An Open Letter to the Kid On a Scooter

Better here than in a restaurant.

Better here than in a restaurant.

Dear Kid on the Scooter,

What the hell is your problem? I saw you come into the restaurant with your mom, grandma and sister and you were riding a fucking scooter. In a restaurant? Really? I saw you riding it on the sidewalk before you came in, but I never thought you would ride it all the way through the restaurant as you and your family picked out a table like you were in a fucking orchard picking out apples.  “Oh, look at that one, it’s so nice! Oooh, but what about that one?” You rode it from Table 1 all the way to Table 16 and then back again. With the wind blowing through your hair, you looked like you thought you were filming Easy fucking Rider. And then your mom wanted a table on the patio. I saw your eyes light up when you saw all that open concrete out there with just nine tables that you would have to dodge though. I could tell you were looking forward to taking that damn scooter on a ride from Table 21 to Table 29, but your mom was too damn impatient to wait for me to reset that four top that had just left so she decided to sit inside instead. I bet your heart fell through your chest and into a soggy pile of sadness when you realized you would have to go back inside with your scooter. Inside you rode, right back to Table 16 where your sister crawled into the booth and put her grubby little hands on every piece of silverware and every glass at the table.

GET OFF YOUR FUCKING SCOOTER!

So then I had to make room for the fucking thing as if serving two kids wasn’t enough of a pain in my ass, now I have to practically valet park a goddamn scooter for a ten-year old. After I moved the high chairs over and made room for the thing, I went to give you your menus and then I went outside to clean the four top. As soon as I was done setting it up, your mom decided she does want to sit outside “now that there’s a table ready.” Off you go to get your wheels so you can ride the whole six feet to your next table. I grabbed the silverware and glasses from Table 16 since your sister had already left her DNA on all of it and carried it out to the patio to swap them with the clean ones. And what did you do, kid? You stood in the doorway, straddling your scooter the same way your whore mother straddled a stranger she met on the 7 train to conceive you between the Queensborough Plaza and 46th Street stops. I had to step around you three. Damn. Times.

GET OFF YOUR FUCKING SCOOTER!

After a couple of spins around the patio, as I silently prayed for a rock or stick to catch your wheel and send you to the pavement, you finally sat down. Your mom was in a hurry all of a sudden just like she was ten years ago when she was trying to get her panties back on before she missed her subway stop. She chose your food for you because she’s so good at making decisions. “Yeah, ride the scooter in the restaurant. Yeah, let your hair grow down past your shoulders so no one can tell if you’re a boy or a girl. Yeah, cum inside me, man on the 7 train, so we can make a baby together.” Your mom’s a real peach pit, I tell ya.

I got your food. I cleared your table. I gave you your check. Your mom left me about 12%. And then you left. Onto your scooter you hopped, your sister running behind you as you rode through the restaurant while other customers gave your mom a look of “what the fuck is wrong with you?” Your mom meandered out, pulling a wedgie out of her ass, except don’t you have to wear underwear to have a wedgie? You zoomed through the exit and out onto the busy sidewalk and hopefully out onto the busier street.

GET OFF YOUR FUCKING SCOOTER!

Mustard and mayo,
The Bitchy Waiter

Eat it, asshole.

Eat it, asshole.

Discussion

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  2. Rhonda
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    • Jessica Wegener
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    • The Bitchy Waiter
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