Don't Be a Hater

I have noticed something lately about some of the comments that people leave. Surprisingly, some people seem to think that I complain a lot. They think that all I do is sit at home and type on this blog and bitch and whine about my job; that my only source of satisfaction is spewing out this hate and filth about the lousy people that I serve. They may be right. In fact, they are completely right. Maybe they failed to notice what the name of this blog is? What I don't understand is why they keep coming back to the blog to read my latest posting and then write another comment about how much they dislike the blog. It is called The Bitchy Waiter. The name of it alone should alert someone if it is something they want to read or not. Take for instance our dear friend "Bambi." (The name has been changed to protect the bitchiness.) She has posted a few comments making one believe that she doesn't enjoy The Bitchy Waiter. What is confusing to me then is why she even bothered to come back after the first read. Perhaps it is the fact that this blog is like a fine wine that gets better as it ages. Or maybe it's like a big bag of crack that is completely addictive. Or is it similar to a train wreck where you know you shouldn't want to look but you do anyway because it's so fucking intriguing? Regardless, I welcome all readers. I hope that even the ones who find it too rude or offensive or poorly written (fact, that) will understand that for me it's just a real kick in the pants to write. And if they don't like it, then they can go fuck themselves. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. Would you like fries or cole slaw?

Do waiters really spit in food?

Yes, Virginia, waiters really do spit in food. But you have to be a really bad little girl to have that happen to you, so most people are okay. I have been slinging hash for about 15 sad bitter years and I have seen it happen. I am not saying that I have ever done such a disgusting thing to a table because that is a little bit too far even for me-oh who the fuck am I kidding? I have done it twice. Once to this prick in Texas who I heard call me a fag to his buddies at the table so he got a big helpin' heapin' dose of Bitchy Waiter Spit in his free refill of Lemonade. I will reserve the other time I did it for another post. Sadly, spitting is not the worst thing I have seen. I worked at this restaurant once where that kind of thing happened a lot. If you ever ate at the Houlihan's in Times Square during the mid-90's I apologize. There was this waitress there who was dealing with the typical ignorant tourist fucks who are dumb enough to eat at tourist trap like Houlihan's. She was taking an order at a really loud obnoxious table and they were not listening to her. They were too excited about going to see Grease or Cats or some other stupid ass Broadway show that only tourists went to. She could not get their attention so someone at the table offered their assistance. He yelled out to his friends, "Hey let this girl do her job since it's probably the only thing she'll ever be good at!" I dunno why someone would say that about someone right before their food would be handled by that same someone, but he did. And he paid. When it came time for the food to come out, we all congregated in the kitchen to see what she was going to do. I will never forget it. First off, she took their plate of ribs and placed it on the floor. Then she stepped on it. Uh huh. They ate her dirty ass shoe germs. The guy with the burger got some very special fries. She took a handful of them and rubbed them all over the wall of the kitchen before putting them back on the plate and that wall was fucking disgusting. This was Times Square Houlihan's people, where we didn't clean and the rats got more shifts than we did. For their soup, someone else had a brilliant idea. They took the soup spoon and licked all over it and then put it on the plate. The waitress who licked all over it was really sick and didn't want to be there so she was in a shitty mood anyway and this was a good "fuck you" to the table and to our manager who made her come in to work. The last diner just got a good fashioned loogie stirred into her Oriental Stir Fry and she served it with a smile. That was good times, people. Good times. You wanna be nice to your server. If you want to be mean, do it after you eat. Never before. Unless you are stupid, in which case be prepared. Farting at your table is not the worst thing that can happen.
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Read the menu, asswipe

Sometimes people think that when they come into the restaurant they are in their own kitchen and I am their personal chef for the day. No bitch, that is not how it works. We have this thing called a menu. M-E-N-U. It is this really great idea that someone came up with that tells you what we have to offer. You should read it. Someone was paid to create it and make it and print it. And then that girl at the front who showed you to your table gave you one for you to look at it. It is not for your devil spawn children to draw in or for you to use to flag me down. It is for you to choose what you want to eat. Some ass came in the other day and threw himself into a booth without being seated. Then he complained the table was sticky with syrup. (He HOPES it was syrup.) So he didn't have a menu and he ordered a chicken parmesan. Seriously? Does this look Bella Italia or The Olive Garden? No, ass, we are a diner. Burgers, salads, meatloaf. I ain't got no fucking eggplant rollatini so don't ask for that shit either. So I told him we don't have it. "What, you out of that today?" I suggested that he order two fried eggs with hash browns and toast because that is what we do. Or maybe a burger with a side of pubic hair because that is what he was about to get. This other douche bag came in last week and started ordering all this ala carte crap without looking at the menu. He ordered two eggs just like his friends. Fine. That comes with hash browns and toast. Then he says he wants French Toast too. Okay, we have that. And then he wants sausage. And coffee. And orange juice. It all came out, he ate it and then got his bill and had a fucking pissy bitch fit. He wants to know how three orders of eggs can cost more than twenty dollars. I told him it was simple mathematics. One order is $6.95 and when you multiply that by three it comes out to more than twenty dollars. See? It's easy, douche! He thought there was a better way I could have rung up his food so he did not have to pay for everything. I took him a menu. MENU! I showed him each thing he ordered. I asked him, "Is that what you had? Did it come to your table? Did you eat it all?" He answered yes to all these things. Then here is your bill. End of story. Read the fucking menu people and make both our lives a little easier, but I will still want to drop pubes in your burger, just so you know.
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