I want people to take a mother fucking eye exam to sit in my station. Too many times, people claim they can’t read the check or read the menu. They probably can’t read the expression on my face either which is saying “shut the fuck up.” Or maybe it’s not an eye exam they need, it’s the GED or high school fucking diploma that they missed out on that will explain their sheer stupid ass-ness.
This man was in my station to see the show last week. He seemed a bit odd. Like the kinda guy that sits in his room all day and looks at internet porn. Okay, that statement just described me and half of the people who are reading this blog, but you know what I mean. The creepy kind of person that sits in his room all day and looks at internet porn. He had beady little eyes, a comb-over, some sort of sinus issue and a hunchy kind of back. I asked him what he wanted for the first of his two beverages and he sighed and said “uh, (sniff sniff) I dunno. I don’t drink alcohol.” He said it all whiny and shit. I never said he had to drink alcohol, anyway. So he ordered a cranberry and orange juice combo because I guess he figured he was in a club so why not live it up. Get cranberry and orange juice! Halfway through the show I asked him if he wanted his second drink to be the same wild and crazy beverage as his first and he said no. Fine with me.
End of the show. I gave him his check. It had a ten dollar cover charge for the singer, a five dollar charge for his mocktail and a five dollar minimum charge since he requested to not have the second drink. His total was $21.78. Porno Pervy pulls out a ten dollar bill. Without looking, I picked up his check before I realized how lacking it was in funds. I went back to him and told him that I needed more money from his ass.
“But why?” he whined. “All I had was one juice (sniff sniff). A juice is more than ten dollars?”
I explained to him that there was a cover charge and a two drink minimum which is what his seating pass clearly stated. He told me he never read it because it was too dark. “And I didn’t know there was a cover charge.” I don’t know what his excuse was for not hearing it as the host sat him and as I told him again when I took his order. He then laid down a twenty dollar bill for his $21.78 tab. Again, read the check.
“Almost there,” I said. “Seventy-eight more cents and we’ll have it.” He pulled a dollar out of his pocket and I could see the sad look on his face as he realized that dollar bill was not going into the panties of some tired ass pole dancer later that night. I gave him his twenty-two cents back and he put it in his pocket.
No tip for Bitchy Waiter. All because this twat couldn’t comprehend the writing that explained what it cost to be in the show. A cabaret club and he didn’t know there was a cover charge? Nothing in New York City is free. Read the fine print.