done.”

Astonishingly, the plate is empty. It’s as if he opened his mouth and he inhaled the food like a Hoover WindTunnel vacuum sucks up dirt, pet hair and crumbs from a high-loop 100% wool rug.

“I’m ready for dessert. Bring me the Cracker Jack Banana Cheesecake and make sure you get everyone to sing to me. It’s my birthday and I’m 70 years old.”

Eager to say goodbye to this customer, Sarah runs to the kitchen to gather birthday singers. She manages to convince everyone to join her, even the two bus boys and the dishwasher. They approach the table with the dessert and a candle and begin their song. As they sing, Sarah can’t help but notice that the skin on his face looks eerily similar to the skin of a buffalo-wing: wrinkled, bumpy and a fake orange color. The man swallows the dessert in one bite and Sarah hands him his check for $24.32. He gives her a twenty-dollar bill and a ten-dollar bill.

“Can get five dollars back?” he asks.

At this point, Sarah is fine with a sixty-eight cent tip and hands him a five-dollar bill. He quickly gets up and heads to the door. As he is passing a nearby booth, the bus boy looks up at him and smiles.

“¡Feliz cumpleaños!” he tells the man.

When the old man with circus peanut skin hears these words, his blood curdles.

“Is that Spanish? he asks. “Did you just tell me happy birthday in Spanish?” he demands to know.

“Si, señor, Yes, sir,” answers the bus boy sheepishly.

Suddenly, the man’s face changes color from orange to red and then to purple. The very idea that someone would wish him happy birthday in any language other than English is more than he can take. His blood pressure begins to rise and the the veins in his neck bulge out to alarming proportions.

“This is America! And in America we speak English. This is the problem here. When I’m president of the United States I will create a law that will require everyone in this country to-”

He stops short with his words, for his eyes are about to pop out of his head. The wrath and anger have no other way to escape his body and the busy boy watches in horror as his head begins to swell up to the size of a very large pumpkin instead of the average sized pumpkin that it looked like earlier. All at once, his head explodes, spewing forth gallons and gallons of a thick, pulpy liquid the color of orange soda. The man falls to the ground, his head a deflated bag of skin that now looks like a mask found in the discount bargain bin at Party City.51wbKIS+MuL._SY355_

Sarah walks over to the man.“You look like you need this more than I do,” she says as she tosses the coins onto the man. She looks at the bus boy and smiles. “Would you mind cleaning this up for me? I’ll give you ten bucks.”

The bus boy agrees and mops up the puddle of orange and places the man into a big black garbage bag and puts him in the dumpster where he belongs.

Happy birthday, Donald Trump.

Anthony Bourdain Has the Best Quote Ever

Anthony Bourdain has made a lot of wonderful comments over the years and most of the things he says are dipped in sarcasm, rolled in truth, fried in extra virgin olive bitch and sprinkled with curmudgeon. Basically, he says what everyone thinks but don’t have the balls to say it out out loud. (Sound familiar? One of the reviews for my book said Bitchy Waiter “does for wait staff what Anthony Bourdain did for kitchens: he exposes the ugly side of food service from the perspective of those working on the front lines. And he puts the potential restaurant customer on notice that someone is watching and recording their bad behavior.”)

Some of my favorite things he has said are as follows:

    • “[Rachael Ray] is selling us satisfaction, the smug reassurance that mediocrity is quite enough. She’s a friendly, familiar face who tells us that ‘Even your dumb, lazy ass can cook this.’” Ouch!
    • “So you’re talking someone that’s as stupid and talentless and messed up as Britney Spears cooking? Hasn’t it happened already? I think we have a pretty good idea what that creature would look like if that happened. It would be called ‘Semi-Homemade,’ and she has a show on Food Network already.” Burn!
    • “I don’t dislike Guy Fieri, I realized, after many viewings of his cooking shows, much soul-searching at my personal ashram and many doses of prescription hypnotics. I just dislike — really dislike — the idea that somebody would put Texas-style barbecue inside a fucking nori roll.” Boom!

Is it any wonder that I place this man on a pedestal that is further out of reach than me ever working in fine dining? Imagine my delight when I saw a meme this week with yet another wonderful quote from Mr. Bourdain. I have not been able to verify that it is an actual quote, but I am going to choose to believe that it is real. After all, if it’s on a meme, it must be true, right?

“If you’re a cheap tipper or rude to your server, you are dead to me. You are lower than whale feces.”


Oh, Anthony Bourdain. You keep on being you and I will keep on being me and maybe one day, we will find ourselves at the same bar, both of us slamming back the booze, judging shitty customers and overtipping our server. I can dream, can’t I?

10 Things Every Server Will 100% Experience This Summer


  1. You will definitely have a customer tell you that it’s too cold in the dining room and they will ask you to turn off the A/C. Since you will have sweat dripping down cracks that you didn’t even know you had, you will tell that customer that you will adjust the thermostat and then proceed to do nothing of the sort.
  2. One day, your manager will for sure make you set up the patio even though the weather forecast calls for rain and then within ten minutes of getting it all finished, the sky will open up and dump on you.
  3. 100%, there will be a day that is far too beautiful to spend running food and dealing with customers, so you will put on your best “sick voice” and call out to work to enjoy the day, keeping in mind that you can’t say anything about it on social media so no one at work finds out you are a fake ass lying bitch.
  4. You will go to the walk-in cooler even though you don’t need anything in there because it’s the only place in the restaurant that won’t feel like the gate to hell.
  5. For sure, you’re going to question who the fuck decided that your uniform is a black polyester shirt that doesn’t breath. You will also ask someone if you can wear shorts to work.
  6. Some Saturday, when you are working a double and everyone you know is at the beach or the amusement park, you will unquestionably make a pact with yourself that next summer you will not have a job that makes you work weekends but then at the end of the night, when you are counting your money, you will immediately forget that pact.
  7. Positively, there will be a moment when a customer will come into the restaurant from outside and then ask you what the weather is like outside on the patio.
  8. Without a doubt, you will ask the bartender to make extra of a frozen margarita so you can put it in a coffee cup for yourself.
  9. You will get a 15-top where the adult to child ratio is very unbalanced because someone thought it would be fun to take their kids and all of the their friends out to eat one day. This will also be the day you will cry in the bathroom stall because that many kids in your section is shitty.
  10. You will look forward to the week after Labor Day because summer will be over and you can actually ask for days off again.

Finally, I think you should click here to buy The Bitchy Waiter book.

News Flash: Restaurants Do Not Control the Weather on the Patio


Summer is here which means it’s time for every customer in the world to suddenly want to eat outside. Working at a restaurant that has a patio is fraught with high drama because the success of the patio is based on the weather. And customers sometimes don’t understand that we have no control of that.

Customer: It’s really bright out here.
Waitress; Do I look like Mother fuckin’ Nature to you?

On a recent review for Panama City Beach, Florida’s Runaway Island Beach Bar and Grill, a woman is upset that she waited an hour and fifty minutes for a table after being told it would only be an hour. While she was waiting, it began to rain which is what increased the wait time. The woman says it drizzled for five minutes but the restaurant said that it rained for twenty minutes, “long enough to douse everything on our back deck.” Our customer retorts with “I had a young child who was growing impatient and there were at least a dozen tables (if not more) inside and outside. My biggest complaint is if you know rain caused additional delays-then include it in your wait time.” She also says it was “hardly a rain!” Thankfully, we have another customer who pipes in to confirm that it was indeed a twenty minute rain and that the staff was hustling to get all the customers covered and then they diligently worked to get all the tables dried as soon as it stopped raining. Our grumpy customer also is upset that the restaurant seemed short-staffed on a holiday weekend. Finally, she says that the food was not worth ever coming back and that many people agreed with her as they all waited for their tables.

Where shall I begin?

  1. If it rains, yes, you are going to have to wait longer. Every table that is outside is now deemed unusable and it can cut the seating in half. So, yeah, that means you might wait twice as long.
  2. Just because you have a young child does not mean you take precedence in the seating rotation. If you don’t know your child well enough to gauge whether or not she can handle waiting for a table for over an hour, that’s your issue and not anyone else’s.
  3. How can the hostess predict how long it’s going to rain? If she could look into her crystal ball and see that the drizzle will stop in twenty minutes, she could give you a more accurate wait time, but if the high-paid weather forecasters on TV can’t get it right, how the hell do you expect an 18-year-old hostess to do it?
  4. We know that customers like to exaggerate to make their point stronger. Don’t say it rained for five minutes when everyone knows it rained for twenty. It makes you look stupid. Well, more stupid.
  5. It’s Memorial day weekend, lady and you’re eating at a restaurant on a beach in Florida. Of course, it’s gonna be busy. No matter how many servers are on the floor, it’s gonna be busy. Face facts or eat at home.
  6. So, while you were waiting for your table for an hour and fifty minutes, everyone around you was agreeing that the food was not worth coming back for? This makes no sense. If the people are waiting with you and they are telling you the food is not worth the wait, why the hell are they waiting? Or do you mean that while you were waiting you were talking to people who were already eating? Because if that’s what you were doing, you are even more annoying than I thought. Maybe if your young child was getting impatient, you should have paid attention to her rather than bothering people who were trying to eat their meal in peace without having to listen to some ranting customer whining about the long wait and the weather.

Listen people, if you want to give a bad review to a restaurant, at least try to make the review about something the restaurant has control over. To leave a 1-star review because it started raining and you had to wait longer than you were told is just a customer complaining for the sake of complaining. Try harder.

This Woman Knows All About Dumps

Screen Shot 2016-06-01 at 4.40.30 PMScreen Shot 2016-06-01 at 4.41.08 PMWhen someone dislikes their experience at a restaurant, they have the option to either return to it or not. But sometimes, that’s not enough and they feel the need to go to Yelp and shart out 300 words about how they were wronged. I’m all for a constructive critique and a sensible review, but when someone bashes the physicality of the people who work there, well then, that’s gonna piss my shit off.

Nambie S. went to a restaurant in Austin called The Capital Grille. In her first sentence of her review, she deems it to be the biggest dump in all of Austin. Seeing that Austin has 1,088 restaurants within its city limits, we can gather that Nambie has spent a great deal of time in all of them, for how else would she know that this is the biggest dump of them all? Nambie is an expert in dumps. (I’m not just talking about the kind of ”dump” when someone is referring to a place that is run down or lackluster. I am also talking about huge, stinky, dumps that come from too much beef brisket and lentils. I am also talking about scat play.)

She is upset that the bartender asked her to talk more quietly. Nambie thinks that being in a bar that is “open to the public” entitles her to the right to be as loud as she wants. It does not. You still should behave with a modicum of decorum, whether you are in a classy establishment like Red Lobster or a so-called dump. Nambie goes on to call her bartender a “cougar” and then boasts that she is “younger and cuter” than the person who is, you know, handling her food. Nambie, no matter how disappointed you are with the behavior of the bartender, there is no need to resort to name-calling, you sleazy shit-covered, dump dumpster.

Later, when the “managing owner” of the restaurant came over to talk to Nambie, the only thing Nambie got out of the conversation was that she felt the manger was obese. This is when she gives the restaurant some hiring advice:

“restaurants should be more cautious of hiring obese people as that it makes their ‘struggle’ more difficult due to being around food.”

You see, Nambie understands this struggle, although not from a weight perspective. Nambie loves dumps so much that whenever she is in a place she perceives to be a dump, she is overcome with the urge to have someone drop a load on her. It’s not easy for her to resist. The bigger the dump she’s eating in, the bigger the dump she wants on her face. Just being near a toilet makes her knees quiver with anticipation. Once, when walking through the bathroom fixtures department at her local Home Depot, Nambie had a Pavlovian response and immediately dropped to her hands and knees at a row of toilets and begged someone to release their bowels on her. She wrote a Yelp review of the Home Depot and gave it one star. (“Service was horrible. No one would shit on me. I will never go back!”)

Nambie ends her review with the stereotypical statement that people learn in Yelp Review Writing 101 and threatens to tell all of her friends to never go there. “I will tell every one i come across in my huge but tight knit high rise not to bother w this place.” And when Nambie uses the words “huge” she is referring to the size of her craps and when she says “tight knit” she is talking about her blouse that is way too small because she got shit on it last night and washed it in hot water and it shrunk.

I hope that in the future, Nambie will write reviews that focus on actual events at the restaurant and not the physicality of the people who serve her. Anything other than that is pretty shitty. Ironic really, since her profile photo is this:


Maybe she revels in shit.


An Open Letter to The Christians Who Leave “Christian Stuff” For Tips

13335833_10154438316687262_226151819442520964_nDear Christians Who Tip Your Servers With Christian Stuff,

Stop it. You’re giving your religion a bad name and there are enough people who do that already. If you go out to Carrabba’s for dinner and ring up a $67.03 check, the appropriate tip is about $13, not $2.97 and a card asking your server if they are “good enough for heaven.” For all you know, that server has already opened their heart to Jesus Christ and is filled with the light of God. Don’t assume that everyone needs to be preached to. And don’t assume that the server, Christian or not, is doing this job for any reason other than the money. Last time I checked, you can’t pay bills with a laminated “I’m a good Christian” card. I know that not all Christians do this, but for every one of you who does it, you are perpetuating the myth that Christians are a pain in the ass and need to get off their high and mighty pedestal.

In Rome, back in the early days, Christians were being thrown to the lions. Do you know why? Let me tell you:

The year is 2 AD and the very first Carrabba’s Italian Grill had just opened two blocks away from the Colosseum. It was a very busy restaurant with a high turnover. The waitresses’ name was Konstantina and she was the niece of Emperor Augustus and was really pissed off that, even though her fucking uncle was the ruler of the Roman Empire, she still had to work part-time at Carrabba’s to “keep her grounded.” Needless to say, she was a bitch.

One day a family of Christians came in and sat in her section: a mother, father, two children and a goat. They ordered Italian lettuce wraps, mozzarella rustica, prosciutto-wrapped pork tenderloin, a family bundle cavatappi Alfredo, four waters with lemons and a bowl of hay. Konstantina did her job with a fake smile on her face and everything came out perfectly. Their check was for 28 Denarius and the tip was not included. They left her 27 Denarius which is a crappy tip, even in the year 2 AD. But on top of that, they left her a tiny piece of slate with something carved into it. It said,”are you a good enough for heaven?” Konstantina was pissed.

“That is not a tip, people!” she screamed at the family. “Are you freaking kidding me with this? Don’t move. Stay right there.”

Konstantina went to the delivery boy/courier and gave him a message to give to her Uncle Augustus, the Emperor of the Roman Empire. “Tell my uncle that these cheap Christians just left me the crappiest tip possible and I can’t take it anymore. I want him to send some mother fucking soldiers over here right now, and drag these bitches down to the Colosseum and throw their asses to the lions.”

The delivery boy/courier took the message to the Emperor, thinking that the noble man would never honor such a ridiculous request from his niece. But you see, Uncle Augustus had a sweet spot for Konstantina. His love for his niece, along with the fact that he was bored, rich and crazy, made him think that throwing Christians to the lions might be a fun thing to do this beautiful Wednesday afternoon. Besides, there was nothing playing at the Colosseum that day since The Rolling Stones had canceled two days prior.

“Why not?” he yelled. “Throw the Christians to the lions! Happy Wednesday!”

So, Christians. Enough with the non-money tips. Got it? Thanks.

Mustard and mayo,
The Bitchy Waiter

p.s. I do have a book out and I think you would love it. Buy it here.