Dear Campers, First, let me apologize if you are not keen on being called "campers." Perhaps you would prefer to be called squatters or better yet "the bitches who sat at my prime booth all night long and drank coffee refills and didn't let me turn over my table so I can make some fucking money." Is that better? Okay, now that we have that cleared up, let's get to the business at hand. Move on! I get that you haven't seen each other in over ten years and that you have a lot to catch up on, what with one you of getting your nursing degree and falling in love with a doctor who isn't interested in you, but can you discuss that someplace else other than my station? Maybe a park bench, a bar, the mall or better yet one of your own fucking homes, because booth #3 is meant to be rotated throughout the night. I do not want to have some nursing rag and her best friend sitting there all night showing pictures to each other on their iPads. Yes, your Labradoodle is adorable, but get out.
You see, if it's just the two of you and you each order one Caesar salad (to share, with the dressing on the side and not too may croutons but extra cheese) and then you each get a roasted chicken breast entree and then two cups of coffee, that does not entitle you to stay there all night. Your check may be about $40 and you may leave me eight dollars but if you stay there all night, no one else is going to tip me off of that booth. I essentially lose money because you needed to talk about how much you mean to each other even though you let ten years slip by without so much as a Christmas card.
Yes, it is very interesting for me to hear about your six year old son who is reading at a fifth grade level, but every story you tell about that brat is another dollar out of my pocket. Three hours at one booth is as unacceptable as that Kate Gosselin hairdo you both had. And as for you, Nurse-in Love-With Doctor, he might be more interested in you if you could wash off that stench of desperation wafting off your Mom Jeans. On second thought, it might just be the Mom Jeans. Maybe Pajama Jeans will snare that doctor you love so much. Everyone knows doctors like women who wear Pajama Jeans, you dumb bitch. Duh.
The point is, I need to have multiple people sit at my tables in order for me to make money. Basically, you are leasing that table and after you finish your second cup of coffee ("with a little decaf in it, please"), your lease is up. You need to pay your check and go or start over with another appetizer. Got it? I could have had that four-top sit there who was celebrating a birthday and ordered two bottles of wines, four apps, four entrees and four desserts, but no. They went to another station because you wanted another cup of coffee to sip as you talked about how much fun it was to live in the dorms and cook Ramen Noodles in a hot pot.
Please keep this in mind the next time you are in a restaurant. You are not just tipping on the food total, but also on how much time you were there. I only make money if I serve a lot of people. Thanks for reading and I really loved the way one of you signed your credit card slip; dotting the eye with a heart is so precious.
Love,
The Bitchy Waiter
p.s. Nurse Rag, if you are doing Secret Santa at the hospital, you should totally buy the doctor a Snuggie even if you didn't draw his name. Everyone knows that the way to a doctor's heart is through a Snuggie, you dumb bitch. Duh.
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