Category Archives: comment on comments

A Comment on Comments: “Get a Real Job”

It’s only day two of this new year that I had such high hopes for and already it’s seeming like a broken record when it comes to stupid comments on my Facebook page. You know my Facebook page, right? It’s the page that shares the name of this blog and its sole purpose is to bitch about being a waiter? It should be no surprise then that the page has its fair share of bitching on it, but what is surprising is how many people are surprised to find bitching on it.

On a recent post that generated over 2,000 comments, one particular comment stood out to me like a herpes sore on a waxed pelvis:

Oh, William. Dear, sweet, addlebrained William. I’ve been blogging about the restaurant industry since before you sprouted your first pubic hair and you think telling me to get a real job is something I haven’t heard before? Sweetie, waiting tables is a real job. It’s more real than that girlfriend of yours that you have to blow up before she can give you a blow job. And when I say “blow job” I mean inserting your penis into a Fleshlight shaped like lips, as free Pornhub videos stream on your cell phone.

You say it’s not our fault that we choose to serve shitty people and you are absolutely correct. We don’t choose which shitty people sit in our sections. It’s based on rotations and seating charts. You should be happy about that because if servers could choose which people they were going to wait on, your shitty ass would be delegated to fast-food, takeout and buffets, which is probably right up your asshole alley anyway.

Perhaps you think I sound pathetic, but what does that make you for commenting on it? This blog is where I come to do exactly what I am doing right now: vent about the frustrations of one’s job, just like everyone does. Teachers, nurses, doctors, police officers and sanitation workers all complain about the things that drive them crazy in their jobs. That doesn’t mean they’re all going to quit their jobs and find new ones. If you want to call us morons, that’s fine. Then I’ll call you what you are: a troll who cruises Facebook pages looking for things to comment on just to elicit a response so you can get the attention that your blow-up doll of a girlfriend can’t give you. So here is the attention you wanted, William. I happily serve it to you just as I would serve you if you sat in my section. I give it to you with a smile on my face and joy in my heart. I’m not a pathetic moron. I’m a waiter and I’m a blogger.

I can also give credit where credit is due, William. You said I’m petty and you’re right. You can call me Petty LaBelle or Peppermint Petty or Petty Which Way But Loose. I accept all of those monikers and if this blog post calling you out doesn’t prove that I embrace my pettiness, I don’t know what else will.

Happy new year, William. Now leave me the fuck alone.

A Comment on Comments – “Go Kill Yourself” Edition

Once upon a time, this blog was filled with more personal stories about my daily goings on and my personal emotions that washed over me each day while I took orders and silently seethed at my customers. Over time, it has evolved into what it is today which is more of an essay-based critical eye on current events and me pushing either a product or my personae. I used to write the occasional blog post called “Comment on Comments” which was my retaliation against some sad, unsuspecting soul who left a comment on a blog post. Those particular posts slacked off over time because they felt unnecessarily mean spirited and spiteful.

Until today.

Let week, I received an email alerting me to a comment on a blog post that was written over five years ago, called “An Open Letter to the Barefoot Kids At Table 15.” You can read it, so I won’t go over what it was about, but essentially I called the little kid and asshole and his mother a whore. The comment was as follows:

Are you serious? Writing this douchey ass blog to rant at a three year old and call him a little asshole? The parents being called idiots, yeah I can understand but the three year old? You should go kill yourself dude. Get bent and shove this blog.

It was written anonymously, but since I’m the fucking admin of my own blog, I know that his name is Matt Blair and he has a Gmail address. First off, his name sounds like he should be a preppy blond football caption wearing an Izod shirt with an upturned collar who goes to Stone Academy, the all-boys military school that was near Eastland School for girls on The Facts of Life. He would meet Blair Warner at a school dance and Blair would totally fall in love with him because if she married him, her name would be Blair Blair. On their second day he would try to get to second base with her and she would end things because she’s not that kind of girl. Anyhoo, my point is that Matt Blair has a lot of balls to call my blog douchey when his middle name is probably Vinegar.

Yes, I called the kid an asshole and I’m not gonna apologize for that. Everyone knows that some kids are assholes. Just yesterday on the G train, I watched five-year old watch videos with his mother on her iPhone. “That’s so funny, Mommy,” he would say or “That’s really good, huh, Mommy?” And then he would push out this fake ass sounding laugh that was way too loud and I could see his beady little eyes scanning the subway car trying to soak up some attention. I mean, what a little asshole, right? It seemed like mom probably even knew it too based on how she wasn’t really making eye contact with him. (Spoiler alert: he reminded me of me.) So yes, some kids are assholes.

And then he says I should go kill myself. Really, Matt Blair? The blog post I wrote in 20-fucking-14 was so offensive that I should literally take my own life? No thanks, not gonna do that. And by the way, when did “go kill yourself” become such a sick burn? I must have missed that email blast. If you meant it to be funny, it’s not and if you meant it seriously, you’re a shitty person. Suicide isn’t something to casually toss off as an insult and if anyone reading this is struggling witht he idea of staying alive, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255. 

Matt does slightly redeem himself by telling me to “get bent and shove this blog.” But I still wanted more. If someone is going to insult me, I really want to see some creativity and effort. So to Matt Blair, I say this:

Get bent. And I mean, like, Crazy Straw bent, all twisted and turned in so many different directions that you can’t even tell which way is up anymore. Like you think you’re right side up, but you are so bent that when snot drips out of your nose it goes right into that little canal in the corner of your eye seeping into your eyeball like the way Visene does for people who can’t put eyedroppers directly into their eyes.

And you should shove your comment, Matt, but where to shove? So many orifices, so little time, you know? Ass shoving is so predictable, so let’s not shove your comment there. I would suggest shoving it down your throat, but your throat is probably already full of the liberal agenda, the homosexual lifestyle or whatever it is that people are shoving down throats these days. How about just collectively shove the comment up your IP address? Cool?

Thanks for the comment, Matt. I certainly do love reading them. And please know that any time one of you leaves a comments, I will get an email notification about it, because just like that little asshole on the G train, I crave attention.

A Comment on Comments; the “Why I Hate Hot Tea” Edition

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

Earlier this week, I posted a photo (see below) on the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page about how much of a pain in the ass it is to serve hot tea. A few people who don’t understand what the “bitchy” means in Bitchy Waiter got their panties in a twist and came down on me for it. First off, I am not going to apologize for speaking the goddamn honest truth: preparing a hot tea is something that makes a little piece of my soul dry up and blow away in the wind leaving a bitter dusting of hatred all over my section. I am not saying it is justified for me to feel this way, but I am saying that it’s true. And, as is always the case with someone so small-minded like me, I have decided to respond to a few people who have the gall to disagree with me.

Deronious said: How hard is it to bring out hot water and tea bags? Cripes almighty.

Oh, Deronius, if only it were that simple. You see, though, it’s not. Getting a hot tea for someone has about as many steps to it as your name does vowels: too goddamn many. When someone says they want hot tea, their next question is inevitably “What kind do you have?” This is when I have to dig deep into my brain cells to recall all of the varieties of dried leaves that people have the option of stirring into hot water. I have to spout out that we have black tea, green tea, cinnamon apple, English Breakfast, Earl Grey, peppermint, red zinger, lemon zinger, mandarin orange, chamomile, country peach and whatever else the fuck is in that big dusty box I never refill. They will usually ask for Lipton and then I have to go find it. I also have to find a clean looking coffee cup because unlike with coffee, they will be able to see inside this mug of water when I place it before them. I also have to find a saucer, a teaspoon and then go to the bar to get a lemon wedge and something to put it in. Then I go to the reach-in to get the milk and/or cream to pour into the non-existent creamer that seems to mysteriously disappear the moment I need one and I also have to pick up some honey from wherever the hell we store honey. It’s a lot of steps for something that costs $1.50 and will maybe increase my tip by about thirty cents. So, yeah, it’s a pain in the ass.

Brenda said: So what about serving hot tea is so demeaning? I would think it would be easy as coffee or anything from the bar.

Listen, Brenda, no one said it’s demeaning to serve hot tea. I mean, it’s no more demeaning than serving a burger or a plate of pasta and we do that all goddamn day. It’s not as easy as coffee because of all the steps I mentioned earlier and it’s certainly not as easy as ordering a cocktail because I don’t have to make that. All I do is ring that in and the bartender has to deal with it. Let the bartender start his own blog about what a pain in the ass it is to make a mojito.

Elle said: I’ve heard it all now. This ‘bitchy’ (/whiny) waiter needs to go and get a real job and see how hard the rest of the workforce has it when you factor in shitty co-workers/bosses/customers AND the fact that you’re doing an ACTUAL difficult job.

Elle, please go the nearest computer, log in to Amazon and order yourself a bag of dicks to chew on, because I’m sick of the “get a real job” argument. It’s as tired as you probably are after a long hard day at the whorehouse when it’s “buy one whore and get a blow job for free” day. You think the rest of the workforce has it so much harder because they work with shitty co-workers, bosses and customers while working an “actual” job? My job is more actual than your imagined boyfriend, Elle, and some of my co-workers and bosses are the most horrible people on the planet. (I’m talking to you. Mo.) If you truly have “heard it all” you can now stop removing the wax and semen from your ears because there no longer a need for you to listen to anything else for as long as you live. Close up your earholes, close up your legs and close up your mouth. We’re done here.

As always, thank you for your comments. It’s my most sincere pleasure to read them and they fill my heart with love. Best wishes and 25% tips to all of you, bitches.


Fuck you and your hot tea.

Fuck you and your hot tea.



A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

About a year and a half ago, I wrote a blog post about a rather famous woman who came into my section and then left without paying the check or leaving a tip. The blog post was called “Famous Person Dines and Dashes.” As with most of my blog posts, once I hit submit, I never gave it a second thought. That is, until someone named Anonymous commented on it:

I was horrified when I read this about my friend Elke. I’ve known her for many years and both Ben and Elke were and are very generous and big tippers. I asked Elke and she was invited to that show and therefore never thought that she owed anything. I think you should apologize to her and be informed before you slander someone else.

Well, anonymous, where to start? First off, I looked up the official definition of the word slander to make sure I have not committed any crimes.  Merriam-Webster tells me that slander means “to make a false spoken statement that causes people to have a bad opinion of someone.” According to that very official definition, a slanderous statement must be a false one. My statement was not false. Your friend did actually sit in my section and then she left without paying the check or leaving a tip. I even asked her if she would like her check and she told me to leave it on the table. Secondly, my statement wasn’t spoken, it was written. If you want to hear my statement spoken out loud, you can click here, but it still doesn’t make it slanderous, because it’s a true. She owed money. She knew I was putting the check on the table. She left without paying. All. Fact.

You tell me that your friend was invited to the show and did not know she was expected to pay anything, yes? I wonder what part of “Ma’am, I have your check. Do you want it now or would you like me to leave it on the table?” implies that there is no check. Ignorance is not an excuse.

I learned this lesson when I went to court to fight a traffic ticket. I had rented a car for 24 hours and parked it in front of my apartment. I saw that there was a fire hydrant nearby and knew I could not park too close to it. I got out of the car to look for a sign to tell me how far away I needed to be from it and I looked at the curb to see if any part of it was painted yellow. There was some paint on the curb, so I parked the car beyond the paint. I still got the ticket. I went to court to fight the ticket and explained to the judge.

“Your honor, I don’t own a car. I only rented it for one day. I wasn’t sure how far away to park from the hydrant. There was no paint on the curb where I parked it so I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Your car must be fifteen feet away from the hydrant, sir,” he told me.

“Your honor, I took pictures of the curb to show you that there was no paint telling me I couldn’t park there.”

“Fifteen feet, sir.”

“But I didn’t know that.”

“Ignorance is not an excuse to break the law.”

At that point he slammed his gavel down and I paid the sixty fucking dollars. I also learned a lesson: ignorance is not an excuse.

Since you tell me you have asked your friend about this situation and I now know that she knows she skipped out on a check, I suppose, then, that I can expect to get to work any day now and find an envelope with an apology card and nine dollars in it, yes? I look forward to that. As for an apology from me? I don’t think so. I don’t see the need. Perhaps my statement could cause a few people to have a bad opinion of your friend, but I let people come to their own conclusions about the integrity of someone who doesn’t pay their check or leave a tip.

Sorry, Elke Kravit.


A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

I wrote a story last week about a family who felt they were slighted at a restaurant because they had a stroller. Maybe they were and maybe they weren’t. The blog was called Entitled Parent Story #246 or Attack of the Stroller People. It generated lots of comments from people but none so fascinating and head-in-ass as Mary who had this to say:

For all the people who work in the food industry who have the audacity to bitch about serving the public, accommodating children or calling anyone entitled, get a fucking education, and get a job doing something else and you won’t have to bitch. Also, don’t refer to your establishment as “posh,” you are still serving the public and working for “tips and wages;” that is all.

My favorite comments are the ones from people who travel the Internet to a page called The Bitchy Waiter and then get offended that the website is about a waiter who bitches. I don’t know how to make the page any clearer than it is. When Mary goes to the Christian Singles website she is not surprised that the site is full of single Christians who are looking to hook up, is she? Is she shocked when she heads over to a website called Pork Rind Porn and it’s all photos of people who are way too familiar and comfortable with pork rinds? (Note to self: build a website called Pork Rind Porn.) This blog was made for bitchin’ and that’s just what I’ll do. And one of these days this blog is gonna walk all over you. Are you ready blog? Start walkin’:

Mary, shut your pie hole and move on. It does not take “audacity” to bitch about serving the public. All it takes is a brain, emotions and the ability to type. This blog is a venting page where I can say what I want and how I want and it is also a forum for people to complain about the things they can’t complain about elsewhere. For your information, I have an education; a real education that I went to college to get. You think jobs grow on trees, I suppose. Twice this summer, I visited Botanical Gardens. I saw cherry trees and pine trees and Chinese Maple trees, but never once did I see an Actor tree or a Lawyer tree or a Nurse tree. So don’t troll your ass over here and spout out the “get an education and get another kind of job” bullshit because it doesn’t fly on this page. And who’s to say that people who have those other jobs don’t have reason to bitch? I have a friend who writes an anonymous blog about being an elementary school teacher. She has a masters degree and bitches more than anyone I know, so education does not cease the need to bitch, bitch. Mary concludes her statement with “that is all.” But it isn’t all because trolls like Mary can never stay under their bridge for very long. She continues:

Go work in a factory. There are no babies or parents there.

What a great idea, Mary. Let’s all go work in factories. I bet there is no reason at all to complain about factory jobs. They are probably so fulfilling. True, there are no children with strollers or parents there to complain about, but I am pretty sure I can find something else that warrants a complaint. Believe me, I’m really good at finding the crappy in any situation. Let’s see, factory work…what could possibly suck about working in a factory? Other than the dangerous work environment, the noise, the pollution, the monotony and the low wages, it sounds like a fucking dreamland. Fuck you, Mary.

With all the things going on in the world, I love that there are people moaning about having to do, not only their job, when many people do not even have a job, but complaining about having to perform a simple aspect such as accommodating a somewhat annoying person at that job. Poor servers! Your job is so horrible!

Mary, guess what. People complain about their jobs. It’s our nature and it’s what allows us to keep going to the job. If we didn’t have a way to vent then people might hole up their emotions and it can grow and fester into a big nasty gross wound, similar to what you may have in your genital area that flares up every six to eight weeks. I bet even Vanna White complains about her job and she has to have one of the easiest ones in the feakin’ world. (Note to self: create a Vanna White Complaints website.)

How dare me to click on a link on a Facebook page where hundreds of people were already appalled by the stupidity and audacity of you fucking idiots, as shown through their many comments, and come here and feel the need to also be appalled and astounded by your stupid whining and bitching and desperate moaning. Cheers bitches!


Yes, how dare you to click a link on Facebook called Bitchy Waiter and not be prepared for bitching waiters. Open your eyes and look at what you’re clicking. It’s the beauty of the Internet, Mary. If you don’t like something you just click away and never come back. Most of the servers on this page are worthy professionals who are great at their jobs and come here to let off some steam from dealing with dumb ass people like you. Bitching on a Facebook page does not mean that they do it to their customers. And it’s nice of you to use the word “audacity” but you already did that in your first comment. I get it, you want to make sure you take full advantage of the Word a Day calendar that your Secret Santa bought for you last year at the holiday office party where you drank two glasses of White Zinfandel and then told that guy who works in the next cubicle that you can show him what the real meaning of “ho ho ho” is, but chill out. For future comments, you can use these other words that are synonymous with audacity: courage, fearlessness, boldness, enterprise, rashness, dauntlessness, intrepidity and audaciousness. I will continue the “stupid whining and desperate moaning” if you promise that you will continue popping out from under your bridge every now and then to make people solve a riddle before crossing it. Cheers to you too, you miserable sack of skin.

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A Comment on Comments, the Michael Cera Edition

A Comment on Comments

A Comment on Comments

Wow. Yesterday’s post about Michael Cera got a lot of traffic and lots of comments. So many, in fact, that I feel I must write a Comment on Comments piece. And away we go!

First off, I want to make it clear that I never said anything bad about Michael Cera. There was nothing in the blog post that was specifically negative about him, his acting or his films. All of that stuff came from people who left comments. All I did was notice something in a restaurant and write a story about it in much the same way I have done for the last five years. Many of the negative comments were directed at me, and I’m gonna be honest with you folks, it hurt. It hurt me real bad. Like so bad that that it made me want to go back in time to the 1950’s to sit on a swing at a drive-in and sing about it. (Go to the 1:16 mark.) Most people said that I was making too big of a deal out of nothing. Hello? Are you new? That’s what I do. I am a master at taking a molehill and turning it into a big fucking mountain. That’s basically what this blog subsists on. Welcome to the Bitchy Waiter.

Nicholas had this to say: The Bitchy Waiter should be the Miserable Waiter instead. The man played chess. Get a different job since this one apparently makes you miserable. Life is too short to be so bitchy.

BW has this to say: You know what, Nicholas? I already paid for the URL to The Bitchy Waiter and I don’t want to start a new blog about being miserable too. Why don’t you do that, you miserable twat? Life is too short to not be bitchy is the way I like to look at things.

Krysta had this to say: As a server and bartender. This story is a tad overdone. He has the right to sit at the table. He has the right to order water and sit there from open to close. Yes it stinks, but honestly if you are unhappy with the way other people choose to spend their time, get out of the restaurant business.

BW has this to say: Yes, this story is a tad overdone just like that man at Table 11 last night who asked for his steak to be cooked so there was absolutely no pink inside it. If you are unhappy about a blog with the word “bitchy” in it, maybe you should get out of the blog-reading business.

Lots of people seemed to think that I picked on Mr. Cera because he was famous or because I am jealous of him. Let’s be honest. Anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis knows that I don’t write about the behavior of someone just because they are famous. I will call out any Tom, Dick or Harry if I think it warrants a blog post. And me, jealous of his celebrity? Of course I am. That is not new news.

Eddie had this to say: The blog writer is upset because his own sense of self-entitlement was deflated by someone with more celebrity than himself. He even mentions how the waiter was so impressed by him being a blog writer.

BW has this to say: I never said that the waiter was impressed by me being a blog writer. In fact, I never even said it was a waiter. I was keenly sensitive to that because I promised that person I would not give away their identity. And that person was excited that they knew of my blog specifically, not just a “blog writer.” Trust me, no one ever knows what the hell I’m talking about if I mention the name of my blog.

Eddie went on to say: This blog post is silly. Now, if Cera came in for 5 hours, ordered only a water, left a shitty tip, and then insulted a member of the staff on the way out the door, or complained about service, I would agree you have just cause to slander him on your blog.

BW has this to say: The definition of slander is: “(verb) to make make false and damaging statements about someone.”Where did I slander Michael Cera? Everything I wrote was true. He was in fact at a busy restaurant, taking up a four-top while playing chess. All facts, Eddie. I calls ’em as I sees ’em.

Davin said: I love how you talk about how people think they’re so important, then you try to name drop yourself to the waiter and apparently have a business card that reads “professional blogger”. What a high barrier of entry to become one of THOSE….you’d need to take at least 4 minutes out of your day to achieve that job. Frankly, you come off as a self-entitled prick who’s just jealous of celebrity.

BW has this to say: Davin, my business card does not say “professional blogger” on it. It has the name of my blog and the URL as well as an email address. I got them because I was tired of scribbling that shit out onto bev naps. And for your information, it takes much much more than four minutes a day to create this high quality blog. It takes at least a ten or twelve minutes a day. And maybe I do come across as a self-entitled prick, but then again so do you. The only difference between the two of us is that I can see that about myself which is why I have a blog called The Bitchy Waiter. And as I mentioned before, I am clearly jealous of his celebrity. I also knew that if I wrote a story with his name attached, it would get me more traffic and since I am a needy self-entitled prick who craves fame, it worked out real nice for me. Lots of traffic yesterday! Success!

Someone named D had this to say: Waaaahh, I had to wait for a seat at a restaurant! waaaahh, Michael Cera is playing chess! Waaaaahhh, he got two tables, and I only got one, Waaaahh!  Get over yourself lady.

BW has this to say: I’m a guy.

Finally, Colleen had this to say: It doesn’t matter if he ate or was drinking the entire time. The point of the story is you don’t fucking play chess at a restaurant especially a busy one.

BW has this to say: Thank you, Colleen! His behavior is that of someone who is simply unaware of how inconsiderate they are being. It’s one thing to take up a table for three or four hours but continue ordering food and drinks. It’s quite another to sit there and use the table to catch up with old friends, read a book, do paperwork, talk on the phone or play a few games of goddamn chess. It’s just common sense and good manners. Maybe the restaurant was pleased to have someone of his stature sitting there for a few hours so it could make their place seem cooler. Maybe he left a huge tip to make up for the lost rotation. Maybe I would have waited 40 minutes whether he was playing chess or not. The point is, any customer who uses a restaurant table to play board games when other people would like to use that table to eat is a clueless customer.

Thank you for all the great comments, everyone. This was fun. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go stand on the corner in mid-town Manhattan and hand out my business cards to anyone who will take one and then beg people to call me famous.

You hurt me real bad.

You hurt me real bad.

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