E.T. iPhone Home

The other day I was lucky enough to wait on one of the most arrogant douche-bags I've ever met.

Wow, was she a fucking winner?!

As she is sitting at the table with her ugly fucking family she demands that I "find someone" to take their picture.

I tell her, "I'd be more than happy to do it for you," and I am lying through my fucking teeth.

As she whips out her iPhone she casts a certain glare upon me, cautiously appraising my ability to operate such a device.

While placing--more like bestowing--this uncharted piece of fucking treasure into my hands, she asks, "do you know how to use these iPhones?"

Hold the phone, shithead! (Haha, literally)

Just because I work in the restaurant industry--a job in which I am subservient to your every last need--and wear a goofy fucking captain's jacket with a tacky Chip-and-Dale's bowtie, it does not mean that I am some sort of fucking idiotic peasant.

Like, honestly, am I some fucking extraterrestrial creature that has just made his maiden voyage to Earth?

I mean, do you think I live in a fucking dungeon with manacles--fucking balls-and-chains--wrapped around my legs.

What? You think I roll around with a fucking Zack Morris phone all the time?

You think that I only use a fucking landline when I make calls?

Christ, not only am I poor and underprivileged, but, apparently, I have no fucking friends within the circle of high society--either--that would ever allow me to use their iPhones.

I am just a measly, pathetic little fuck, I guess.

Little does she know, I own a fucking iPhone....

I Scream over Ice-Cream

Ok, I fucking cannot stand scooping ice-cream.

Why is that?

Well, in a day and age where technology is so advanced as to provide human beings with a phone that can basically do everything--aside from wiping one's ass--technology has failed to invent an instrument that makes extracting iced cold, ice-cream easy.

I mean I hate when some cheeky little bastard wants his ice-cream sundae for dessert.

I fucking SCREAM over ice-cream. 

I walk into the kitchen, open the small, tedious fucking freezer and HOPE that it's broken--by some miracle of God--so as to allow the ice-cream to be lukewarm, and therefore scoop easier than sour-cream.

Of course this is never the case, and so I prepare myself for battle.

I grab the infinitesimal scooper, and drive it--harder than a Mike Tyson jab--into the block of ice-cream.

...Nothing...

Now, I start to lose my temper--especially once I notice the cuffs of my shirt are stained chocolate, or coffee, or whatever the fuck.

I go at it again; nothing.

I try to leverage my whole body against the fucker. I mean, now, I am completely bent over with more than three quarters of my body inside the fucking freezer.

Again, nothing!

Fuck it, it's time to give that son-of-a-bitch the people's elbow.

I'm punching it, kicking it, elbowing it when finally the smallest fucking scoop avails itself.

Nice, now all I have to do to render a full-size serving is repeat this process a hundred times over.

Luckily, the physical exertion expended to scoop has caused a rainstorm of sweat to glide off my forehead.

The salt seems to melt the ice-cream, and--BOOM--it finally gives way.

I bring the ice-cream to the table, and the little bastard complains that he didn't order strawberry sauce.

Oh, don't worry that isn't strawberry sauce, but, rather, the blood that spewed forth after I broke my fucking hand on the ice-cream.

I mean, let's go! It's time Brookstone or Sharper Image invents some crazy geothermic fucking scoop that glides through ice-cream the way that Michael Phelps glides through water.

Breadcrumbs Belong on the Table, iPhones Don't....

Every now and then I'll spill a fucking gingerale on top of someone's bald head.

Every now and then I'll fucking boot a tray of plates and watch as they hit the ground and shatter.

Every now and then these minimal mistakes happen. Fuck, shit happens every day in every profession. 

Am I sorry for these mishaps? 

No! I don't give a fuck! 

Am I sorry that--in my manic haste to do 1,000 things at once--I spilled your precious martini all over the table, and watched as it flooded the shit out of your precious iPhone?

No! Because--like I said--I don't give a fuck, and I certainly don't have any sympathy for you. 

Because....

Silverware, glasses, plates, and breadcrumbs belong on the table; iPhones don't. 

I mean, customers all too often regard their waitstaff as mindless, stupid fucking assholes to begin with anyways, so I don't understand why they would ever trust their $650 dollar piece of equipment on a table  where the exchange of food and drink is all too often being made. 

Besides, what kind of an arrogant asshole thinks it's okay to have his phone stick out like a malignant tumor? Apparently he is okay with the rude, pompous message that he is sending to not only his company, but the fellow dining customers in the restaurant. And, don't think it's okay to answer that son-of-a-bitch in the middle of the dining room.

I mean, there's a reason why bathrooms exist apart from the dining room; and that's because NO ONE wants to deal with your shit. So, piss off somewhere else. 

Thanks 

Not-So-Merry A Time of Year

While this is the preferred season of the year for many human beings--with the holidays rapidly approaching; gifts, family, friends, eggnog and brandy--it is a time that--because of the restaurant industry--I fucking despise.

Typically, the holiday season brings an abundance of business--and that is good; I am not complaining--but sometimes money isn't everything. You could tell me, right now, that I am going to make 8 grand over the course of the next 2 months, and I still wouldn't give a flying fuck!

As waiters, we are required to work Thanksgiving, Christmas eve, and both New Year's eve and New Year's day. In this way, our lives are forfeited for the happiness of others. I wake up on each holiday at 9 a.m., eat a quick breakfast, make a few obligatory phone calls, then head to the restaurant to work a 10 hour shift. My holiday feasting is usually done on the fly--sometimes not at all.

So with that being said, I think it is fair to speak on behalf of all restaurant employees when I say to holiday customers, "show some fucking courtesy, patience, and respect to those that work tirelessly on holidays to give your family a pleasant experience."


Because....

If it were up to us, we would be home with our loved ones; laughing, joking, pigging out, watching football, catching a sick buzz, and not having a single fucking worry in the world--especially one that pertains to whether or not you received your turkey dinner with ALL dark meat, or whatever-the-fuck.

2 Mass-Ave Bums Chew-and-Screw, Almost!

A couple of Mass-Ave bums came into the restaurant on Sunday night. Now, from the onset of their arrival, it was clear that they were a little misplaced; I mean--fuck--they stuck out like sore thumbs. One--who clearly didn’t graduate from Harvard, although his hooded sweatshirt offered otherwise--had a vicious, grizzly red beard that covered half his face. The other--who had a gait presumably altered by alcohol consumption--sported a pair of wonderful, fingerless mittens; both were decked out in jackets that could dub as parachutes. 

As they sat at the table--hunched over in despair--I approached them with a certain neutrality. Hey, bums gotta eat too! Let’s not jump to conclusions, yet! I kindly took their order, which was 2 plates of stuffed sole, and served them the complimentary bread, butter, and mushrooms. After they devoured the 2 pieces of bread, they asked for more, and more, and more. After they had enough yeast in their stomachs to sustain a distillery, I brought them their soles. The food disappeared in seconds as food debris smattered about in the air. Newburg sauce dangled like tinsel in Grizzly Adams’ beard, while a pool of shimmering butter spewed off the other guy’s chin. 

An ecstatic--bordering perverse--look gleamed in each other’s eyes. This could have been attributed to the vitreous effects of alcohol, the pure gluttony just exercised, or, more pertinently, to the idea that was undoubtedly brewing in their heads. 

I placed the bill amongst the remaining scree of breadcrumbs and saliva, and waited nearby, vigilantly monitoring the tailbones of my bums. 

Bummer!

I noticed the only thing green at the table, was the mutated plaque in between the teeth of bum number 1; the only Franklin being waved around was the one belonging to the batter’s glove bum number 2 was wearing around his right hand. 

Red Flags started to erupt as bum number 1--Grizzly Adams--took off, in a manic haste, towards the front door. Then, it hit me: how ironic was it that 2 creatures, such as those, would be feeding on sole--when in fact there was nothing soulful about their actions. Bum number 1 reached his demise as he smacked into the front door in a cataclysmic collision. Just as he fell to the earth, his pants, likewise, fell from his hips to his ankles. Quickly, he recovered just in time to make a run for it. As he did, I could hear him screaming, “I’m gonna get you!!! Sleep with one-eye open!!!” 

Taking Bum number 1’s lead, bum number 2 tried to escape by running for the front door. However, a phalanx of servers--myself included--tripped him up enough to land him directly on his ass. Wow, what a pain in the bum?! He sat there--in a submissive bow of defeat--long enough for the cops to arrive and apprehend him.

This, surely, had to have been some kind of karmic punishment, punishing my inability--my downright refusal--to give spare change to the Mass-Ave Bums; for if I had been contributing to their alms, then maybe they could have afforded a night out on the town. Damn! 

Schizophrenic Psychopaths

Restaurant waiters are nothing more than schizophrenic psychopaths.

We approach tables with a bullshit facade--in hopes of pursuing that 20% tip--when, in actuality, we retreat to the confines of the kitchen (which is a safe haven) only to verbally bash-the-shit out of the asshole customers.

Yea, we're like fucking guerillas: we'll smile to your face, shake hands, and kiss babies, but it's all smoke and mirrors, people. We're really in the kitchen fucking crucifying you like the schizophrenic psychopaths we are; making fun of your hideous clothing, your ugly fucking faces, your idiotic children, your horrible parenting skills, your fucking lame conversations, your fat, gluttonous eating tendencies.

Speaking of 'horrible parenting skills,' tell your kids that the salt-and-paper shakers are used solely for enhancing taste, and not as fucking musical instruments. Also, tell your kids to sit down and shut the fuck up for once.

But as soon as we conclude our venomous, vituperative tirades--as we kick open the kitchen door with our trays stocked high--it's back to smiles and polite pleasantries.

Thank God for the fucking kitchen.

Another way in which we are schizophrenic psychopaths is that we all bitch-and-moan about not getting tables only to fucking bitch-and-moan when we do get tables. I mean, what the fuck is this all about?

"So-and-so is making all the fucking money! They're getting tables left and right; what the fuck is going on here? I've only had two deuces--fuck!"

"What the fuck? Now they give me a table? I don't even wanna take it! Fuck this shit! I just wanna go home!"

That--right there--is a standard conversation held by a schizophrenic psychopath waiter/waitress.

We're all crazy; take notice!