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ATTN Women: Your Waitress Is Not Trying To Steal Your Boyfriend

Bitch, please.

Bitch, please.

Very often, I hear stories from waitresses who were stiffed because a woman at the table thought that the waitress was trying to make the moves on the man at the table. Every one of these instances is accompanied with the waitress’s side of the story which invariably goes something like this: I was not trying to hit on her man. Recently, I was sent a photo of a note that was left at the table when some sad, insecure woman thought that the waitress had eyes for something other than a 20% tip. Take off your thinking caps, because in order to comprehend what was chicken-scratched onto a bev nap, you have to be all kinds of stupid:

Tip: Check-out someomes Oldman is one thing. I know he is hot and stuff which is why he sleeps in my Bed Lady… So Tip 4 the Day: you watching my man means you Don’t get anything Because I think you have look enough That you Got what you though you have But good thing it was a thought. Have A Great Day.

There is so much to question in this note. For instance, why does she capitalize certain words for no apparent reason? It makes it very difficult to understand what she is trying to convey. And where is her punctuation?

In the first sentence when she is referring to Oldman, at first I thought she meant her “old man” which is always such a charming way to refer to your husband or boyfriend. (The same goes for men who call their wives their “old lady.” Keep doing that, men. I’m sure the women in your lives just love it.) However, perhaps she is referring to Oldman, as in the actor Gary Oldman. He is a relatively handsome man and some may consider him to be “hot and stuff.” Since I was not there, I can’t be sure. What I can be sure of is that whether it’s her “old man” or “Gary Oldman,” the gentleman has the pleasure of sleeping in her Bed Lady. No, I don’t know what a Bed Lady is and maybe the author of the note meant to place a comma between those two words, but I would rather think she has some object in her home called a Bed Lady and on this Bed Lady is where Gary Oldman sleeps.

As the note continues, it makes less and less sense, the only clear thought being that she has no plans on leaving a tip for her waitress. Why is this? Is it because she feels threatened by some other female in her surroundings who had the nerve to cast a gaze upon the man she considers her property? Is it because she has so little self-confidence in herself and so much distrust in her boyfriend that the mere act of another woman asking him how he would like his burger cooked is enough to send her spiraling down a path of jealousy and envy? Is it because she is too cheap to ever leave a tip and in each dining situation she has to search out a reason to justify why she will not be leaving one? Perhaps it is a combination of all these things.

Let me say this to all the women of the world who think their waitresses are out to get their men: your waitress does not give a shit about him. All she is doing is her job and and if she happens to make eye contact with someone who has the potential to decide what her income will be, that’s all it is. Unless she is grinding up against him, flashing her tits at him or reaching into his pants, she is probably not trying to steal your man. She is trying to be friendly enough to warrant a 15-20% tip so that she can go home with money in her apron that she can use to pay her rent, have electricity and buy some goddamn groceries. If you think your husband or boyfriend is going to stray just because a waitress is friendly to him, the problem is not with the waitress. It’s with him. Instead of stiffing your waitress because you are so insecure, maybe you should have a serious discussion with your Oldman and leave the waitresses out of it.

Bottom line: it’s her job to be nice and unless your Oldman is Chris Pratt, you’re wrong.

 

 

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Man Almost Eats Bug at Red Robin; Barely Survives

Yummy.

Yummy.

As I am wont to do sometimes, I was trolling through the Facebook pages of major restaurant chains earlier this week. I came across a couple of posts from complaining customers that caught my attention and since I am a desperate attention whore and not very creative, I decided I would blog about one of them today.

“Albert” went to Red Robin and had a miserable time because he found a bug in his salad. He says that halfway through his meal he discovered the bug crawling out of the salad and it was so revolting that it made him run to the bathroom to puke it all up. The manager was very apologetic and comped his meal and even offered to give him some food to go, but it was too late for Albert; his day was ruined. Ruined, I tell you! He claimed to be on the verge of throwing up again, but somehow Albert found a reservoir of strength and was able to go to the Facebook page of Red Robin to alert the world to his awful experience. Click here to see the original post.

Boo hoo.

Boo hoo.

Here’s what I want to know: what the fuck else do you expect them do for you? They already apologized, they didn’t make you pay for it and they tried to give you some goddam french fries and onion rings too. What else do you want, a blowjob? Jesus Christ on a Crispy Arctic Cod Sandwich, Albert calm down. And seriously, a live bug in a salad is not that bad. Bugs kinda live in grass and plants so to see one in a salad should tell you that the salad is super fresh. It’s not like you found a dead roach underneath a brown piece of Romaine or you found a live rat crawling around amongst your radishes. It’s a little bitty bug that that has probably been though hell and back as it went through being triple washed, put into a plastic bag and then finally smothered in salad dressing to be served to some whiny asshole in Woodland, California. I’m sorry you almost threw up, but can we show some fucking compassion for the bug? As of late, I have been accused of not showing both sides of the story, so I have done some research and contacted the bug that was in your salad to hear its story. He released the following statement:

“What up? My name is Armando and I’m the aphid that was found in Albert’s salad at Red Robin. I would like to publicly apologize for simply living my life and ending up on a plate of mesclun. My bad, yo. While I got the feels and everything for Albert, I also got to say that the experience was not exactly a day at the beach for me either. This dude was chowing down on that salad so fast and alls I was doing was trying to stay away from his fork. Damn, this man eats quick, y’all. There I was just chilling out next to a piece of hardwood-smoked bacon and then next thing I know, I sees this fork comin’ at me. I was all, ‘oh shit, Aisha, get out the way, here it comes again!’ Aisha was my baby mama and now she’s gone. Taken up on that fork with a piece of bacon and I ain’t seen her since. When Albert spotted me, I was just trying to see where my girl went, but now I know. He ate her. Now I am left alone in this world trying to raise ten baby aphids. We had 15 but five of them went missing that day in the salad so I can only assume that greedy ass Albert didn’t just eat my girl but he also ate five of my kids. And he’s the one who’s traumatized? Red Robin didn’t offer me shit and since I don’t have Internet right now and I lost my iPhone, I can’t even go to their Facebook to complain. Thank you to Bitchy Waiter for being my voice. Albert, I hope you have gotten over your terrible experience and I hope Red Robin sent you some coupons for some free dessert or some other bullshit like that. As for me, me and my kids are just getting by day by day. It’s all I can do. I’m damn bug. I ain’t got no rights. I bet you stiffed your server too, am I right? Fuck you, Albert.”

And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. Albert had a bug in his salad. Red Robin tried to make it better. Albert still freaked out. And no one cares about Armando and his ten aphids.

 

 

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The Most Annoying Gluten-Free Customer in the World

"I might be an asshole."

“I might be an asshole.”

I have been working at the same restaurant for almost 5 years. Five. Years. Since it’s a small neighborhood kind of place, most of my customers are regulars that I see two or three times a month. One of those customers is a man who has been coming in for at least three years. He shows up every other week or so to meet his kids there for dinner. It’s clearly a divorce situation and this twice a month dinner is a mutually agreed upon meeting for him to share some real quality time with his son and daughter. In the beginning it always seemed that the kids didn’t really want to be there and you could tell their mom was like, “Tonight’s the night you have to go see your dad. Go.” To make matters worse, they have me as their server.

The man is gluten-free. I take no issue with his ailment and I have always accommodated his needs and gone above and beyond for him. After all, the kids already went though a divorce and I don’t want to be responsible for killing their father by accidentally serving him a bowl of gluten. He was in last night with his daughter; apparently the son no longer cares to put up a charade that he has a real relationship with his dad.

“Hi, guys, how are you tonight?” I ask.

The daughter is polite as always and the father is sucking down his Bombay Sapphire martini that he ordered from the bar before sitting at my table.

“Just so you know,” I continue, “we don’t have the flourless chocolate cake tonight. I know how much you like that.”

This is my way of reminding him that I remember his gluten intolerance. I know you can’t have it. I get it. I know that. But every time he sits down, he pretends that we have no history with one another.

“I can’t have gluten,” he says.

What I say: “Yes, sir.”

What I think: “No shit, asshole. I see you all the fucking time and I just mentioned that we don;’t have the goddamn flourless chocolate cake.”

“And I’m not one of those people who just says that. I really can’t have it,” he continues. “Tell me about the roasted chicken.”

Now look, we have had this fucking conversation every other week for too many years. The chicken is gluten-free. It has a sauce that has flour in it and I always tell you I will leave it off. It’s been established, sir. I have served you that sauceless chicken dozens of times and you have not died yet. Why do we have to go through this every time?

“Pan-seared?” he asks. “Hmmm, I sometimes have a problem with pans. Does it have to be pan-seared?”

He has always had it pan-seared in the past, but I let him know that we can cook it in the oven if he’s alright with it not being browned.

“Oh, I’m used to things not being brown,” he informs me and for some reason I imagine he is telling me about his gluten-free bowel movements. Judging by his daughter’s face, I think she is thinking the same thing.

As they wait for their food, he finishes his martini and calls me over to his table.

“There are three olives in this glass,” he tells me rather loudly.

I look at him waiting for him to finish his thought because since he didn’t order the drink from me, I can’t think of a reason I should care. As far as I know, olives have no gluten.

“This is why I never order olives in Queens. They’re always old and bad out here. I only order olives in Manhattan.”

This man must know of some secret olive orchard that exists on the Upper West Side somewhere.

“Look at these olives. They’re old, you can tell. Someone needs to to tell someone that these olives are old and bad. This is why I don’t order olives in Queens,” he reiterates.

His voice is getting louder and his daughter is squirming with embarrassment. I still wonder why he thinks I have anything to do with the state of a fucking olive.

“Someone should really tell someone about this,” he says again.

I stare at him for three seconds and then turn my head to the bar and yell out to Joe the bartender, “These olives are old and bad.” I again face the man and say, “There, I just told someone. Your chicken should be up shortly.”

I remain distant for the rest of our time together, if not physically, then emotionally. He eats his chicken and laments the fact that we don’t have the flourless chocolate cake because, I dunno if you heard this or not, but he’s gluten-free.

He and his daughter leave and I know it’s only a matter of time before he’s back again asking me questions he knows the answers to. The next time he comes in I want to tell him that the special of the day is a bowl of battered and fried Queens olives that are served with a gravy just so I can see his head explode and watch his daughter crawl under a gluten-free rock.

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Serve Coffee For a Living? You’re Going to Love This One.

"It's just a fucking cup of coffee, lady."

“It’s just a fucking cup of coffee, lady.”

Every once in a while, a song or video shows up on the Internet and it has the ability to reach through the screen and poke me in my eyes with realism. Such is the case with a song by Julian Moon who must have lived in my mind for a couple of days when she penned her epic tune called “A Cup of Coffee.” With the refrain of “it’s just a fuckin’ cup of coffee, lady” repeated several times, the song has now become my mantra any time someone has a mini-conniption about their decaf tasting not as fresh as they think it should. Seriously, if you have ever had the (dis)pleasure of serving coffee for a living, you are going to want to play this song over and over again. My favorite lyric is at the 2:06 mark, but I won’t ruin it for you by telling you what it is. Watch the video and behold its glory.

And you should also get to know this Julian Moon. Here she is on Twitter. On Facebook. And you can download the song here.

And thank you, Julian, for singing what we all feel.