Monthly Archives: December 2009

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

In the spirit of the holidays, The Bitchy Waiter offers this poem to you. Please do enjoy it and happy fucking holidays.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, in the front of the house
The only creature still stirring was that sad dying mouse;

The glue trap was placed by the reach-in with care,
In hopes that the rodents would soon be aware;

This server was ready to be home in his bed.
While visions of auto-grat danced in his head.

My apron now off, cleaning my last ketchup cap,
When I hear from the window a soft gentle rap.

I try to ignore all the obnoxious clatter,
But I walk towards the noise to see what’s the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Crack it open so slightly, do nothing rash.

The moon on the breasts of this tired looking ho
Gave me the feeling she wanted some mo’.

When, what to my wondering eye should appear,
This bitch had a coupon for one freebie beer.

With her Lee Press-on Nails and her mascara too thick,
I knew in a moment she must be some trick.

A hooker, a ho, or whatever the name,
“It’s Christmas Eve, bitch. We’re closed, it’s a shame.”

“Please, just a Bud, a Corona or Bass!
I have this free coupon I pulled from my ass!
In six more short days, the coupon’s not valid,
And if not a beer, maybe one small side salad?”

I looked at the lady, saw the need in her eyes,
And wondered how badly she wanted some fries.

“But we’re closed for the night and I’m ready to go”
So I turned off the light and shut the window.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
Scratching and gnawing giving me proof
That this crack whore was desperate and needed a beer
Or maybe she needed some holiday cheer.

She broke through the skylight and came down with a thud.
Her panties were twisted and and covered with mud.

Way too much makeup was covering her face
And her sad bloodshot eyes were scanning the place.

Her eyes- how they crossed! Her hair was so scary!
I pitied the loser who had popped her cherry.

Her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And her nose was all white from doing some blow.

The stump of a blunt she held tight in her teeth.
And the stench of her body encircled her head like a wreath;

She had a broad face and a round big fat belly,
And she reached to a table for a packet of jelly.

She slurped it up quickly and looked at the shelf
I picked up a steak knife to protect myself.

The bottles of liquor went straight to her head,
And I knew right away I had nothing to dread;

She spoke not a word, but went straight to the whiskey.
She downed the whole bottle and asked “did you miss me?”

And laying her finger aside of her nose,
She took one deep sniff and reached into her clothes.

In her hand was the coupon for the beer that was free
She said thank you, then burped and gave it to me.

I opened the door and she went out of sight,
Saying “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”
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I Am Not An Animal


When I work at the club, there are usually just two servers and a bartender. That’s it. There are not a lot of people “on the floor” most of the time and I generally work with the same couple of people each week because of our set schedule. The other server I work with is tall, dark and handsome. Like literally, he is 6′ 3″, black hair and very good looking. I think he is a model/actor or something and he is really young. For the sake of this blog, let’s just say his name is Pretty Baby. I really like Pretty Baby even though I seriously think I am old enough to be his father, which makes a teeny tiny bit of my soul die when I admit that. And when I say a “teeny tiny” bit of my soul I mean most of it. When we work, the room is divided in half for each of our stations. A few days ago, the guests were being seated and Pretty Baby went up to his first table in the back half of the room. The first person in his station was this older gay man who was with his friend and when he saw Pretty Baby, he exclaimed, “Oh boy, we get the handsome waiter.” This was probably followed by some drool dripping from the corners of his mouth, his tongue hanging out and him untucking his shirt so it covered the front of his pants. First off, middle aged gay man, I can hear you. The handsome waiter implies that there is only one handsome waiter in the room meaning I am not it. Now I may not be Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Soupy Sales or whoever is considered hot these days, but I ain’t no Quasi-fucking-modo. I suddenly felt like The Elephant Man or that guy from that movie Mask. (Funny store: I remember seeing Mask at the movie theater while getting drunk on California Coolers. There’s a clue as to how old I am. Quiet dramatic part of the movie and my friend Kim yelled out, “Awww, chin up, Rocky! Why the long face?) Anyhoo, I guess the customer had just delegated me to “the funny one” or worse yet “the other one.” Thanks. That’s great. Like being at work is not torturous enough, now I have to hear from customers that I am practically an eye sore. Pretty Baby assured me that the man said a handsome waiter and not the handsome waiter. Uh huh. Sure. Fine.

Twenty minutes later, an old lady told me that she liked my curly hair…
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What Would You Like in Your Coffee?


Now I don’t drink coffee, so maybe I just don’t “get it” but it seems to me that whether you put half and half or skim milk in your coffee, it wouldn’t make that big of a difference. Too many times, I have taken coffee to someone and they have a mini stroke when they find out I had the gall to bring them whole milk instead of heavy cream. Or half and half instead of skim milk. The simplest way for these people to avoid this horror of horrors is to just ask for what they want when they ask for their coffee. A simple “with skim milk” will work wonders. It saves me a trip back to the kitchen and it would save the customer from having to contort their face into a ridiculous expression when their brain tries to to wrap itself around the idea of possibly having whole milk. And it’s only a tablespoon anyway, right?

I looked up the difference in calories for various dairy products. Based on a tablespoon serving, heavy cream has 52 calories, half and half has 20, whole milk has 9 and skim has 5. Can someone please explain to me why some lady would freak the fuck out on me that I brought her whole milk instead of skim? It’s a difference of 4 fucking calories. It’s not like I tried to force feed her a Cinnabon cinnamon roll (730 calories) or something. When someone doesn’t specify, I will just bring whole milk. I figure that it’s sorta middle of the road and won’t make that big of a difference. Keep in mind that a lot of times the woman (it’s always a woman. Men don’t care) who can’t handle that tablespoon of whole milk in her coffee, is perfectly fine ordering a three egg omelette with bacon and cheddar but God forbid she has those four extra calories from the whole milk. And here’s a little secret about skim milk that surely happens in restaurants around the globe. If I only have whole milk and the customer really really wants skim milk, I will do whatever I can to please that customer. I want them to have their skim milk, I really do. Therefore, after much experimentation, I have learned that one part whole milk to one part tap fucking water produces the finest skim milk known to man in all the land. People don’t know the difference anyway. It’s like when this asshole asked me for a glass of milk once at the Marriott. He had already gotten way on my nerves, so I served him a glass of half and half. He drank it. All of it. I think when he left I heard him fucking say “moo.”
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Bad Credit?? No Credit?? No Problem!


Maybe it’s possible that I have a teeny tiny stripe of vindictiveness within my soul, but when a person’s credit card is declined I get some small bit of pleasure from it. Sometimes it happens to the most perfect person. I love when it happens to some asswipe who has given me so many problems and thought he was a big shot because he could boss around a waiter. When a guy like that has his card declined, my inner joy shoots right out of my eyes and onto his retard face when I utter those horribly embarrassing words. “Your credit card was declined.” People always have the same reaction. “Well, did you swipe it again? Or maybe type in the numbers, because the strip is bad? I’m sure that card is good.” Trust me, we always try it again because we don’t want to deal with it any more than you do. I would way rather it just be approved than have to go back to your bankrupt ass while you dig through your purse or wallet and try to find the “good” card. I usually try to tell them discreetly so as not to shame them in front of their friends, but I worked with this one guy at the Black Eyed Pea who loved it when a card was declined. One time, he went back to the man of no credit who was paying for his party of six or seven. He told him loudly and clearly “your card was declined.” He said it plenty loud enough so that everyone else at the table was sure to hear it as well. It was just plain mean and nasty. God, I loved that freakin’ guy. It’s the little things that get me through my shift…
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On the Rag


Why is it so freaking hard to find a decent towel to wipe down a table with? Is it that difficult to have towels around? Are towels so fucking valuable that they must be kept under lock and key and only given out when the previous towel is just a bunch of sad tired threads only held together by the omelet they most recently wiped up? At my last job, they were locked in the office because you just know that I wanted to steal a whole bag of them and sell them on the underground black market for dish rags. Or maybe put them on eBay. Yeah, that’s where the real money is for dish rags. You always had to ask the manager to please go get you one. Stingy fuckers. Or sometimes, they just don’t have any, so you keep using the same rag over and over again. Wipe a table? Sure. Wipe a seat? Sure. Wipe an ass? Well, all I have is this one towel, so..okay, sure.

And they always are supposed to be that sanit bucket thing which is totally gross. All it is is a bucket of hot water and bleach, but why the fuck does have to be hot water? It’s not like it stays hot. Within half an hour you are sticking your hands into a bucket of room temperature bleach water that has food floating in it in order to wipe down a table with a towel that is thinner than a goddamn Kleenex. I never put the towel back into the sanit bucket. Fuck that. I don’t need to get my hands all bleachy-smelling and dry just so some customer can have a clean table. I rinse the towel under the faucet and call that shit clean enough.

Or what about when you have the pleasure of working in a restaurant that has real linen napkins instead of paper ones. It’s like an unlimited supply of towels. Grab a dinner napkin, wet it and clean that fucking cappuccino machine. Who cares that the coffee never comes out of the napkin? If they would’ve just had plenty of towels in the first place, it wouldn’t even be an issue. Those dinner napkins get used to wipe down all kinds of crap. If someone spills a soda, you just throw a pile of napkins on it. Is the refrigerator dirty? Hey, wipe it down with a dinner napkin. And then just throw it into the bag to go to the laundry and it will soon be back nice, clean and pressed. It’s ready to sit on the lap of a customer who uses it to gently wipe the sweet mouth of her one year old little girl. The same napkin that only two days ago helped serve as a dam to keep the overflowing toilet water from seeping into the break room.

Order some more towels, managers.

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Danger: Broken Heart Ahead


So you know, I actually pretty much like my job these days. Of course it does help that I only work two days a week so it makes it a lot easier to tolerate the overall employment thing. For the most part the clientele that come in are pretty respectful and nice. I said for the most part. A few nights ago the Queen of the Cunts graced us with her presence. She had a made a reservation for the show because she was dear personal friends with the performer. Like we give a shit. She had requested a booth when she made the reservation, but a request is not a guarantee. For the sake of anonymity, let us say that her name was Laverne Defazio. Well someone else had also made a reservation that night and her name was very similar, like Laverne Defazia. So guess who didn’t her booth. Well, the host offered her another booth but that one wasn’t good enough. All the other booths were full because other people got there when the doors opened like they are supposed to and not five minutes before the show starts. This is when she opened up the floodgates to her true cunt power. She unleashed a tidal wave of cuntiness and we were suddenly up to our knees in her bitch juice. (I just couldn’t say cunt juice. Cunt juice is too disgusting even for me to type. Hee hee…cunt juice.) She started bitching and moaning and whining and basically getting on my nerves. She was finally sat at a table which was actually better than the booth because it has a direct sight line to the stage and no waiters pass in front of it a thousand times during the show. But it still wasn’t good enough. She headed back to the host stand to start complaining again and this is when our dear mild-mannered host looked at her and said “get outta my face!” She stormed over to a bartender to try to complain to him too. Like what the fuck do you want us to do, lady? Build you another booth? Or maybe we can make you a balcony or a box seat? Or if you’re such dear personal friends of the performer, just have them sing at your fucking apartment. She stomped back to her seat to wait for the show to start. Of course she was in my station now.

I went up to her table with my biggest phoniest smile and acted like I had no idea what had been happening and started kissing her ass to try and smooth her ego. I took the order for her and her four friends. She ordered her Campari and soda and the show started. Then she had another Campari and soda. She asked me to bring her the check early so about ten minutes before the show was over I gave it to her. I leaned over and put my hand on her forearm and whispered in her ear. “I just wanted to let you know that we comped three of your drinks in order to make up for the misunderstanding at the beginning of the evening.” Her bony hand latched onto my wrist and she hissed back at me.

“I want you to know that your host was very rude to me. What he said to me hurt me. It hurt my feelings and it hurt me deeply. My heart is hurt and I am very offended by it. I made these reservations for an evening of happiness and now it’s ruined. My heart is hurt!” Meanwhile, her friends are still watching the show like they don’t give a rats ass about her heart or how badly it was hurting. I looked at her and said, “okay.”

She got up and went back to the bartender to complain again. By this time the host was gone because his shift was over. We told her that he was asked to leave and he may be fired. (Not true. At all.) She was reiterating what had happened as if we had forgotten it in the last 45 minutes. By this time, the Campari was doing all the talking. And the show was still happening. You know, the show? The show with her dear friends singing that she wanted to see so badly? It’s happening as she is in the bar having a mini stroke. The bartender tells her to go sit down and enjoy the end of the show and she finally does. What a pain in the ass. And the tip? She gave me $30 which was way more than 20%. I think it was because out of all that commotion, I was the only one who didn’t care enough to get involved, but from her point of view I was the nice one. Apathy wins again!
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