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Thursday, September 29, 2011

Your Astrological Forecast Courtesy of Bitchy Waiter

Hey baby, what's your sign? Astrology is never wrong, out of date, stupid or made up. I spent hours and hours studying the stars and charts in order to provide you with the most up-to-date- astrological forecast possible. I hope you can use this as a guide for your day.

Aries March 21-April 19
: Today is the day you have been waiting for. You may or may not finally achieve what you have been working towards your whole life. Look for a man in a dark coat to guide you to the next step and when you see him, make sure you pass on the secret phrase so he knows that you are the one he has been looking for too. Secret phrase: how would you like your burger cooked?

Taurus April 20-May 20: Grab the bull by the horns, Taurus and just say no to bullshit. With the stars in alignment today, you may find yourself with some extra cash in your pocket. But don't spend it too quickly because the universe may have other ideas. At the end of the day, you might end up printing a sales report and have to take a lot of that cash and give it to a manager who is sitting in his office and doing "paperwork" when really he is in there looking at Internet porn.

Gemini May 21-June 21: With only a few more days left in Gemini, now is the time to make things count. If you have considered a change in direction, go for it. Once the moon moves out of Uranus you'll have a lot more room up there for better and more exciting things.

Cancer June 22-July 22: Your love life is about to change so get ready! After a long drought of loneliness and desperation, a homeless person is going to show up in your life and make you realize that love can be found anywhere. Even in a stinky toothless man who lives under a bridge. (If you are a male Cancer, then you are going to turn gay for this homeless man. It's in the stars.)

Leo July 23-August 22: Leo, your pride will take a beating today when someone is going to ask you to do something you would rather not do. Suck it up though because after all is said and done, you will be the bigger person for following through on it. Just scrape that gum from under the tables and await your karmic reward.

Virgo August 23-September 22: We all know how you are Virgo. You want everything in its place and done your way. Well get over it, because the planets say you need to pull the stick out of your ass and get over yourself.

Libra September 23-October 23: A new job opportunity is on the horizon if you know how to play your cards right. A man in a feathered hat and leopard skin pants will show you to your corner and introduce you to your new job prospects. Take it easy your first day though, Libra. You want to enjoy the start of your new career as a whore.

Scorpio October 24-November 21: The gentle sting of reality will nip at your heels today as you realize that the job you took a few years ago "until something better comes along" is what you will still be doing ten years from now. Take a breather and take a bong hit. It's the only way to satisfy such crushing disappointment.

Sagittarius November 22-December 21: Your likable demeanor will be challenged as people constantly push your buttons. Push back. Hard. If someone rubs you the wrong way today feel free to spit in their food or ruin the metallic strip on the back of their credit card.

Capricorn December 22-January 19: Buy a lottery ticket today. You are not going to win, but you need something to hope for since everything else about your day is kinda crappy.

Aquarius January 20-February 18: A co-worker will reveal some interesting information to you today that can help you in the long run. Keep that info to yourself for a while until you know exactly how to use it to get what you want. Not necessarily blackmail, but kinda sorta.

Pisces February 19-March 20: An old friend will reappear in your life today. It's someone who was there for some of the most important moments of your life. This old friend will not recognize you and walk right past you. Don't be too sad though. This old friend never really liked you that much anyway. They thought you were a bit of a whiner.

If September 29th is your birthday: Happy birthday, Libra! Go to a restaurant today and be sure to tell your server that today is your birthday. He really wants to know because he so totally gives a shit. He can't wait to gather all his co-workers together so they can sing "Happy Birthday" to a perfect freakin' stranger. And make sure you ask him what you get for free! You know, since you were born and everything, it's a really amazing feat.

(The truth is, this is from about a year ago. I got a new job and have been crazy ass busy. It's amazing that I have not put up a repeat already. I have completed 24 out of 120 hours of training. Exhausting. It is not a restaurant job, so Anonymous might be all excited for my "real job" ass.)



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Wednesday, September 28, 2011

A Discussion About Race and Tipping

This post is a little different. Someone sent me a news story about a restaurant in Queens that is being sued by two patrons because they had a tip added to their bill. When they asked the manager why they had an 18% tip added to their check, they were told, the gratuity is added to “Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi customers because they never tip." Ouch.

As servers, we all know there are certainly specific groups of people who seem to tip less overall. Maybe it's a cultural thing and yes it is definitely a stereotype, but maybe stereotypes are based in some small truth, right? I myself fit many of the stereotypes of the gay man: I like Barbra Streisand, I use my hands when I talk and I have an impeccable eyebrow situation. Stereotypes? Yes. True? Yes, girl (snap, snap). Of course, I have had amazing tips from people who I may have expected shit from and shitty tips from people I thought would leave more. We can never tell and it's part of our job. However, I have never heard of someone flat out adding the tip to someone because of race. Not only is it insulting, it's incredibly ballsy.

Let's discuss this topic today. It's a road I seldom take because any time one discusses race, it's a slippery slope, but let's try it. Do you believe there are certain races that tip less than others? Do you change your service when you have a table of African Americans as opposed to a group of Asians or Hispanics? It's touchy, I know. As for me, I honestly try to give the same level of service to every table because if I get a crap tip, I want to know that is was because of them and not me. If I deliberately give less than stellar service to a table of black women, then don't they have a right to give me a 10% tip and thus perpetuate the stereotype? (See, I told you it's touchy.) Race and tipping is the elephant in the sidestand. Seldom is it talked about at work, so let's talk about it here.

I want to know what you think about the Queens restaurant adding the gratuity to those people. And what are your thoughts on different races and they way they tip? Please comment. Do it anonymously if you want, but please keep it respectful.

Thanks.

-BW



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Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Don't Touch My Tray

Dear Customer,

It's sweet that you want to help me by taking your own beer off of my tray as I am standing at your table, but don't fucking do it, alright? It does not help me. Here's the deal: I have been waiting tables for a really long time; like since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Therefore, I have 235 years of experience and I have an amazing ability to balance trays. If you Lucy Goosey take a glass off my tray without letting me adjust where my hand is positioned underneath it, that balance is going to be off and the tray will come crashing down and I will be one pissed off bitch. Don't do that. It's my job so let me do it. Do I show up at your office and try to staple some papers together for you? Or do I try to bag my own groceries? Or pump my own gas? No, I don't because that is your job and I know you are just about the best darn gas pumper this side of the Mississippi.


Also, dear customer, when I am reaching across a table with a martini glass filled to the rim with the sweet luscious nectar called vodka, let me put the goddamn glass down before you try to grab it. I know your greedy alcoholic ass can hardly wait to put your lips on the glass and suck down some love, but gimme a goddamn minute to set it on the table, will ya? If you grab at it, there is a good chance that it will spill and if I waste vodka it will send me into a deep deep (so deep) depression. I will spiral out of control thinking about how many thirsty children there are in famine-ravaged Africa who could have shared that cocktail and here you are wasting it it by grabbing at it and making it spill all over the fucking table. And I have to clean it up too. So it's a double lose. In closing, keep your hands to your self. Don't touch my tray, don't touch shit on my tray and do not touch my ass (unless you can back up that grab with a 30% tip, in which case, feel free.) Please keep these things in mind when you see my approach with my tray, okay? Thank you.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter



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Monday, September 26, 2011

When I Say It's Hot, It's Hot

Dear Customer:

When I tell you something is hot, please believe me. Just because you see me holding a hot dish does not mean that your fingers have the same super-human strength to withstand heat like mine do. You see, I hold hot plates all the time, so my fingers have built up a tolerance to this silly thing called fire. Is it sad that I no longer have fingerprints? Sure, but it allows me to carry things to your table after they have sat under the heat lamp for twenty minutes and it's all worth it. When your food is ready, the cooks put it "in the window" under this big strong light bulb that will keep things nice and warm until I finally get around to bringing it to your table. It will sit there and sit there until you ask me, "Is our food ready yet?" When you ask me that, it is my cue to bring it to you because as a server I like food to sit in the kitchen for as long as possible until I know you really want it. Consequently, the plate gets really really hot. However, since I have been doing this since I was a fresh-faced young boy of 20, my fingers are callused, bruised tough, angry and rough. They're like my heart.


When I approach your table with steaming piles of nachos, wings or calamari and I say "Be careful the plate is very hot," I mean it. You don't have to reach out and touch it to verify what I said is true because you will more than likely burn your hand and then shoot me an angry look that you will then have to take back because you will realize I just fucking told you the stupid ass plate was hot, you dumb as a bag of hair ass wipe. It's just not hot to me.
Please don't be jealous of this amazing talent I have to be able to hold hot things because it is nothing. The cooks in the kitchen can practically reach into a vat of hot oil to pull out french fries. They can stir pots of soup with Their arms. They can light cigarettes just by touching then with the tips of their fingers. They are the true heroes.

In closing, let me say one more time: when I say something is hot, it is hot. Don't touch it. I will laugh at you when you recoil in pain and I won't feel bad about it. i will not try to hide my laugh either. i will say something like, "See, I told you it was hot. What, you didn't
believe me? Let me get you some butter to put on that burn, it will make it all better." And then I will laugh again, because putting butter on a burn is an old wives tale. It will make it burn more. If you are dumb enough to ignore my warning about a hot plate, then maybe you will be dumb enough to smear butter on a burn.

love,
The Bitchy Waiter



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Saturday, September 24, 2011

Entitled Parents, This Is For You:

It may seem lately that the blog should change its name to "I Hate Babies," but I just can't help it. Maybe it's time I come clean and fully admit that it's the parents I hate. I mean, what did babies ever do to me other than give me the occasional stink eye? I am trying to retrain my brain into knowing that it's the entitled parents who let their spawn become the center of the world.

I went to the green market this morning looking for something to make for dinner tonight. I always hear about how cool and wonderful a Farmer's Market is, but the one in my neighborhood sucks. All they ever have is fresh vegetables and fruits that come right from the farm and jars of honey and jams and shit. I have yet to see anyone selling anything remotely useful like chicken mole enchiladas, fresh tequila or Pizza Rolls. As I was making my way down the sidewalk, I noticed the people ahead of me were parting to make way for someone. "Is it a big foodie celebrity like Rachael Ray?" I wondered. "I certainly hope so, because now I can tell her what a cheap ho she is." I walked ahead to see what was going on and it was none other than some stupid ass Dad pushing his toddlers in a double-wide stroller being completely oblivious to how people were accommodating him. The stroller was huge. It's like when he went to Babies "R" Us they asked him he'd like to "super size" it and he was so used to saying yes at McDonald's, he agreed to it and ended up with a stroller almost as big as his ass. He was probably on his way to a restaurant so he could park it between his table and the server. A few years ago, I took a picture of some ladies at my job who set up their own Stroller Wall. When I first posted the picture on my blog over two years ago, I took the time to black out their faces and made the picture very small, but now I don't care:


Bitches. What is it with these strollers, can someone explain it to me? Is it a status symbol that I just don't get? Is it a way for parents to show how much money they have to spend on their children? Please tell me.

A friend called me yesterday and asked me to please write a blog post about entitled parents. Laura is a mom of two kids ages 6 and 3. I know them well, because I took care of the six year old for almost a year when she was a baby. (Yes, I was a "manny."). She called me and said she was somewhere waiting for the cab that she had ordered. It was pouring down rain and she had the foresight to call ahead for one. She did not have her kids with her. When the car arrived, a woman came up and tried to take it. Laura explained that this was the car she had called for, but what did the lady have to say about that? "Well, do you mind if I take it? I have two kids." So having two kids in your possession allows you to steal a cab from someone? In my experience some parents think it also allows them to:
  • cut in line at the bank
  • get their food out faster in a restaurant
  • cut in line at the grocery store
  • eat food in a grocery store before paying for it
  • cut in line at a movie theater
  • take up three extra seats on the goddamn 7 train so their fucking diaper bag has a seat while I stand
  • cut in line at the bus stop
  • have free reign at a department store as their kids play under the racks of clothes
  • cut in line at the department store
  • and about a million other things
I am over it. Laura probably let the lady take the cab because she is nice that way. You know my ass would have given that bitch a "sorry-your-kids-are getting-all-wet" look and hopped in the cab and been on my way. But that's just me: bitchy.

A word to entitled parents: get over yourself. They're kids. No big deal. You aren't the first person to bring a life into the world. Little Johnny and Suzie are the center of your world, not ours. Yours. And stop bashing processed chicken, what did it ever do to you?





Friday, September 23, 2011

A Comment on Comments

I can't let this comment go by without responding to it. I tried to ignore it, but I just can't do it.
Stevie said...

Ok so i watched the segiment on Dr. Phil and i think that you are ridiculous and the whole "brat ban" bullshit is stupid. You are only a waiter what the hell have you done with your pathetic life to make you think that you are someone to tell parents to take their children anywhere you are a waiter that is all so you need to learn your place in society you serve people for a living the children you are setting here trying to ban from your place of business are the same kids that you will be serving later on when they are older because you probably wont go out and try to find a real job yea being a waiter is work I've been there kids have never bothered me. But once you pass the age of 21 get a real job. The audacity of a waiter to tell parents such as myself, to take our kids somewhere else is crap. You don't know the struggles that I've have gone thru with my sons health when he was first born. My son deserves to eat anywhere with me, regardless if a "bitchy" waiter likes it or not my goodness your only a waiter know your place in society and that is serving me and my son when ever we choose to go to your establishment.

That is how i feel I have worked to get to my status in society Im probably half your age and i resent that i have worked so hard to get where i am at to have a "waiter" tell me anything. People setting here on this site saying your so cool "bitchy" your so true bitchy blah blah blah need to quit sitting around the t.v. and get themselves a life aswell we all know that you run home from your ball busting jobs that leave you with little reward, tired and wore-out well maybe if you did something with your life earlier on your have a job that you enjoy you wouldn't be so stressed when you go out to eat. You know what you are trying to keep my child out of eating in public well i guess we can try and keep all of you cry-baby ass adults outta public. It would be easier to tell yall to leave than it would to try to make children do what they don't wanna. So u know what why don't yall stay home because i am taking my son out and if yall don't like they way he acts come see me and see if yall like the way i tell yall to grow up and act your age not your status my goodness hes a waiter and yall are flocking to him like hes some kind of a saint get over it HES A DAMN WAITER. Thats it nothing more sure he makes this snazzy web page about his bitches his moans his complaints and yall set here and feed into them like yall are social parasites. Get a real life.

Dear Stevie:

Fuck you and your crotch dropping. Learn to spell. Learn punctuation. Periods are your friend; use them. I will get a "real" job when you get a real name. Stevie? Who in the hell over the age of twelve goes by the name of Stevie?

love,
BW

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Time for another installment of Dear Bitchy. I dug into the mailbag and found this question that perhaps I can shed some light on. You can email me here if you have a question that needs attention. Or email me to say hello. That's nice too.



Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I need your advice. I work at a bar and grill and for whatever reason people constantly ignore the HUGE "please wait to be seated" sign and mosey on in and seat themselves. I have tried very hard to be nice when it does happen but it has become a daily occurrence and I just can't take it anymore! What would you do?


signed,
Alicia

Dear Alicia,

Oh this problem again, with those stupid buckets of Thousand Island Dressing that we call customers. No matter how HUGE the sign is, they will not read it. They will ignore it the same way they ignore menus, their children and my crushed dreams. I once worked a restaurant with a patio which had a HUGE sign that said, "Please see the hostess if you would like to sit outside." People constantly sat directly under the sign paying no mind to it. Even if the sign had been lit up with neon and sparklers and had photos of naked men and women on it, they would ignore it. It's their way.

What can we do? Here is what I suggest: when someone sits down at a table without being seated there by a hostess, ignore the fuck out of them just like they ignored the fuck out of your sign. I have done this many times and it's very satisfying. When I see someone sit down without the proper protocol, I walk past them continuously until they practically have to pull their arm out of its socket in order to wave at me hard enough to get my attention. They will usually say something all Bucket of Thousand Island Dressing-ish like, "Uh, excuse me, but we don't have menus." My reply is then, "Oh, that's odd. I don't know why the hostess didn't give you one when she sat you. I apologize for her behavior, she does this all the time. It may be time to mention it to the manager so they can get someone in here who knows how to do her job. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I hope she has her resumé up to date because it looks like tonight may be her last night." And then Thousand Island Family is all, "Oh, well, we sat ourselves...we don't want her to get fired...uh, we're sorry, we're dumb." Then they feel stupid and like shit and it makes me feel better.

Or maybe after sitting there for ten minutes, they'll say to me, "Uh, is someone going to take our order??" And then I can reply, "I thought this was so-and-so's table, have you been waiting long?" And then they will say, Uh, yeah, for like thirty minutes." And then I say, "He must not realize you are here. Did a hostess seat you or did you seat yourself, because that would make all the difference in the world." And then they mumble, "Oh, well, we sat ourselves here..." And then I say, "A-ha! Now we know why no one came to take your order. It's because you sat yourselves. You should always wait to be seated by the hostess so these things don't happen."

Basically, there is no way around stupid people ignoring signs and seating themselves so all we can do is try to embarrass them enough so that the next time they will do it correctly. It is highly unlikely that embarrassing them will teach them anything at all, but from our point of view it is immensely satisfying. Try it. You'll love it.

(Anonymous, this is your cue to tell me that "the customer is always right" and that I should be ashamed of myself for trying to embarrass a guest just to prove a point. But here's the thing, Anonymous: I don't care.)

Love,
BW

Please email me here if you have a question for me. I love to help people. It's in my blood. Also in my blood is a very alcohol content.


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Thursday, September 22, 2011

Old Ladies Can Be Annoying

Everyone is born for a reason. Perhaps you were born to make a difference in the life of someone you have yet to meet or maybe your purpose in life is still being determined. Or it could be you were born simply to trap the baby-daddy in a relationship he didn't want because all he did was hook up with your mom one night at that club after she had too many Long Island Iced Teas followed by two Fuzzy Navels and a hit of poppers. Who knows? What I do know is this: the women who sat at table sixteen last week were born with the sole purpose of getting on my last fucking nerve. Mission accomplished, ladies.

Two old women came into the restaurant. I only call them that because they referred to themselves that way. They both had their hair in buns and they looked like they just popped in from the Amish flea market and needed a quick bite to eat before auditioning to be one of the little old ladies in The Producers. In truth, they were probably in their 50's, but they were the old kind of fifty-something, not the young cool hip fifty-something.

"Table for two, ladies?" I asked all chirpy and happy because that is my natural demeanor when wearing an apron.

Old Lady #1 cleared her throat and said, "Well, there are going to be three of us." Fine. No problem. I began leading her to a table but she stood still. I turned around to see what the problem was and she said, "One third of our party is not here yet." Well, I kinda figured that, Miss Pythagoras but thanks for the math lesson. Unless your friend is the Invisible Lady or you have her hiding in your back pocket, I assumed she wasn't here yet. I told them they could choose a table and sit wherever they wanted and I would bring them menus. This confused them.

They looked at each other and muttered back and forth, "Do you want to sit here or do you want to sit there or should we sit on the patio or inside? Oh my God I don't know what we should do." Old Lady #2 said, "Why don't we sit at that last booth?" to which Old Lady #1 replied, "But how will Old Lady #3 find us when she gets here if we sit all the way back there?"

Keep in mind this is a very small restaurant. It only has fourteen tables. It was ten minutes after we opened and there was no one else in the place. Unless Old Lady #3 was blind and/or retarded, she would easily find her friends.

After much discussion and thought, Old Lady #2 finally made the decision. Waking me up from my self-induced coma, she said, "We are going to sit at that back booth but if you see another woman come in who looks uncertain, that is our friend." So let me get this straight: if another old lady with her hair in a bun comes into the restaurant and tells me she is meeting two other old ladies who have their hair in buns, then she would be referring to you, is that it? Thanks. Got it.

By the time we eventually made it to table sixteen, it was time for me to color my roots again. They were so fucking slow, examining every table we passed as if it might be the one they should sit at instead. Before they sat down, Old Lady #1 said, "And who would we need to talk to in order to discuss the volume of the music? It's too loud and we want to be talk. We're old ladies and can't hear very well." Okay, you just fucking contradicted yourself, old lady. If you can't hear very well, then I should turn the music up, shouldn't I? Isn't the truth that you just don't like the Pandora 1980's music channel I created so that I could listen to the music of my youth while at work? Maybe she would have liked me to create a Pandora channel of music from her youth, but who in the hell wants to listen to an Andrew Sisters and Doris Day channel. (Okay, honestly, I would totally listen to that channel...) I agreed to turn down the music.

About ten minutes later I saw their friend come into the restaurant. Of course she immediately spied her friends and headed towards them. It was truly remarkable how she found them. It was like she was Christopher Fuckin' Columbus or something. She walked right to them like she knew where she was going. The bartender told me that she must have studied a map of the restaurant in advance or we decided she may have been equipped with a GPS because how else could she possibly have found her friends among all the empty tables and nobody else? The woman was a true super-sleuth with the nose of a bloodhound and the problem solving skills of Jessica Fletcher. It was amazing.

They stayed way too long and never said anything when I turned the music back up about fifteen minutes later. They were pretty self-sufficient after they got their food. Two of them had a glass of wine so that must have chilled them out. They were probably trashed and were going to leave the restaurant to go home and do some wild and crazy drunk old lady stuff like embroider pillows with with dirty sayings and can some peaches without sterilizing the lids first. They left me a good tip which I appreciated since they occupied my booth for so long. I will be ready for them the next time I see them. The booth will be prepped with a flare gun, some knitting needles and Pandora will be set to play the Top 40 hits of the turn of the century.

(And yes, they sat at table 16 even though there are only 14 tables in the restaurant. I don't know why there is no table 6 or 10 in the restaurant, but there isn't...)



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Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Miracle of Miracles

Ever have one of those blasts from the past that take you by surprise? Maybe your brain filed something away a very long time ago and then something happens that opens up that compartment and you are flooded with memories. It's weird when it happens. The brain is funny that way. I got an email today from someone and she wanted to let me know that someone we knew had died last week. His name was Lee. I met Lee when I was about twelve years old doing a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof in Victoria, Texas. He played Motel the tailor and I loved watching him sing "Miracle of Miracles." He was seven years older than me but to a twelve year old, nineteen is a total grown up, no doubt about it. The last time I saw him was in 1984 when he directed me in Annie. (I was the dog catcher.) We were never really friends seeing he was so much older than me. I moved away from Victoria to pursue my acting career and the next thing you know almost thirty years have passed and I find out he died at the age of 51.

So what does this have to do with The Bitchy Waiter? I'll tell you. When I did my first community theater production, I knew I had found what I wanted to do with my life. I saw people like Lee and Cynthia and Mike and Mr. Trowbridge and realized, "Hey, they're grown ups and they get to play? This is cool, I wanna do this when I grow up." I continued doing community theater and when I graduated high school I went to college to get a degree in theater. Yes, it is possible to have a degree and wait tables. When it came time to move to New York City, I needed a job that would pay me good money in a short amount of time and give me the flexibility to audition and do shows and pursue my real dream. Waiting tables is a means to an end. I have heard this a lot in my life:


The reason I don't get another job is because this is what I do. I wait tables and when I get a show, I go do it. If I was a teacher, I can't imagine the school district being cool with me saying, "So hey, I got this show and I'm going to Maryland for six weeks. I'll see you then. The students will be fine." And I write about it because I like writing and if my words can make people laugh or smile or think, then maybe I am making a difference in someone's day in some small way.

When I heard that Lee died, I thought back to the summer of 1980 and how much all those adults in Fiddler inspired me. I watched Lee sing every night. Cynthia was so funny as Yente and when that girl who played Chava cried as her father walked away disowning her for marrying outside their faith, I was so blown away by the fact that she could cry real tears. That production shaped my whole life and Lee was a huge part of it. I can't imagine that any of them ever think of that 12 year old boy who didn't have any lines in that play they did thirty years ago, but little do they know, I think of them. They made me want to be an actor.

And that is why I don't get another job. I already have one. I am an actor. And a writer. Thank you Lee and I hope wherever you are, you are singing;

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles-
God took the tailor by the hand
Turned him around and- miracle of miracles-

Led him to the promised land.


Follow your dreams, people. Even if it means you have to wait tables to do it.

(By the way, the lady who told me to get another job is named Kate and she is actually very sweet. Just sayin'.)



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Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Choco Taco and a Gay Wedding

It was a beautiful day on Sunday in the Catskills. The sky was blue, the air was crisp and I had free food and drinks at a wedding. It was a day to celebrate the love of two people who were joined in holy (and legal, by the way) matrimony. With all the love and joy floating around, you would think it would be enough to distract me from how hard the cater waiters were working, but it wasn't. Despite my best efforts to enjoy the reception, my thoughts kept ending up with the servers. Have I served for so long that even the wedding of two good friends is not enough for me to not think of the servers first? Nope.

The first thing I noticed was how far away the kitchen was from the cocktail reception. It was an outdoor wedding, so the kitchen was set up in a tent over by the chicken coop over the little wooden bridge and past the pond. All I could think was, 'That is a long fucking way to walk carrying a tray of pigs in a blanket and crab cakes, that sucks." Seriously, it was about a hundred yards. The best part of it being so far away was that guests couldn't crowd around the exit to the kitchen tent so they could latch on to a deviled egg before anyone else. I noticed a server walking back to the kitchen with one crab cake on her plate. I knew what that sneaky bitch was up to. She was saving it for herself to eat as she made the trek back to refill her tray. I kept my eye on her and sure enough; after she crossed the bridge, I saw her pop it into her mouth. Smooth move.

The cocktail reception ended rather abruptly when an old lady passed out and fell flat on her back. Everyone was screaming to dial 9-1-1 but it was the fucking Catskills so cell phone service was as rare as a cater waiter who doesn't stuff crab cakes into her mouth when she thinks no one is looking. This lady in the grass looked like she needed some major help. There was doctor and a nurse at the wedding so they went right to work on her. I took advantage of the distraction and headed to the bar where I knew there would be no line. Within two minutes, the banquet manager was ushering us to the barn where dinner would be served early. In other words, "Let's move away from the old lady who may or may not be dying on the happiest day of two brides' lives." As the crowd headed over for dinner, I watched the manager urgently speak into his walkie talkie and say, "Start icing right away, they're coming over. Now! Now! Now!" I felt uncomfortable because I knew that the timing was off and the servers were going to be stressed out. I was still probably more comfortable than the old lady in the grass underneath the cocktail table.

When we got to the barn, I saw waiters running around icing waters and then then I noticed that the bartenders were breaking down the bar in the pond house and dragging all that shit over to where we were now. "Totally shitty," I thought. I have to hand it to the crew though. They were all so nice and a special shout out to Devon and Barney who were my bartenders for the day. Dinner went off without a hitch. Okay, it was a little awkward that the ambulance parked right next to where we were eating. It's not very appetizing to watch a lady in a gurney get wheeled over the river and through the woods past the goats and put into an ambulance, but I took another sip of wine and felt better.

When it came time for each table to choose a champagne bottle captain, I designated myself and took charge of the situation. The champagne toast was coming up any minute and I wanted to make sure my glass was full. It's like when I am on a plane; I always volunteer to sit next to the emergency exit because in the event of an emergency, I trust no one more than myself to get that door open and get myself the fuck out. At the wedding, I trusted no one more than myself to get that champagne bottle open and glasses poured.

As the sun set, the plates were cleared. It took a lot of effort to not get up and grab a tray and do it myself. It's a sickness I have really, this need to clear tables, but I resisted and went instead to the ice cream truck that took the spot of the ambulance. I had a Choco Taco and another beer. It was a good wedding. I left before the wedding cake action happened because I was facing a two hour drive back to New York City. Besides I had already had my Choco Taco so anything else would have paled in comparison. Not to mention, I would have wanted to grab the cake slicer and help divvy up slices for 110 guests. It was time for me to go. The wedding was great. The food was wonderful and the service was even better. Thank you to all those cater waiters who make events like this wedding so special. Congratulations to Kim (Not Kardashian) and Randie who had the most awesome wedding ever. It was a privilege to be there.

p.s.
The old lady was talking as she was put into the ambulance. Word is she was released from the hospital the next morning and is fine now. Her biggest regret other than the grass stain on her new dress was that she didn't get to enjoy the reception. I am not a lip reader, but as she rolled by on her way to the ambulance, it looked to me like she was saying, "I just want a goddamn Choco Taco before I go, is that too much to ask?"



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Sunday, September 18, 2011

Stinky Lady Alert

I am on my way to a wedding today where I will witness two women joined in holy matrimony. The theme is a 1950's vintage Iowa farm wedding; leave it to the lesbians to come up with that one. I expect it to be fun and I am very happy for my friends, especially since their marriage will actually be legal now. I look forward to seeing their love bloom but even more than that I am looking forward to the bar. Since I am going to the Catskills for the wedding (again, leave it to the lesbians...), I have no time to write today, so I offer this post about a funky smellin' regular. Enjoy your day and congrats to Randie and Kim!

~BW


In keeping with my pledge to refer to certain customers as characters from 1970's and 1980's television shows, I would like to discuss one "Mary Ann" who comes in on a regular basis. I refer to her as Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, not because she is cute and perky and from Kansas and has a subtle beauty that makes men want her more than that whore of movie Star, Ginger Grant. I call her Mary Ann because she smells like what I imagine Mary Ann to smell like after three years on an island without a shower or soap. Or maybe she smells like one of her coconut cream pies that have sat in the sun for too long and it went bad so she tried to make it smell better by farting on it and that didn't work so she threw some monkey poop on it and that didn't work so she just gave up and went to my station and sat at table three.

I don't know why this woman smells so bad. The first time I got a whiff of her, I wasn't sure what the smell was. Perhaps some errant rat that had eaten poison and died under a booth or a homeless man who had taken a nap in the lighting booth. After several passes of the table, I narrowed down the odor to this regular. It's like a mixture of body odor, skunk and frustration. When I leaned over to ask her what she would like for her second drink, I was punched in the face by her breath. You know what a piece of dental floss smells like after a good tough round of flossing out roast beef and broccoli? That dental floss smells like a a Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds compared to the stench that comes out of her mouth. I swear to God, it smells so bad that flies even avoid it. Imagine a fly sitting on a pile of dog shit on 6th Avenue:

Boy this dog poo sure does smell bad, but I don't mind. I'm a fly. I love poo, garbage and germs. The stinkier the better, bring it on. I'm a fly, ain't nuthin' gonna breaka my stride, nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin'... (the fly flies away and gets into the airstream of Mary Ann's breath) Oh, my God, what the hell is that stench? This is awful, I can't take it. (The fly pulls out a tiny revolver from his tiny coat pocket and blows his tiny brains out.)

When I see Mary Ann come in, I immediately start sending out vibes that she sits anywhere except my station. Since there are only two of us at work, I have a 50/50 chance of breathing in her funk. When she sits elsewhere, it's like winning the lottery. Except I don't win a million dollars, I just win the right to breathe. And in my book, that's worth a good chunk of coconut cream pie.



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Saturday, September 17, 2011

A Comment on Comments

Every now and again, I get a comment that is just begging to be responded to. Since my appearance on Dr. Phil, the comments have gone through the roof and I had plenty of winners to choose from. For the most part, the people who bothered to come to the blog were overwhelmingly in my corner. I got some great comments about my hair and I am seriously considering giving it its own blog. Thank you to everyone who appreciated what I had to say. However, there were a few people who had some negative things to say and it is to them that this blog post is directed to.

Anonymous said...

I don't appreciate your comment about food allergies. I am severely allergic to several things. The way I see it, I pay your salary. If I don't come eat and no one else does the restaurant closes, you lose your job. If I ask for certain things to be left out of my dish I expect them to. You are just a waiter shut up and do your job.

Hey anonymous, shut the fuck up, you allergy-ridden filthy whore. Take another does of Valtrex and move on. I was referring to people who say they are allergic to something when in actuality they just don't like it. Big difference. I understand your confusion; sometimes syphilis does irreversible damage to the brain. You're excused.

And then there is this long-winded comment which I edited to take away some of the bat-shit-crazy but I left their misspellings, run-on sentences and bad grammar because it shows what kind of person wrote it: a dumb one.
Anonymous said...

I strongly believe you have some serious issues with society and you should see someone that will help you deal. Children are the future you may have issues with them we all do from time to time but telling a child or his parent that he or she has to leave a restarauntan> is obseen. No one has the right to tell someone they are not allowed to eat in a casual restarant or fine dinning establishment, if they are a paying customer they have a right to be there. I believe it is people like you that are the problem today if you cant deal with a situation you take it to a extreme instead of figuring it out for yourself. Part of your job is dealing with children whether they irritate you or not. I understand people have said this before but if you dont like the job or soceity for that matter you should take the little possessions you have a move to a city that has a small population. Do you honestly believe to have the right to be any different? If the issue in question was a big deal to anyone besides the server would the owner of the establishment not band children himself or herself? they dont do you know why? Ill tell you its because the owner would rather get the money from the customer (which is why he is in business) they appesease you a lowly paid waiter. In society you have no contribution easily replacable an no proper business owner would put you before a ten dollar childrens meal which also brings us to why you have to voice your concerns to the general public instead of starting your own restarant and solving you problems that way. As far as im concerned you are a coward pure bully picking on little kids to make your life seem more managable while you waste everyones time with this nonsense instead of dealing with the real problem which is you. Anti-depressants may help you if you believe your life is garbage picking on little children however cannot. I would have liked to have been at that show to voice my concerns and meet someone so ignorant face to face. It astounds me that you believe anyone should put a bitchy low end waiter before a child that may one day contribute ten times as much to the world then you do. It would make me very pleased to see a father put you in your place because if you were to tell me my child is being to loud, or I need to shut my kid up that would be the end of your career and probably mine but would be well worth it. Get a life!

Okay, where to start? I had to read it about ten times to even get what the fuck this crazy bag of nuts was trying to say. I love how she calls me ignorant but she can't manage to string a complete sentence together and has no use for punctuation. Yeah, I'm the ignorant one, uh huh. And she thinks I am the problem? No, it's the parents who are the problem if they think it's okay to let children rule the roost in a restaurant. (That's how it's spelled, by the way.) Maybe one of the children I serve will contribute ten times as much to the world as I do, but they better get crackin' because this blog isn't all I do. I have a life and waiting tables isn't it. It's just what I do 24 hours a week. The other 144 hours per week is where most of my my life happens. The only way anti-depressants are going to make my life any better is if I am allowed to drop them into the glasses of juice I serve to bratty kids so they can fall asleep while they are in my station. Thanks for the comment, lady. I'm sorry you are so angry and I'm also sorry that you can't appreciate the joys of processed chicken.

Thank you to everyone who commented on the blog or Facebook. This week was wild ride and I really enjoyed it. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

love,
BW

Friday, September 16, 2011

Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head Go Out To Dinner



This is a repost because I am so busy today doing the devil's work that I don't have time to write. No, I am not emptying all the salt and pepper shakers for their yearly run through the dishwasher. I am painting my apartment. Hopefully the mimosa I had for breakfast will make the task more fun. (Cut to three hours from now to see me passed out on the couch with HGTV blaring and my dog walking around with grey paint all over him...). I chose the following post about Mr. Potato Head for two reasons. One of those reasons is that I woke up craving hash browns. The other reason is that the story is about someone who sat on the patio and last night at work we closed the patio down for the year. Autumn came and she came all over the place, that messy bitch. I hate the closing of the patio because it reminds me that summer is over and we now have seven months before we can consider wearing shorts again. I am off to paint. Right after I have one more teeny tiny sip of mimosa...

xo,
BW

You know what's really annoying about customers? I mean other than the fact that they are there in the first place. It would be so much simpler if they cooked at home and just mailed my tips to me. I hate when people ask for something that is not on the goddamn, mother fucking menu. The menu has one purpose and one purpose only: it tells you what the options are in that particular restaurant. If it's not on the menu, it means you can't have it. Plain and simple.

This couple came in last week on a busy night. He had a big ol' head and stubby little arms, not unlike Mr. Potato Head. I greeted them at the door and informed them that we only had one table left and it was on the patio. He tells me, "Oh, well it's just the two of us. We only need one table." I laughed thinking he was making a joke but I saw in his face he was dead serious. Uh, Mr. Potato Head, I was just letting you know that the only table I have available is outside and making sure you are okay with that. They followed me to to the table where I handed them menus. You know, menus? Those things that will tell what you can order for dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head asked for two glasses of champagne. I imagine they were celebrating that they found her missing ear or Toys R Us was having a sale. When I came back to the table, they were ready to order.

"Do you have potato skins?" they guy asked. I looked around to make sure I wasn't accidentally working at T.G.I.Friday's or Hooters. Once I confirmed that there were no televisions playing sports and no other guests were eating huge plates of nachos, I knew that I was still at the same restaurant I had punched in to three hours before. Then I looked at his menu to make sure I hadn't accidentally given him a Bennigan's or Houlihan's menu by mistake. Nope, he had the right menu; the same menu that everyone else was given that offers appetizers like curry mussels and baked goat cheese with mesclun salad.

"No, sir. We don't have potato skins." My eyes resisted their urge to roll out of my head.

"Oh, that's too bad. Can you make them?"

Is he for real? Can we make potato skins? The cooks don't even like when I ask for the french fries to be well done and he thinks I'm gonna ask them to make potato skins? Sure, sir. Let me just run to the kitchen and grab some potatoes. I will then scrub them, bake them, slice them, hollow them out, grate some cheese, fry some bacon, fill the skins, bake them again and then add a dollop of sour cream and sprinkle it with scallions. I'll be back in an hour and thirty minutes.

"No, sir. We can't make potato skins." Maybe there's another appetizer on the menu that you and your spud of a wife would enjoy and do not ask if we have a fucking Awesome Blossom. We don't. Nor do we have Buffalo wings, fried mozzarella, spinach artichoke dip, popcorn shrimp, sliders or quesadillas, so don't ask for that either. Look at the menu. Choose something. Order it. I will bring it.

They settled on mussels and a side of fries. As they ate the fries, I couldn't help but look at them a little bit like they were cannibals. Seriously, this couple looked so much like Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head, that every time they put a french fry in their mouth it looked like they were eating one of their own kind.





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Thursday, September 15, 2011

How To Make Good Tips

How to Make Good Tips Being a Waiter

This is an article I wrote for Wikihow. It will probably get edited and have all the snark removed from it, but we shall see. These articles are really fun to write and I think I am providing a real service to the Internets by submitting them. Yeah, right, uh huh.



The best thing about being a waiter is walking out of work each day with cash in your pocket. Tips can be a wonderful thing, but they're not always easy to come by. Here is how to get the best tips possible while waiting tables.



Steps


  1. As a server, in order to get big fat tips the first thing that we must remember is that we are there to serve. Let the needs of the customer guide you through your table service. Do what they need and ask and you will be rewarded handsomely.
  2. Speed is essential to get good tips. The faster we can fulfill the wish of a guest, the happier they will be, and that's what it's all about isn't it? Making our guests happy? Yes it is! If they ask for something, do it immediately. Drop whatever it is you are doing and reply to the request. Do not worry that your bladder is full to aching and you have not had time to go to the restroom for six hours. If table seven demands more bread, do it right away! Your wallet will thank you later.
  3. Always smile. Customers need to think you are enjoying waiting on them. It is important that you hide any disdain you may have for them because it will surely affect your tip. Plaster a big fake smile on your face and keep it there the whole time you are wearing your apron. You might want to try putting Vaseline on your teeth because it will remind you to keep that happy expression. Hey, if it works for Miss America, it can work for you, so smile darn ya, smile!
  4. Always write down your order. Customers tend to think that we severs are ignorant and incapable of doing anything else with our lives, despite many of us having advanced college degrees. If you write down the order, the guest will have confidence that their order will come out the way they wanted it. Even if they only ask for a house salad with ranch dressing, at least pretend to write it down on your pad. Simply scribble a note or a doodle or maybe even something like, "Oh man, this guy thinks I'm stupid." The customer will see you diligently writing in your pad and take note of it.
  5. Never disagree with your customer. The customer is always right in every single possible situtation known to mankind and cannot ever under any circumstances ever in a million years be wrong. It just is not possible. If they tell you that their food took 45 minutes to get to them and you know that it only took 18 because you can look at the computer to see when you rang it in, just nod your head, smile and agree. Apologize for being such a poor wretch of a human being and then offer them a complimentary dessert.
  6. You should never touch your guest. Even though there are studies that have shown that by gently touching a customer on the shoulder when giving them their change and thanking them they will give you a slightly higher tip, do not do it. in this day and age, someone can easily misconstrue that touch as something inappropriate.
  7. On the other hand, if a customer touches you, let them. Whether it is a tap on the shoulder, a poke in the ribs or a grabbing of your buttocks, simply laugh and say "what can I get you?" If you show that you did not like a perfect stranger getting into your personal space, they may find that reason enough to give you less of a tip and we do not want that.
  8. If you follow all of these steps, there should be no reason that you won't receive a 20% from your table. Tipping is subjective though, so don't be surprised if instead of a monetary tip you receive a verbal one like, "You were the best waiter I have ever had!" or "I want to write a letter to your manager about how great you were!" Although these are not tips that will help you pay your bills or rent, they are just as valuable. Embrace them! Sometimes you may receive what looks like a twenty dollar bill only to realize it is a piece of parer with a Bible quote on it made to look like money. (This usually happens in the South.) If you receive this tip, smile and put it in your pocket. It may come in handy later when you have dark cloud over your life and you need the spirit of Jesus to lift you up.

Tips


  • No one knows for sure that "tips" stands for "To Insure Prompt Service." Customers will swear up and down that it's truth, but it may or may not be. Just accept it as truth and be prompt.
  • If you get a penny as a tip, this is the customers way of saying that you did not deserve any tip at all. Take the penny and put it in your loafer for good luck!
  • If you have people from Europe in your station, consider adding the gratuity for them as a convenience since in their country they are not accustomed to tipping. It would be doing them (and yourself) a favor!

Warnings


  • Never complain to a customer about a bad tip. It is grounds for firing at most restaurants. Rest assured that karma will come around get that cheap customer eventually. It isn't worth losing your job over.
  • If you have more than four women who appear to work in an office and they all want separate checks, prepare yourself for a bad tip no matter how wonderful the service. It's just the way they are.

Sources and Citations








Article provided by wikiHow, a wiki how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Make Good Tips Being a Waiter. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Paula Deen Clogs My Arteries With Love

There are a lot of new readers on this blog who need to know about my love/hate relationship with the one and only Paula Deen and this video pretty much sums it up. Someday I hope to wait on her and see for my very own eyes the majestic wonder that she calls her mouth. I dream of serving her a fried Velveeta and bacon sandwich dipped in lard and sprinkled with powdered sugar. And then she takes a bite and says, 'Y'all, this is so good. Bitchy Waiter, do you won't a bite?" She tears a piece of sandwich (with her teeth) and feeds it to me. She then gives me a hug and she tries to taste my hair because she thinks it looks like curly fries.

I ♥ Paula Deen from The Bitchy Waiter on Vimeo.








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Mr. and Mrs. Complainer, Party of two

You know those people who call you over to the table and just by the way they get your attention, you know they are about to complain about something? It's always the same way. First they tilt their head up and thrust the chin forward as they raise their arm halfway up and hold out their index finger like a number one. Do that for me, and see if you recognize it. Okay, now the expression: lips pursed, sides of mouth pointing down, nose crinkled and brow furrowed. This is the body language for "Waiter, I have something to complain about." It also happens to be the body language for "I am releasing a fart that I hope does not turn into a shart" but in a restaurant it usually indicates they are about to whine about something.

This was the case with table 16. The woman called me over and said, "We hate to be those people, but..." and then she carried on with her complaint. Sorry, lady, but just by saying you "hate to be those people" makes you one of those people. They had a whole list of complaints which made me wonder how they get through life at all. The first thing she took issue with was her Caesar salad which, according to her, wasn't dressed at all. "I'm sorry, that's weird that they made a Caesar and didn't put any dressing on it." I picked it up and saw dressing on it. What she meant to say was it didn't have enough dressing to suit her taste, but whatever. "I can get you some more dressing, " I said emphasising the word "more" to alert her that it was in fact dressed. Then it was the husbands turn. "And my fried chicken is way too salty. Like, it's ridiculously salty. Too salty to eat, just too too salty." I think what he was trying to tell me was that his chicken was too salty, what do you think? Now I had served this very same batch of fried chicken six or seven times already and not one person thought it was anything but delicious. Looking down at his plate, I saw he had only eaten a piece of the crust. Of course that tasted saltier than if had he taken a bite of actual chicken. The crust had salt in it and it's meant to be eaten along with the chicken, not just by itself. Everybody knows that. Who the hell bases their decision on the taste of fried chicken without even tasting the chicken part? Before I could offer a suggestion, he went on. "And the quinoa is ice cold." My first thought was "that's what you get for ordering nasty ass quinoa" but my second thought was "there is no way in hell it's ice cold, asshole." The quinoa never sees the inside of a refrigerator. It's kept on the stove top and warmed up in a skillet per order. "Ice cold" is certainly an exaggeration that was meant to elicit a response from me which he did not get. He ordered something else other than chicken because he "simply can't eat that, it's too salty" and I took it along with the quinoa popsicle and the dry as a bone Caesar salad back to the kitchen.

Of course the chef stuck his (impeccably clean) finger into the quinoa to test the temperature. It was not ice cold as he had reported. He must have been confusing the temperature of the quinoa with that of his frigid uptight wife sitting across from him. The chef reheated the quiona in the skillet, added more dressing to the Caesar and started the tilapia the man wanted instead of the chicken that tasted like it had spent the night on a salt lick.

After they received their food to their satisfaction they seemed happy enough. Or at least as happy as they were going to get. I mean, he was stuck with an ice queen of a bitch for a wife and she was stuck with a dumb fuck of a husband who didn't know how to eat fried chicken. Sad, this couple. They finished their meal along with a bottle of wine. I assumed they both needed to get a buzz on before they left. It was going to help them with all the imperfections they came across as they walked home: "that tree is leaning at a 75° angle and not at the correct 90°, this sidewalk has too many cracks in it, the wind is blowing, that car did not come to a complete stop at the stop sign..."

Complainers get on my nerves. I'm more than happy to fix something that is wrong, but please don't make everything out to be such a big fucking deal. It's one meal. If we live to be 75 years old and have three meals a day, we will have a total of 82,125 before we die. Chill out. (But by "chill out" I don't mean "ice cold" because that would be an exaggeration.)

Do me a favor and click this so I can spread and multiply:




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Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Take this Tantrum and Shove It

Since so many people are up in arms about the behavior of certain children in restaurants, why not continue the conversation? Dr. Phil polled the audience on his show yesterday and asked the following question:



If your child was throwing a tantrum in a restaurant, what would you do?

  1. Calmly ask them to settle down, 4%
  2. Ignore the tantrum, 1%
  3. Take the child out of the restaurant, 72%
  4. Firmly tell your child to stop, 23%
According to the results of the delusional people in his audience that day, 72% of them said they would take their child out of the restaurant. I call complete and total bullshit. Anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant, eaten in a restaurant, driven by a restaurant or heard of a restaurant knows that not that many people actually do that. These people answered that poll in the way they think they should answer it. They know what they should do, but what they actually do is a different story. It's like when I am on the subway and have a nice cushy seat. When I see an old one-legged blind lady carrying ten bags of groceries I have two options:

What I should do- get up and gingerly escort the poor dear to my seat and then get off with her at her stop and make sure she hobbles home safely and then give her my cell phone number to call me if she ever needs a loaf of bread or someone to change a light bulb.

or

What I actually do- turn up the music on my iPod, close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

The people in that audience only said that to make themselves look better because the three-piece pantsuit they bought for the show for 20% off at Chico's wasn't enough to disguise their ugly child-rearing habits. There is no way that many people do that when their kids make a scene in a restaurant. What usually happens is a lot of empty threats that the kid knows will never happen. "Billy, if you don't stop throwing bread at the waiter right this second, I am going to take away your (insert name of popular toy here) and you will not get any dessert and when we get home I will hit your behind with a whoopin' stick and then, um...I will..uh, lemme see, I will...what was I saying? Oh never mind, you go right ahead, sweetie and do what ever it was you were doing. I'm a lazy parent and don't give a shit about anyone but myself.
I want another bite of fried chicken." It's true and we all know it.

And let's discuss the 1% who thought it was okay to ignore the situation. What in the fuckity fuck kind of solution is that? It was edited out of the show, but I told Dr. Phil what I felt about that 1%. "Excuse me, Dr. Phil. There are about 200 people in this audience so that means there are at least two people in this room who think it's okay to let their kid act like that in a restaurant. I want to know who they are and hear an explanation." He ignored me just like those parents ignore their devil spawns, but it was a valid comment I made. I really would have liked to hear someone justify their reasoning behind that decision making process. I can hear it now. "Well, you see, Dr Phil, my child is very special and I like him to make his own decisions about his behavior. You see, I think it will only help him mature faster and not be so dependent on his parents later in life. And also, I do not ever give him processed chicken because he is only worthy of steak that comes from cows that grazed in fields of four-leaf clovers in the light of the silvery moon. That's right, yes, uh huh." Bullshit.

And let me just add, that it is not the waiters job to go to another table and ask the kid to be quiet. As soon as I do that, I get the whole "Don't tell me how to raise my child" speech. I don't want that speech. I already know how to raise children: you put a big pile of food in the bowl next to some water and leave some wee wee pads in the corner and call it a day, right? Or is that how to raise a dog? I always get those two confused.





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