Dear Little Boy Who is Running Around the Restaurant in Bare Feet,
Your mom is an idiot. If she even knows who your dad is, he is probably an idiot too. What kind of person thinks it’s alright to take the shoes off of a three-year old kid and let him run around in a restaurant? Your mom, that’s who. And she’s a fucking idiot. Yes, I get that you were whining about having to wear shoes and it was easier for her to just pull them off and let you go, but guess what, kid. I don’t like wearing shoes either, but I deal with it. Life is full of responsibilities like paying rent, buying groceries and wearing fucking shoes in restaurants. Grow up, little asshole.
It’s not that I am against seeing your cute little piggies, really. It’s just that I worry about your safety. These floors at work are nasty. Just last week, someone broke a glass right where you were standing. I swept it up, but between you and me, I did a total half-assed job. For all I know, there were slivers of glass all over the fucking place. I could have done a better job, but I remember thinking, “Aww fuck it. It’s not like people walk around in here barefoot or anything.” But then here you are, little three-year old. Do you have any slivers of glass in your tootsies yet? If you do, I’m almost sure that your whore mom is too busy drinking her White Zinfandel to pull her lips away from the glass for two minutes to give you a Band-Aid or anything, so beware.
By the way, the floors are also dirty. Like, really dirty. You know who’s in charge of keeping the floors clean? I am and you already know that I did a half-assed job with the cleaning of the broken glass. Imagine what kind of job I do when I mop. When I mop, I do a quarter-ass job. Sometimes I don’t even use any Murphy’s Oil Soap because the bottle is too far away from where I have to fill the mop bucket with water. And sometimes, all I do is pour enough water onto the mop to make it damp so that my manager will see it and assume that I mopped, Yes, what I am saying is that the floor is as disgusting as the bottom of a chicken coop. Some days I don’t even sweep because I learned that walking around the restaurant before we open gives the illusion that I am sweeping and that’s good enough. When you get home, your mom may be surprised at how dirty the soles of your lil’ baby feet are. Then again, if she’s letting you run around in here barefoot, she obviously doesn’t care about your feet or anything else. Judging by the way she is eyeing that wine bottle, the only thing she cares about is getting her buzz on.
Look, kid, you’re adorable with the food stains all over your shirt and that milk mustache you have had since you came in. I love how your hair is sorta matted down on one side and that scab on your elbow is super cute. You’re really working that whole 90’s grunge/homeless kid look. I just wanted you to know that it might be in your best interest to put on some damn shoes. If your mother doesn’t care, please know that I do. I truly care about you, kid.
If you are too young to read this, I apologize. Just give this letter to your mom and if she is comfortable reading something other than the side of a box of wine, she can read this instead. Oh fuck, I just acknowledged that you can’t read and I kept on going with all these words that you can’t understand. Fuck. Oh, I’m sorry, I have been cursing to you. That was wrong of me. Wait, you can’t read, so whatever the fuck. Fuck it. Just put on your goddamn mother fucking shoes, asshole.
The Bitchy Waiter.