Happy Halloween

It's Halloween and very soon I will be putting on my costume: black pants, black shirt, black apron and black shoes. I will be going as a waiter, because my ass has to work tonight. I thought about pulling out the good ol' reliable Halloween costume and showing up to work in it, but decided to let my favorite holiday of all time just meld into a regular Sunday night at work. Surely there will be some customers there who will be in costume and I will seethe with jealousy that they get to participate while I have to bring them drinks. What is it about Halloween that I love so much? Maybe it's because it's a day that is perfectly acceptable to wear ridiculous costumes and makeup even though I wish I could do it every day. When I was a kid, the one costume I recall wearing was a Darth Vader one. It was October in Texas so it was still hot and muggy, but I wore that costume with pride. I took my dad's black motorcycle helmet and wore it over the mask to give it that Darth Vader helmet head look. I remember sweating my ass off in that thing and my mom telling me to just take off the helmet and leave on the mask. "No," I whined. "If I take off the helmet, then the costume won't look right and no one will know who I am!" As if the mask, cape, black boots and light saber weren't good enough clues.

Happy Halloween. Pretend that it is in the days before assholes put razor blades in apples and cyanide in Pixy Stix. Be a kid today. Remember how much fun it was to compare your bag of candy to your brothers' and know that you had more? And then you'd pour it all out onto the floor and divide it into piles to decide what you were willing to trade and what you were going to eat right away. And then a few weeks later you finally get to those candies that were the least favorites: those taffy kinda things wrapped in orange or black paper that you know they bought at the K-Mart. It was a sad day when those were the only candies you had left because it meant you already eaten the Smarties and the Bit o Honeys and the mini Snickers. All that was left was taffy. But you ate it it, because lame candy was better than no candy. After you ate that last piece of candy, you looked at the calendar and realized that the next Halloween was so far away. But you started to think about what you're gonna be anyway. Halloween lets us all flash back to that time in our lives when the only thing that mattered was having fun. Try to do that today. Have fun. And when you see the kids on the street, try to go back to when you were that age and remember the joy that this day gave you. While I am at work slaving away in my non-costume.

What was your favorite costume you wore as a kid? Do you remember? Happy Halloween!

For Caitlin, or I ♥ Hibiscus Tequila

After a long hard day of shopping, I scoured the Soho area for a place that would sooth my overwhelming desire for a cocktail. I came upon a place on Spring street that promised natural and delicious foods but what really sealed the deal for me was the liquor licence that was displayed proudly over the bar. The bartender Caitlin greeted me warmly and handed me a menu. She seemed nice enough but I was soon to learn that she was no mere bartender. She was an angel sent down from heaven to show me the road to the most delicious libation ever to have passed my lips. And that's saying a lot. My first drink had Pisco in it and it took me back to a few months ago when I first tried this liquor and kinda fell in love with and wanted to marry it. However, if gay marriage isn't legal in New York, I am pretty sure that me marrying a bottle of liquor ain't gonna fly at City Hall either. For my second cocktail, I returned to the menu and my eyes were drawn to something. It was if they were forced to focus on a drink called Hibiscus Cranberry Margarita. How had I not seen that first? Had my tequila radar been on the fritz momentarily? I quickly ordered it. When Caitlin returned, her blond hair had morphed into a halo and the glass she offered me was the Holy Grail. Sipping it for the first time was unlike anything I have ever felt when having a cocktail. Ever. (Well, not since a few days ago. I do love me some tequila.) My tongue frolicked in the lovely libatious (not a word, but should be) liquid of hibiscus infused tequila. My taste buds bloomed as if the hibiscus flower itself had taken root in my mouth. I looked at Caitlin who by now was sporting the shimmering wings of an angel and plucking a harp with perfection. She was indeed my tequila angel and I fell madly in love with the cocktail. "What is in this?" I uttered? "For it is all things heavenly and wonderful and if but all the world could taste this, then wars would cease and humanity would become one. How have I not been granted the privilege of tasting this hibiscus tequila before now? Tell me, dear sweet Caitlin...what is in this margarita?" She proudly told me that she had created the recipe herself, thereby confirming that she was in fact heaven sent. She listed the ingredients and gave me the bottle of Gran Centenario Roseangel hibiscus infused tequila to hold. Of course the word "angel" was on its label, for how could it not be? For this truly was a gift from God. I cradled the bottle to my chest and whispered to it that soon it would be living in my house. I handed the bottle back to Caitlin and thanked her for bestowing this gift upon me.

Before I left, I told Caitlin that I would be writing about her. I gave her a card and she was kind enough to pretend that she had heard of The Bitchy Waiter. Hopefully she will read this. (Do angels use computers?) Caitlin, if you read this give me a sign. Create a rainbow or have a unicorn fly by me or come to me in a vision. Or you can just log in and say, "Hey it's me Caitlin. You're a freak."

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Craigslist.org

I am out pounding the pavement looking for a job so please enjoy this re-post from a few weeks back. Thank you.

love,
The Bitchy Waiter

The Bitchy Waiter needs a new job. Or an additional job. Working only two days a week is fine when things are busy, but when it's slow it ain't cuttin' it. And things have been slow. Last week a goddamn fucking tumbleweed rolled through my station. Crickets are chirping up in there lately. So where does one turn when a new job is needed? Why craigslist, where else? I have been surfing the posts there the last few days and finding a bunch of big fat zeros. It takes a lot of practice and reading through the lines to sort through a job posting on craigslsit, so I thought I would offer these pointers. Keep in mind, these are all real ads from craigslist:

• Looking for full time long term employment only. No part time or seasonal applicants please. In other words, we want you to be available at our beck and call and be ready to work at a moments notice. You will be our slave.
• Dress to impress. We think we are hot shit and want to see how nice you can dress even though once here, you will be wearing black pants and a stained white button down with a greasy tie.
• Casual seafood restaurant are looking for part time waiter or waitress for lunch and dinner shifts. PAY $15/Hour. First off, they have grammar issues. It should be is looking not are looking. But anyhoo, the only way they are paying $15 an hour is if you are not being tipped. I call bullshit.
• Please send resume with references and photo. We are looking for blond girls with big titties.
• Restaurant seeks wait staff multiple nights shifts. Room for growth. By growth we mean more shifts, not management or a better job.
  
• If you can not attend the open call, please feel free to attached your resume to this posting. But we will not call you because we will have already had hundreds of other desperate servers who managed to drag their asses to the restaurant so fuck you. (Please note the incorrect use of past tense on the word attached. Why would I want to work for someone who gots some bad English?)
  
• If you look HOT & Classy in a Bikini & you can both flirt & play billiards and remain a lady I want you to become a partner in my business. Seriously?
• At Applebee’s our team members enjoy: Flexible Hours, Competitive Pay, Extensive Training, Meal Discounts & Health Benefits are offered after 30 days. But your health benefits will only be instated if you are considered full time and we hire everyone as part time even if you are working 40 hours a week.
• Please ONLY show up to interview if you are able to begin immediately! Because we really suck as employers and the last person quit in the middle of the shift because it is so shitty here.

I will continue to be on the lookout for a new job...

Dirty Dirty Falafel

Latex gloves are only as clean as the last thing they touched. We all know that, right? Isn't the point of wearing them so that you don't contaminate food with filthy dirty fingers that touched something nasty? Why do so many people not get that? Sometimes I think people put them on their hands and assume that they have some magical power that keeps them clean all day. Not. True.

I went to eat at a falafel place last week which I do every week because I am a creature of habit and the falafel is good. Not as good as it is cheap, but cheap trumps good for me when I only have a twenty minute break to inhale some food before the rest of the shift starts. I watched the guy in front of me order his falafel and noticed that they kid making it had on latex gloves. "Oh, good," I thought. "Hygienic." As he progressed down the line he used his gloved hand to toss in lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. After the falafel was done he walked over to the cash register and rang it up, still using the gloves. The man paid for his lunch and handed the cashier/falafel maker a twenty dollar bill into his latex hand. Change was then made and handed back to the customer all the while using the same glove. Then it was my turn. "Can I please get a falafel on a whole wheat pita with red pepper hummus?" He walked over to the bread warmer to retrieve my pita and I waited to see when he was going to change gloves since those had just handled that dirty nasty ass germy thing called currency. But nope. He picked up my pita with the same gloves on. I imagined what was happening: a piece of bacteria that was on that glove jumped onto my bread. That bacteria came from a nickle, that came from the man, who found it on the street after a homeless lady dropped it out of her paper cup. As that nickel sat on Sixth Avenue, a Yorkshire terrier walked by and peed on it right after a bike messenger ran over it with his tire; the same tire that had just gone thorough a puddle of oily water in front of the Best Buy. I would be practically eating that nickel now. Homeless lady, dog peed, oily water nickel. I looked at the falafel maker ready to explain how useless latex gloves are if they aren't changed. And then I looked down at the yummy looking hummus piled high into my fresh whole wheat pita. The crispy lettuce, tangy hot sauce and creamy tahini sauce was making goo goo eyes at me and I forgot all about the germs. Transfixed, I handed him my five dollars and thirty-three cents. Mouth watering, I unwrapped the falafel and went in for the first bite. Delicious.

Germs? Maybe. But I survived. Next time I will tell him he needs to change his gloves. That is unless I am caught in the falafel spell again where I throw cleanliness and hygiene out the window.


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This Law Suit is a Hot Mess

I read this week that a couple in Cleveland, TN is suing a restaurant called Steak 'n Shake as well as the waiter because they were given some hot sauce that was too spicy for their 14 year old son. After he ate it, he had a severe reaction including hives, difficulty breathing, inflammation of his digestive system, mouth and throat and several other "I'm-a-pussy" related symptoms. He is also suffering permanent damage. They drove his ass right to the hospital and and one year later they are suing for compensatory damages of $10,000 and punitive damages of $50,000.

The hot sauce was called Mega Death and it turns out that it wasn't a product that the restaurant officially served. Either the waiter was just trying to go above and beyond by serving his guests something he thought they would like or he was just a rude ass waiter who wanted to prank these bitches. I go with the latter. The family had probably been annoying him all day by asking for stupid shit like extra ice and lemons so they could make their own lemonade. Or maybe they wanted the Chinese Chicken salad but instead of peanut dressing they wanted Ranch and instead of chicken they wanted steak. And leave off the peanuts. And no lettuce but substitute it for a baked potato. By the time the kid asked for some hot sauce for his goddamn chili, the waiter was like "yeah, I got some hot sauce for you." I must admit I have imagined taking a crying baby's bottle and dipping the nipple into Tabasco so I can kinda see where this waiter is coming from. Was it right of him to do it solely because he was being a prick? Absolutely not. Is it funny as yell? Absolutely yes.

Let's look at the responsibility of the family though, shall we? If you ask for hot sauce and one comes to your table that is unfamiliar to you, maybe it would be a good idea to look at the label. This label says that it's called Mega Death. And it has a skull hanging off of it. It says it's hotter than 500 jalapeno peppers. That might be a clue that you don't want to just pour it into your chili all willy nilly. But the kid did and now they want some money because their son is "permanently damaged." By hot sauce. How is someone permanently damaged by hot sauce? And as a 14 year old, I think he should have been able to read a label himself. He's in high school, right? I know our education system is not what it should be, but most 14 year olds can read, can't they? And if they say he was hospitalized do they mean more than just a trip to the emergency room? The father is a pastor of a church so it would be easy to assume that he would turn the other cheek or forgive the waiter for his ways, but in this day and age it's much easier to call 1-800-SUE-THEM. Surely when this case is settled out of court, Mr. Pastor will be donating all of his settlement to the collection plate. Uh huh. Right.

According to reports, the waiter no longer works at Steak 'n Shake which must be a terrible blow to his ego. Working at a place called Steak 'n Shake has got to be so fulfilling. It's right up there with working at Houlihan's, Pizzeria Uno's and The Black Eyed Pea. Hopefully, this waiter will not be held responsible. They asked for hot sauce, he brought them hot sauce, case closed. Regardless of the fact that the boy's esophagus closed up tighter than Carl Paladino's sphincter muscle at gay pride parade, the waiter only did what he was asked to do.

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A Comment on Comments

I wanted to thank you for your comment on my post regarding ice machines. Since you opted to submit your thoughts anonymously, I am forced to thank you publicly. For those who missed the keen insight of this dear reader, here is what Anonymous had to say:

Get a different job. Obviously you are to stupid to work in the Bar/Restaurant industry....Ice machines are loud cumbersome but oh so necessary machines. I suggest finding employment in an office where they give you a cubicle with all you need right there so you won't have to move your fat lazy ass! Oh, and bring your own ice water!!!

Dear sweet, addled Anonymous. Surely you must recognize sarcasm. You don't really expect that I want an ice machine to be suspended over a bar so that the ice can fall directly into the bin. Do you really think I want that and expect it to happen? You dear, dear, sweet person. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you would know that all of my writing is to be taken with a grain of salt and with tongue placed firmly in cheek.

One more thing you should know. You do not know the difference between the words "to" and "too" so I placed a link for you to check out after you read this. I think it will help you in the future when you want to put your two cents in.

Thanks for reading. And I am not fat. Lazy, yes. Fat, no.


This may help your spelling and grammar issues, Anonymous.

If I Was a Work of Art

I went to the Metropolitan Art Museum this week and studied the great works of art that surrounded me. Temptation almost got the best of me when I saw some museum curators (two men who looked like they should be working at a Texaco) remove a Georgia O'Keefe painting leaving a big blank space on the wall. It took a lot of effort to not run up to it, hang a Bitchy Waiter necklace on the nail and slap a publicity sticker underneath it. While there, I was struck by a painting called "Tables for Ladies" by Edward Hopper. It was painted in 1930 and it showed a sad little restaurant with a sad cashier and a sadder looking waitress. I learned that in the '30's a restaurant with a sign that said "tables for ladies" welcomed single women diners who were finding their new found independence. Up until that point in history, it was the assumption that any woman who was sitting alone in a restaurant was a prostitute. Anyhoo, there in the middle of the Metropolitan Art museum, I suddenly knew that I was once that lady in the painting. In a previous life, I was that middle aged blond waitress and my memories flew back to that mid October night when Edward Hopper walked past me at my job over on 56th Street. Why, I remember it like it was yesterday...

(insert harp music here as I fade away into a memory.)

Oh look...there's that creepy artist guy Edward Hopper who always wants me to pose for one of his paintings. Well, he best be moving right along and quit staring at me through this window because I'm working. And it's my first week here. I'm lucky to have a job at all with this great depression happening up in here. If I have to eat Boot Soup for dinner one more time I will freakin' lose it. I wonder if I can steal this pineapple when I go home tonight? And I don't know who left these two raw pork chops up here by the window but these bitches are about to go right into my purse. Oh, God I hate that cashier. What's her name? Betty? Margaret? Fuck if I know, but she thinks her shit don't stink. Well, I got something to tell her: her shit does stink and it smells like great Depression. Hello? It's 19 fuckin'30 and she's lucky her ass ain't livin' in a fucking Hooverville or a shanty town. I don't know why she can't smile at me once in a while. If she doesn't stop throwing attitude my way, I'm gonna tell the boss I saw her steal a dime out of the register and she can see how she likes being on a bread line instead of at a nice cushy ass job. Oh wait, did I ever take that woman her extra ketchup? Yes, I did, didn't I? Right? Fuck, I can't remember. Whatever. It's ketchup, she'll get over it. She's had enough ketchup. What she doesn't eat, I can take home and mix with some hot water and a piece of tire to make tomato soup. Hello? It's the Great Depression up in here! And why does she have to rub it in that she has all this money with her fancy coat that she hangs on the wall for everyone to see? Lady, you wanna know what my coat is? A potato sack that I found by the Brooklyn Bridge. Yes, my coat is a potato sack. I'm poor. It's The goddamn freakin' Great Depression. Oh, there goes Edward Hopper walking by again. He smiled at me that time. Hmmm, maybe I could pose for him some day? He doesn't pay his models but it would be nice to feel important for a few minutes. Who am I kidding? I'm just a waitress lucky to have this job. Who will ever remember me? He probably doesn't want me to model anyway. Oh, well. Nice to dream about it I guess. It certainly does help pass the time. Imagine. Me in a painting? Who'd ever buy it? I better go get that lady her ketchup...

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Dear Bitchy Waiter

It's time for some heartfelt advice from The Bitchy Waiter. Do you have an issue that The Bitchy Waiter can help you with? Job, personal, relationships? You name it. You can email me here and I will answer one question a week. Or just email me to say hello. It makes me happy. Let's see what we find in the mailbag today:


Dear Bitchy Waiter,

First off, love the blog--I'm a pretty avid reader, and now whenever I type B into my address bar my computer automatically goes to you. Anyway, I'm a seventeen year old working in a childcare center, in a gym, down in Denver. My boss seemed like a pretty great person. Not so much now that I'm six months into my job. She's whiney and bossy (more than the usual boss), she's been late for the past month on paying us, and according to my friend, she just has this horrible ailment where she's eternally menstruating. In the past month shes fired five people from the gym and three more have quit. Should I be the fourth to put my two weeks in? Or should I just put up with it because it's a cushyass job? Or maybe the choice will be made for me and she'll just kick my child watching ass to the curb.

Hugs and kisses and apple martinis,

Fed Up and Fucked Over

Dear Fed up and Fucked Over,

First off, thank you for your kind words but I must respond to your apple martini comment. You are only 17 years old so you shouldn't even know what apple martinis are, child. Shame on you! Might I suggest some delicious 3.2% beer that I used to drink when I lived in The Mile High City? Anyhoo, yes. Your boss sounds like a horrible horrible person with no joy in her life. I don't know what illness she has that gives her continuous menstruation but whatever it is, she deserves it. This bleeding bitch hasn't paid you for a month and you still work there? No matter how cushyass the job is, it really doesn't matter if there is no paycheck. If you are looking for something to do that is cushy and you don't need to be paid for it, stay at home, stick a straw into a can of 3.2 Coors Light and watch Oprah. You are 17. Move on. Fuck it. That's what I would do. And two weeks notice? Why the fuck would you bother with that? If she hasn't paid you for a month, you owe this whore nothing. If she has fired five people and three others have quit in the last month, this place sounds like it's going down the tubes. Sounds like those darling kids will soon need another place to find some childcare. Go get a new job. And keep your fingers crossed that you get paid. I did a show (in Denver!) many years ago and was getting $175 a week. I was never paid for the last two weeks and I held out hope for that $350 for years and years. It never came. Trust me. Let it go. Get a new job and leave this bitch in the dust. (Don't be a waiter though. It sucks.)

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

Bacon Had a Mom

I had some spare (ribs) time today and decided to waste it on an animation application.







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For Travis S.

I went to dinner last night at a place called 5 Napkin Burger. They serve all grass-fed organic beef that is sustainable and all that, but the reason I go there is because the burgers are melt in your mouth delicious and they serve totally healthy cocktails. Well, the cocktail I get has a blackberry in it or something so I assume that it has some kind of anti-oxidants and I also look at it as a fruit serving for the day. But a special shout out to our server Travis who is one of those waiters that I aspire to be, but may never actually become. He was efficient, polite, funny, knowledgeable, always there when we needed him and super friendly. In other words, the antithesis of me. Or maybe he was just a great actor and only pretended like he gave a shit when in actuality he was in the side stand bitching and groaning about the douche bags at booth 7. I left a card for The Bitchy Waiter there, so maybe he will see this. If you are out there, Travis, give me a sign! Some things that Travis did that I can only dream of doing at work:

• He smiled. (I try but it hurts my face.)
  
• He went to get my mayonnaise as soon as I asked for it so my burger didn't get cold while he disappeared into the vapors of the back of the house. (It's not that I want to forget their mayo, it just happens...)
  
• He alerted us that our second round of drinks were on the way when they seemed to be taking a long time. (I always just think, "they'll get 'em when they get em.)
• When we asked to put a portion of the bill on one credit card and another amount on the other, he said "okay" and then did it. (I sigh and then say okay.)
• When he served our cocktails he bent his knees into a squat like they used to teach the Playboy bunnies to to do at the Playboy Club so the drinks don't spill. (I spilled some vodka martini on a lady the other day and told her "good thing it's clear, huh?")
• He didn't judge us after we each cleared our plates of 10 oz.burgers and crispy piles of french fries and then ordered a side of onion rings so we had something to finish our cocktails with. His reply? "Onion rings will go better with cocktails than dessert would anyway." (He knows how to make an alcoholic feel good.)
  
• When he brought us our second round of silver he wasn't irritated that we would be taking up his prime booth for more time. (Or at least he concealed it which I find practically impossible to do.)
  
• I saw him laughing with a co-worker instead of complaining, whining, bitching, crying our cursing. (I laugh at work too, but it's usually at someone and not with someone.)
• He thanked us when we left and told us to have a good night. (It's not that I don't want to say good bye to my tables, it's just that sometimes I am busy in the side stand laughing at someone or taking a sip of my cocktail.)

Thank you Travis for a wonderful dining experience. Good job. Kudos. Job well done.

Oh and go here to look at my Etsy shop, okay?

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Got Milk?

Sometimes customers want as much as they can get away with a even if it means sacrificing their own health to get it. Many years ago when I worked at an all you can eat buffet, plenty of people took those words to heart. Maybe some of them looked at the sign and thought it said "all you can stuff into your pie hole until you almost need to throw up but not quite so it's okay to go back and get three more pieces of cheesecake." It was really kinda disgusting how much people would eat just because they had already paid for it. Never mind that little voice inside the head that's saying "I'm full, enough already." If it was included in the price then they wanted to at least take a bite of it.

It really bothered me when I saw people go up to the dessert table and take five different desserts because they couldn't decide what they wanted. So they would just take one bite of each one and then discard it. Fucking wasteful. I watched another lady stuff a pile of rolls into her purse and then her husband had the nerve to ask me to go up to the buffet table and get him another piece of bread. I told him to ask his wife he could have one of hers since she had a baker's dozen in her bag. But my favorite was this man who wanted to know what beverages were included with the buffet because he wanted to make sure he got one of each. This man had a mimosa, a Bloody Mary, some coffee, an orange juice and a soda. "So, is there any other drink that's included that I haven't had yet?" he asked me as he laughed to all if his friends. He really thought he was going to get his money's worth, eh? "Ummm, how about a glass of milk to go with your waffle?" I suggested. Of course he said yes. I went to the side stand and got a pint glass, reached into the fridge and pulled out the half and half. The glass was filled to the rim with rich creamy fat and he hungrily took it from my eager hands. I sauntered back to the side stand and my friends and I waited to see if he would drink it. He drank every drop. We could hear his arteries clogging from across the room. I never did figure out how many calories were in that one glass of "milk." In order to prove my high school math teacher right, I will now use the math that I swore I would never need in my real life. I shall calculate:

Two tablespoons of half and half has 40 calories and 2 grams of saturated fat (10% of daily allowance.)
Two tablespoons equals 1 ounce
There are 16 ounces in a pint.
Therefore, that pint of half and half had 640 calories and 32 grams of fat, meaning he consumed over 150% of his fat intake in that one glass of half and half.

But it was included in the price, so it's okay. You're welcome. And thank you to Ms. Huddleston who taught me how to use math. Kinda. That mathematical equation may or may not be accurate. If it's wrong, Anonymous will let me know shortly. Oh and go here to look at my Etsy shop, okay?

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Click Here for New Bitchy Waiter Necklaces

I just wanted to let you know that I have posted some new necklaces on my Etsy page. I particularly love the candy corn charm that is new for Halloween. Also there is the California roll, mustard, fortune cookie and artichoke.

Some people give me a lot of grief for selling these, but I like 'em. I wear one myself. As I type, I proudly wear a candy corn around my neck. I hate the taste of those cheap ass bitch candies, but have always thought they were kinda cool looking. I guarantee if you wear one, people will ask you where you got it. (They will then laugh at you behind your back after you tell them you bought it on Etsy, but it doesn't matter if you like it.)

Okay, back to my pile of Ricola cough drops, tissues and blankets. Will this cold ever go away?

It's One Crowded House Up in Here

Okay, last night was one crazy night up in that place. I was working the final show of a world renown singer who has a career that has spanned 60 freaking years. It was her final show last night so everyone and there grandma was trying to get a ticket to our small intimate venue that seats 121 people. We had reservations for 145. So needless to say it, it was not pretty when we opened the doors. Lordy, lordy look who's praying for forty. Forty no shows., that is. But they all showed up as did about twenty other people. There were famous people all over the place (Oh, hello Cybill Shepherd and Tyne Daly, how are you? Hi Rex Reed and Lucie Arnez, you're famous too.) These celebs were squished in right next to Joe Blow at the same booth.

When we opened the doors, I got the shudders because there were people as far as the eye could see. They were all clamoring at the host stand like it was the last helicopter out of Saigon. These people were desperate to see this show. My station was the one closet to the host stand so therefore the one that could grow the easiest. More and more tables came from downstairs and we just kept extending the row until the last table was right next to the bus tub and coffee maker. Seriously I told the folks there if they needed another ginger ale, just help themselves and if they saw we were out of coffee, could they please just make it for me. They thought I was funny. I was serious though. The two other servers were just as crazed as I was, but we made a conscious decision to just have a good time and go with it. We squeezed our way past the tables and carried drinks way over our heads and I managed to keep a smile on my face the whole time. Even though my station was effectively cut off by five standing room only people, a rolling cart that had been moved into my area and a man in a SUV of wheelchair, I persevered. When I couldn't reach someone to personally hand them their Manhattan on the rocks, I just gave it to someone else and pointed at who it belonged to and let it makes its way down. When someone gave me the nod that they needed my attention, I filed it into my mental list of people to attend to right after the other 43 people who also needed something. At one point when the show was just starting and I still had at least fifteen people who needed drinks I started to get stressed. And then I remembered: I am a waiter. This is not life and death stuff here. If someone waits a little longer for his Irish coffee, he will not go into cardiac arrest. If the lady does not like the chocolate mousse cake, she will not sue me for damages. I am a waiter. It ain't no big thing. Three deep cleansing breaths later I plowed through the crowd with my second round of drinks, proud to have vowed that serving tables sometimes stinks.

At the end of the night, we servers were commended on how wonderfully we were able to navigate through the throngs of people. It was seriously crowded up in there. Like I think some people became intimately familiar with one another because they were forced to be so close to each other. People were on chairs, stools, the floor, laps and each other. (Fifty years from now: Grand kids, I met your grandma when we were at a show together that was so crowded, the only place there was to put my penis was inside her vagina. And that's how how your dad was conceived.) I went up to the singer after the show to tell her good bye and she gave me a hug and thanked me for doing such a good job. This woman is so cool. I really admire her and I think part of the reason I was so determined to deal with the craziness was because I respect her so much. She is a consummate professional who brought in all these people to see her show. The least I could do was show her that I too am a professional and give those customers the best service possible despite that fact that they were stacked on top of each other and packed in like sardines on the 6 train at 5:15 on a Friday.




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Dear Lady at Table 32, I'm Sick

Okay, so I am sick. Sick with sore throat and fever and all that shit. I also have company spending the night with me. And I have to drag my ass to work today. Therefore, please enjoy reading this old tired piece of shit that I wrote a few months ago.

Here is a brief list of all things I wanted to say to Table 32 a few days ago:

• Do you really need to be reseated that many times in order to find the perfect seat?
• It's tacky to tip the host and then still complain about where you're sat.
  
• The drink has Blue Curacao in it, so yes it is actually going to be blue.
• The Real Housewives of New Jersey asked me to tell you to give them their accent back.
• That blouse looks like it came from the $5 and under bin at Chico's.
• Black is not slimming.
• You have on way too many sequins. The only person wearing that many sequins should be on an episode of "Toddlers and Tiaras" or be named Liza Minnelli.
  
• You don't need to call me over to hand me an empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
• I see that your reservation was for two but you are alone now. You don't have to tell me that you decided to take yourself out tonight. It's obvious that your husband bailed on you and is at home relishing the two hours of solitude and trying to recall what it's like to not have his ears bleed from the sound of your voice.
  
• Your hair is scaring me. And scarring me. For life. Frosted is not pretty.
  
• You don't need to call me over to hand me another empty glass. I will get it when I have a free hand.
• Do you really need more napkins or are you just trying to think of something to ask for every time I walk by you?
• Seriously bitch, stop calling me over to take empty shit from your fucking table.
• Using the phrase "it's a delight" does not make you sophisticated. It makes me think you heard it on that episode of "The Three Stooges" when they were plumbers at that fancy party and that one snobby rich lady said it.
• Using the phrase "it's a delight" more than six or seven times makes me think you are supremely dumb and a trifle desperate.
• Yes, I can get you an order of hummus and chips.
• Yes, I can get you more chips.
  
• I see you waving me down again. Let me guess. Your plate is empty and you want me to take it. Stop it.
• The people next to you are sick of hearing you talk. They don't know you and don't want to be your friend.
• Yes, I will get your check for you. You don't have to ask me for that. It's on my list of things to give to you along with a dirty look and a fist up your puss.
• Yes, we take American Express. Your American Express card does not impress me. It's a green one.
  
• You looked stupid when you took a picture of the performer after her show and told her she was "a delight." Enough with that phrase already.
• I hate you. You annoy me. Don't come back.

Things I actually said to Table 32 a few days ago:

• Can I take your order?
• Yes, ma'am.
• Good bye.
  

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A Horse is a Horse, Of Course Of Course

It has been way too long since I have just let loose on some annoying ass bitch of a woman who sat in my station. Enough with the Dear Bitchy Waiter, Frazzled Stay at Home Mom and Ricki Lake stories, already. I need to vent about this lady last night who crawled up my ass and gave me a severe case of pruritus ani.

The show I was working was pretty much sold out, so we were crazy busy. I had a five top of women in their sixties who all seemed pleasant enough with the exception of the one bitch on the end who must have not been laid since the repeal of prohibition. She was so tightly wound that her face was all scrunched up in a permanent scowl with lips pursed and brow furrowed. At the end of the night, they gave me three credit cards and wanted $62 put on one of them and then the balance divided among the other two. No problem. I took them to the computer and divided it up but in my haste, I made an error in division which made the two cards have unequal amounts on them. I didn't understand why but I returned them to the table. At first, I thought that it had not balanced out because sometimes people ask me to put a certain amount on three cards but they have included the tips in that total and then the computer won't let me initially charge more than the original total. So I was trying to explain this to them, but they didn't get. Not only because it's a confusing situation to explain, but because that was not what they had done and I had just made an error, still unbeknownst to me. I told them I would be right back to explain it after I dropped off some other checks. It was then that I figured out what I had done. Tightly wound up bitch was getting all bent out of shape and steam started to shoot out of her ear holes. I ran back to the table and admitted my mistake. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I figured it out. I just put in the wrong total and it's totally my fault. The credit receipts have not been finalized so just tear them up, I will void them from the computer and if you give me your cards again, I will run them correctly." I was completely honest about it being my fuck up and it wasn't even that big a deal, but ol' Bitch Face was like, "What? Now, I have to give you my card again? Why, why why? I already gave it to you!" One of her friends tried to calm her down by telling her to chill out. I thought she should try rubbing her nose like they do a horse when it's stressed out. I figured since she had a horse face, why not?

I got back to their table about a whole two minutes later, but Horse Face acted like I had traveled through three different time zones. As soon as I got back to the table she whinnied at me that she needed to leave. It must have been time for her feeding and there was a pile of hay somewhere with her name on it. "Okay," I responded. I just need you to sign the slip." She shook her tail to swat at a fly that wasn't there and said "I really need to go." A friend of hers explained that I needed her to sign again before she galloped off but she protested "why, why, why?" I had had it. I went up to her long face and said:

Did I ruin your night? Did I just ruin your night? Did you just sit through an hour and a half show with an amazing performer, have a wonderful time and then I made a simple error on your credit card that I fixed and now you're going to let that ruin your whole evening? Don't let this ruin your night. Just sign the receipt and everything will be fine.

Her four friends backed me up by saying:

"Yeah, it's okay Seabiscuit."
"Relax, Black Beauty."
"What's the big deal, Secretariat?"
"Take a chill pill, you horse faced bitch of a whore. I hate going out with you. You're such a pain in my ass. Tell your jockey to ride your ass home and then eat a carrot and a sugar cube and shut the hell up." (I may have paraphrased a bit...)

Horse face eked out a half smile because I had made her realize what a petty fucking bitch she was being and if she continued to act like she had a riding crop up her ass, then she would look like an even bigger horsey bitch. She smiled, and said, "No, you didn't ruin my night." I smiled back (except mine was fake) and lied that I was glad that her night wasn't ruined. I jabbed the spur of my cowboy boot into her side and she shook her head and trotted off towards the exit. As her friends followed behind her, they each gave me a look of apology with a glint of gratitude for putting up with their friend Flicka.



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What I Did For Ricki Lake

I have been called a fame whore. If that is what I am because I crave attention, fame, the spotlight, and more attention, then so be it. Have I always been this way? Yes. Yes, I have. Most actors are like that whether they will admit to it or not. Over the years, there have been many ways that I have tried to get my mug on the television, from submitting to reality shows (I was a semi-finalist for the very first Survivor, but they chose Richard Hatch instead) to writing to the ladies at The View and asking if the next time they do a dentistry makeover show, can I please come on and get some new choppers. But the first time I tried one of these methods was way back in the early 90's when I tried to get on The Ricki Lake Show with my friend Corinne.

At Houlihan's Corinne and I used to watch television and share breakfast together before the shift started. Egg and cheese on a roll from the deli downstairs. The same deli where I met Carol Channing. We saw that the talk show was looking for guests for a "My Co-worker Needs a Makeover" episode. Corinna and I hatched up a plan. We would submit her for a makeover because she wanted new clothes and I wanted to be on television. I called the show and left our story on their answering machine:

Ricki, my friend Corinne needs a makeover so bad. She always wears the same thing and she never wears make up or brushes her hair. She's a pretty girl, but she needs help. Ricki, whenever we go out after work, she wears her uniform and it's all covered with food and stains but she doesn't care. Ricki, my friend needs a makeover. Help!

We hung up and thought "whatever." A few days later a producer called us. This was in the days before cell phones so I dunno how they got in touch with me. I had an answering service back then or maybe a pager. It was so long ago they might have sent the message via Pony Express. But they wanted to meet us! That day. Could they come to the restaurant right then and interview us? Oh shit! I ran over to Corinne and told her that the Ricki Lake people were on the way and we needed her to look like she needed a makeover stat. Truth be told, Corinne is a very pretty girl. In no way did she need a makeover and she would never have gone out after work wearing her uniform, but this was The Ricki Lake Show. If the truth had to be bent a little, then we would bend it. We forgo seeing to our customers as we set out to get prepared for our interview. Corinne wiped off her makeup and wrinkled her uniform. She put her hair up in some ratty ass pile on top of her head and I think we put some honey mustard and other condiments on her clothes. They showed up about twenty minutes later. The producer was some chick who was about 25 years old and she had a big old Polaroid camera hanging around her neck. She interviewed us for about ten minutes as we continued to ignore the customers who were dying of thirst and starvation in our stations. This was television. Priorities, people. They snapped a picture of Corinne and said they would be getting back to us.

They never did. It must have been crystal clear that Corinne just wanted a new outfit from Chico's or TJ Max and I just wanted to be on television. She probably saw right away that Corinne didn't need a makeover and they moved on to the next batch of potential guests. We were crushed. As the week ended and we realized that our dream of meeting Ricki Lake was not going to happen, our lives slowly went back to normal. We kept watching The Ricki Lake Show each morning and sharing our egg and cheese on a roll, but it never quite tasted the same as it did before Ricki Lake reached out and dangled a brighter future in front of us. It's okay. Corinne and I will always have Houlihan's.


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We'll Always be Bosom Buddies

At work the other night a true honest to goodness legend graced my presence and I am completely humbled. As I started to light the candles and get the ice out, my co-worker told me that the original Mrs. Lovett/Mame/Jessica Fletcher/Bedknob and Broomsticker, Angela Lansbury was coming in. Ah, a customer! My immediate response was to get some flowers, maybe daisies to brighten up the room. Don't you think some flowers, pretty daisies, might relive the gloom? But then I decided that we would just lower the lights so that the candle wax on the carpet wasn't so easily seen. I simply could not believe that someone of that stature would be breathing the same air as I do. Now ordinarily, I don't give a flip about celebrities (case in point, here), but this lady is kinda amazing. She has been on Broadway fourteen times, has five Tony Awards®, three Oscar nominations, eighteen Emmy nominations and six Golden Globes. Not everyone can claim that. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme, that is some major shit. As we got ready for the shift, we couldn't help but wonder which station she would be in. We were both a little scared, neither one prepared, but we were going to do our best to serve this elegant grand dame of a lady. We could pool our resources, by joining forces but it was going to end up that only one if us would get to be her server.

At last the moment arrived. I was standing at table 19 taking the order for six gay guys when they all simultaneously had the wind knocked out of them when Angela floated by on a cloud made of holiness, graciousness and Actor's Equity cards. A hush fell over the crowd as they tried to comprehend what amazingness they were witnessing. I see crowds, I hear yells, there's a parade in town. The room broke out into applause and Ms. Lansbury simply smiled and bowed her head and then gestured to the stage as if to say save it for the performer they came to see. Cool lady, that Angela. She did not sit in my station which was probably for the best. The last time I served a big time Tony Award® winner, my hand shook as I handed the non-alcoholic martini to Joanna Gleason. Besides, I could potentially obsess on Angela and end up telling her "try and you're gonna see how you're gonna not at all get away from me."

After the show was over she was one of the first people out. Wait, what's your rush, what's your hurry? Did she need a stronger hand? Did I give enough, did I give too much? But before I knew it, she was gone. Like a vision. All that was left was her empty Pelligrino bottle. I have it now. At last, my right arm is complete again.




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The Dog Was Treated Better Than I Was

I got a really shitty tip last night. Like shitty shitty covered in dog poop kinda shitty. And I was so nice to these people too. Booth one was seated with two people; a blind man and a sighted man. (Sounds like a joke, right? A blind guy walks into a bar, see...) They told me they were waiting for two more people who were habitually late. The show was full and to start at 7:00, so I wanted their asses there as soon as possible. It was a busy night and I didn't have time to deal with latecomers. Five minutes before showtime, their guests walked in guided by a dog. They were both blind. They were seated and Lonny, the dog found his home at the side of the table. Booth one is right at the front of the room and every time a server has to walk to their station, they have to pass by it. Not an ideal place for a big black guide dog to be, but we didn't know so that's where they sat. The dog was sweet as hell but we had to step over it about twenty times throughout the night. I got drinks for the Johnny-Come-Lately's being very careful to place them in a way that they would know where they were. You know, since they can't see and all. All evening they were very pleasant to me and we were talking and connecting. All was good. Until they paid the bill.

Their bill was $202. The sighted man gave me $101 in cash and asked for the difference to be put on a credit card. I counted the cash and despite it being almost all five dollar bills, it was in fact $101. I ran the card and he signed it without leaving a tip. I assumed that the tip would be in cash. A few minutes later, Mr. Sight came up to me to hand me my tip personally. "I'm sorry, it's not very much." He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head while raising his eyebrows and pouting his lips. (Do that please: shrug, tilt, raise, pout. See what it looks like?) "Oh don't worry about that," I said. And I meant it too. Until I looked down and saw two dollars. Two. Dollars. Wait, what? 1%? One mother fucking percent? I watched him as he helped his friends out of the club and my mouth was agape. I considered the idea that since they can't see, maybe they thought they gave me two twenties. But no. I have a blind friend who told me once that he folds each bill differently so he knows which denomination is which. I realized now that the way he said he was sorry for the tip was like "my friends are blind and have had a hard life and that's all they can afford" kinda way. No. If they could afford a $32 cover charge and two beers each, they can pony up some tip money. My co-worker wanted me to give the two bucks back with the old "you need this more than I do" but I decided to fuck that. I kept those two damn dollars. I just couldn't believe my eyes. After they left, I thought what a shame it was that we gave a booth that has a great view of the stage to three blind people. We shoulda put their asses at table 13 where all you can see is the back of the piano player. They wouldn't have cared anyway. The dog was sweet though. Guide dogs are always sweet. I wonder if he could see what a cheap owner he had.


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How To Drink for Free For Four Hours

Yesterday a friend of mine scored a pair of tickets to the big fancy Food Network New York Food and Wine Festival. I heard that the tickets were $150 apiece so you know I was gonna go and see what the big deal was. The event we went to was a wine tasting that started at 1:00 and lasted for four glorious hours. When my friend was trying to decide who she could bring with her who would want to start drinking in the middle of the day, my name went to the top of the list. But I am not an alcoholic or anything. I knew I was gonna like this place as soon as they handed me a Waterford crystal wine glass attached to a strap that hung around my neck. These people really understood me.

The event was supposed to be for buyers and owners who would be sampling these fine wares for purchase. Since we were just plain old ordinary folks who wanted to drink as much as possible within four hours, we tried to act like we were important so no one would question our being there. "Hello, do you own a restaurant?" was asked to me dozens of times. My answer was always, "Oh, well I don't, but uh..." and then I would glance at my friend as if she was the one who was supposed to be there. Of course after about our fifth taste of wine, I no longer felt the need to carry on that charade because it was clear that we were not the only ones there who's goal was to get shitfaced. Plus the one time that my friend made it sound like she was there for an actual restaurant in Jersey City, of course the vendor was also from Jersey City and wanted to know which restaurant. "Fuck it," we decided. "Let's just drink."

There must have been 500 different bottles of wine to taste. Every station had a bucket for spitting after you swirled it around your pallet for a bit. All day, I only saw one woman use a bucket. Clearly, the bitch needs to learn how to swallow. Swallowing is better for all concerned. To my delight, wine was not the only thing to taste. I quite enjoyed tasting some coconut vodka, blueberry vodka, prosecco, champagne, Brut, beer, rum, tequila and some shit that was so delicious but I have no idea what it was. It was peppery and we took a shot of it with a strawberry chaser that was dipped in sugar and cayenne pepper. I really should have paid attention to all those business cards they gave me, but drunk me didn't care at the time. Sober me wishes he knew where to buy that wonderful beverage.

Since it was sponsored by The Food Network, there were lots of treats to eat as well; cupcakes, burgers, pasta, candy, cheese. I had my eyes peeled for Rachael Ray and Paula Deen because I really wanted to let them know what a fan I am and say hello, but they never turned up. And when I say "hello" I mean I wanted to ask Rachael why she's so damn cheap and ask Paula what it felt like to have that ham up against the side of her head. By the time 5:00 rolled around, I was bloated and done. I had definitely gotten my money's worth from my free ticket. I watched all the staff start to break down tables and drag trash bags out to the back and I felt like I should be helping them. Instead, I reached into my pocket for another piece of dark bittersweet chocolate and polished off my last taste of cabernet. I had officially "tasted" and I liked. If you can get your hands on some free tickets for that shit, you should really take advantage of it. You get to take the wine glass home with you even. A class act all around. And I didn't even throw up.



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A Comment on Comments

And now for a comment on comments. I suspect that the person who wrote this particular comment had the hope that I would respond in this way. They were right.

I am not a grammar Nazi said...

This post was really hard to read. First off, "piÑata" is not "piŃata," as someone from Texas would surely know. "PiNata" would also be acceptable in the United States, but if you are going to take the time to be international, do it correctly so those of us learned in Spanish are not confused by your meager attempts.

My second area of confusion came from the following line: "Now I guess it all depends on if the servers are allowed to carry guns to." Big no-no there, sir. Never EVER end a sentence with a preposition, such as "to." I'm sure you probably forgot your fifth grade teacher's bickering between massacring innocent critters and standing on your soap box. So let me remind you that this error can easily be fixed by changing your propositional "to" to the adverbial "too," which not only removes the problem of an objectless prposition, but also clarifies the sentence by giving it the meaning you intended.

Please, in the future, sir, remember that not all of your readers are as learned as I am and may become confused by your mistakes. Take the time to review your English before writing a blog. Maybe stick to waiting tables. I'd leave the acting out, too. "Too" with two "o's."

Dear Not a Grammar Nazi,

I have fixed the errors that you so kindly brought to my attention. Yes, I "too" hate when someone mixes up too, to, and two. I also hate the confusion that happens between there, their and they're. Another grammar mistake that bothers me is the differentiation between your and you're.

As for my piñata mistake, my Mexican relatives are spinning in their graves. I am ashamed. The four semesters of Spanish that I took obviously did not sink in and the fact that I am half-Hispanic seems to hold no agua. I should be beaten with an old stale tamale.

If "you're" looking for a perfectly written piece of writing, perhaps you should be looking in places other than a blog. Maybe The New York Times or an encyclopedia will satisfy you.

Also, you should know that me giving up acting because some random blog reader who has a red corrective pencil stuck up "their" ass tells me "to" is not a good enough reason. But thank you.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter

An Apple A Day Soaked in Vodka...

As I contemplate the idea of going to graduate school I worry about how being a student with a long term goal will greatly affect my daily alcohol intake. Yes, I am moments away from getting on the 1 train and taking my ass to a institute of higher learning to discuss my future. Can't you just see me as a teacher? I care about children so much that I want to take their brains and mold them into what I think they should be. I want to contribute to the future of our country. I want to be someones favorite teacher. I want my summers off. But at what cost?

Last night at work, my manager was creating and testing some new cocktails for the fall menu. Since I am a team player, I volunteered to taste each one and give it the thumbs up or thumbs down. You probably already know that I gave none of them the thumbs down. How can you thumbs down something that has vodka in it? It's just not possible. He made a delicious caramel apple martini that had Apple Pucker and Caramel vodka in it with a splash of vanilla liqueur. His plan is to garnish that bitch with a caramel square. Was it good? Hells to the yes it was good. I tasted it many times just to make sure that it was fit for consumption and it passed my (not very high at all) standards. As I continued working with a slight buzz from that cocktail and the other martini he had made with vodka and Elderflower and splash of cranberry, I thought about how lucky I am that I work somewhere that lets me imbibe on occasion. Will it be that way when I am a teacher at some high school? I imagine no. I could be wrong though. My government teacher Miss McCoy always seemed like she was talking while trying to hold in a burp, so maybe that thermos was full of coffee spiked with Kahlua. (And on a side note: I am sorry Miss McCoy that I pretended to be so dumb in your class. I really did know that the State of the Union address was not about a particular state but instead about the overall condition of our country. I was just doing that to make my friends laugh. But it was pretty funny when I said that, right? Are you even alive, Miss McCoy?)

Do kids still bring their teachers apples to class? And if so, would it be appropriate for me to request apple infused vodka instead? And is it looked down upon for a teacher to bring a shaker of margaritas to the cafeteria on Taco Tuesday? And if I am hungover one day and my first class is at 7:30 AM, is it alright to call in sick for that homeroom and then show up to work at 10:30 instead? Or is it better to just go to work and have the class take a quiet time where we turn off the lights and lay our heads down on our desks? These are all the questions that I hope to have answered by the advisor at the college today. Look out, kids. Mr. Bitchy Waiter could be in a classroom near you. And if you want an easy A, just slide me a gift card to Charlie's Discount Liquor Depot and you're golden. Just like a Golden Delicious apple that I will slice up later to garnish my next apple martini.


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The Bitchy Waiter Makes National Television...Sorta

Last week, I ruffled a feather when I wrote about Reichen Lehmkuhl. You can read the original post here or the follow-up post here. I never intended for the post to become anything more than a brief mention, but when something stirs up controversy, I find it hard to stop bringing it up. A friend told me that when he was watching Reichen's new reality show on Logo, The A-List, Reichen mentioned a couple of reviews that he were written about his performance in his off-Broadway debut My Big Gay Italian Wedding. As it turns out, one of the reviews he read out loud was the one written by me. And I thought it was pretty cool.




And this concludes my blogging about Reichen Lehmkuhl.

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Gun Fight At The Not OK Corral

I have not written for two days because my feelings were so hurt by Anonymous that I have been crying in the corner and cutting myself with razor blades while I turn the lamp on and off for hours at a time. But I am back because I saw something that scared the hell out me. Apparently, gun laws are changing in many states that make it legal to carry a licensed and concealed weapon into bars and restaurants. Now I'm from Texas where guns are pretty much a regular thing. They're everywhere there. I remember on the first day of deer season some kids would skip class to go hunting with their dads. At birthday parties, you didn't hit the piñata with an old broom handle. You shot at that bitch with a sawed off shotgun and when it finally burst open, bullets and ammunition fell out of it with a couple of Pixy Stix and a Bazooka Bubblegum thrown in for good measure. Personally, I was never one for guns. I recall getting a BB gun when I was about ten years old. I shot a bird once and when it fell out of the tree and died in front of me I went crying into the house. My Grandma comforted me and my Grandpa rolled his eyes at what a disappointment I was to him. But I dunno how I feel about them being in a restaurant or bar where every Tom, Dick and Dirty Harry can feel free to shoot up the place the second his burger comes out overcooked.

Tennessee is one of four states, along with Arizona, Georgia and Virginia, that recently enacted laws explicitly allowing loaded guns in bars while eighteen other states allow weapons in restaurants that serve alcohol. Scary. Now I guess it all depends on if the servers are allowed to carry guns too. I suppose they will have a legal right to, but maybe the restaurant itself would disallow their employees the option. You know, in the hand book it would say shit like "your hair can't touch the collar of your shirt" and "you are not allowed to chew gum while on the floor" and "if a customer shoves a gun in your face because you forgot to put a lime in their Diet Coke instead of a lemon, you are shit out luck because your weapon must remain in your locker along with your cell phone and iPod." Bummer. I understand that people want guns for their own safety. After the recent shooting at The University of Texas, I hear that Governor Rick Perry wants to make guns legal on campuses. He says that if other people would have had guns then they could have stopped the gunman. Really? That makes no sense to me. It would be like the Old West with everyone trying to be the hero but shooting more people in the process.

Now there is no easy answer to this and I do not want to get all political and shit. I just don't like the idea of some drunk ass kicker who has a gun his pocket being able to have four Jack and Cokes and then getting mad when some other asswipe insults him. And I know the law says that if you have a gun on you, then you aren't supposed to be drinking alcohol. And I am just sure that people will follow that law. Just like they do with all the other things that are not supposed to happen when drinking alcohol: driving, going to work, drunk texting. It seems like a recipe for disaster. But that's just me.


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