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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:
lit·er·al·ly
ˈlidərəlē,ˈlitrəlē/
adverb
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.

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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:

ugh

ugh

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

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How To Get Drunk on $25

This could be you!

Get ready to pick up your jaws off the floor because I am about to promote someone other than myself for a change. If your jaw does drop to the floor, don’t fret too much about it because I just mopped the floor a couple of weeks ago and I’m sure it’s still pretty clean.

On Sunday, May 3, I will be attending a fundraiser for this chick named Terri Girvin who is producing her own one-woman show about bartending called Last Call. Tickets to the fundraiser are $25, BUT once you get in it’s an open bar with beer, wine, whiskey and gin so I know you drunk bitches can get your money’s worth in about thirty minutes. All the other drinks will at happy hour prices.

Come get drunk with me!

Because I am such a fucking giver, I will be performing at the fundraiser by reading a story from my upcoming book. There are other performers too, including Katharine Heller from Tell the Bartender podcast and Kendra Cunningham from Last Comic Standing. But let’s be honest: you’re coming for the cheap drinks.

Come get drunk with me!

There are also raffle prizes that night, but again, let’s be honest: you want the open bar.

I hope you will think about coming. For $25, you can get drink your ass off, see some entertainment and come insult me right to my face. It does not get any better. And on top of that, you will be supporting the arts by helping to fund a show about our own industry.

Details:

Sunday, May 3 6:00-9:00
@ The Magician 118 Rivington St.
New York, NY 10002

Tickets are here.
The Facebook event is here. (Go to it and tell me you’re going!)

The video of the clip is pretty awesome:

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She Tried To Scam a Restaurant But Failed

Shatanya Arielette Beasley

Shatanya Arielette Beasley

In today’s episode of “I’m Too Cheap to Pay For My Meal,” we have a woman named Shatanya Arielette Beasley who went all out to avoid paying the check at her local Applebee’s. According to reports, after Shatanya enjoyed her double crunch bone-in wings, double-glazed baby back ribs, and some salted caramel pretzel bites (all with a glass of water with extra lemons, no doubt) the server presented her with the check. When Shatanya looked into her purse and saw nothing but a pack of gum, her car keys, leftover Hershey Kisses wrappers and some old receipts from Piggly Wiggly, she knew she had to come up with a plan. Lucky for her, she had one. In the side pocket of her purse where most people will keep things like their wallet or an emergency ten-dollar bill, Shatanya had a bag of dead crickets. She ever so stealthily pulled one out and placed it on the last remaining bite of one of her salted caramel pretzel bites and began her acting career.

(I was not there, so the following is a dramatic interpretation imagined in my tequila-soaked brain.)

Shatanya: Awww, hell no! Where is my waitress? Where IS my waitress? Why on God’s green earth would she serve me this food with a dead cricket in it? And why did I not notice this until I had eaten everything else that was brought to me? Is it not possible that I ate several dead crickets without noticing while I enjoyed my wings and ribs? Or worse even, maybe I ate a roach! I am perfectly willing to eat ribs from Applebee’s but I must draw the line at crickets. Security! Security! I refuse to pay for this. Manager! I am not paying for food littered with the carcasses of crickets that once chirped happily in the meadow and now lie dead in a pool of salted caramel. I must go, for I am too upset and disgusted by this event. Good bye, Applebee’s! And to my waitress, I am sorry that I cannot tip you, but I am too shocked to do so. Ordinarily, I would tip 30-40%, but not today. Blame it on the DEAD CRICKET YOU SERVED ME!!!

And with that, Shatanya dramatically left the restaurant, but not before the restaurant manager glanced into her purse (a knock off Michael Kors) and spotted the Ziplock baggie of dead crickets. As Shatanya sashayed her way out the door, the observant manager watched her get into her car and quickly jotted down the license plate number.

Police tracked her ass down and she was arrested and charged with obtaining property under false pretense. Shatanya paid her $2,500 bond with some Monopoly money and hopped back over to Applebee’s to pay for her meal and the charges will likely be dropped.

Again, I wasn’t there, but I’m pretty sure when she went back to pay, it went something like this.

Shatanya: Ohh, I’m so sorry. I forgot to pay for my food the other day and I think I accidentally tried to pay for it with a dead cricket. I don’t what I was thinking! Sometimes I look at a dead cricket and I think, “Now is that a dead cricket or is that my debit card. Girl, I do not know.” Anyways, I’m so embarrassed, but we’re good now, right? And by the way, can I get an Apple Chimicheesecake to go? I can pay for it now. Do you take MasterCard or Discover? Because if you don’t, I just have to run to my car real quick and get my bag of dead roaches.

Oh, people. Just pay for your damn food. If you can’t afford to go out to eat, just don’t go. And make sure if you do go, you can afford to leave a tip too!