A Comment on Comments

It's Presidents' Day and what better way to celebrate the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington than to have a Comment on Comments post? No, there is absolutely no connection to the two, but I care about making a connection about as much as I care about how your burger is cooked. Zip.

Back in the olden days of The Bitchy Waiter, I wrote a post called "What is That Smell??" It was all the way back in December of 2008 and it was only the ninth blog post I had ever written. I was still young and naive and working at VYNL with Bill, Lauren and Kate; the good ol' days when drinking on the job was the norm and we all hated our customers. (News flash: the good ol' days sound very much like the right now days...) The blog post was about farting at the table of an annoying customer. Real mature, I know.

Someone named Anonymous left this comment on that post recently:

"I would call the manager over and let them know, that I know what is up. I know that you are farting and I am not paying for a meal where you are farting at my table. At this point I would say, the food was nasty, I couldn't eat it. I would vomit at the table if I have to. I would call the health department. I would even yell hair in my food. I would yell roach, rat, or whatever I had to do. No money no tip, you fart, your screwed...."

What I want to know is how will Anonymous prove that I had been releasing trouser trumpets? Is there some new invention being sold at Wal-Mart that can detect where exactly an anal salute is coming from. If I were to cut the cheese at your table, how would you know it was me and not that adorable little old lady at the booth next to you who just let out a beef slider that turned into a shart? Look, we all have to deal with flatulence, but sometimes a floating air biscuit has to come out and if I choose to let it out at your table, there is nothing you can do about it. And far as I know, it is not illegal to leave an invisible present at the table of an asshole.

So you would call the manager over and tell him that you know I blew some mud in your direction and that you refuse to pay? No one will care. If the manager asked me if I had cut a stinker on purpose, I would simply say "no," give out a silent rectal honk and be on my way. And then you could call the health department because they would love to hear a complaint about a waiter who may or may not have had a case of the colonic calliope at a restaurant. I'm sure they would rush over to investigate the situation.

"Code red, code red!! Get over to VYNL right away. We think someone let a stink bomb!"

At this point, you would realize that complaining about a possibly gassy server is is not enough to get a free meal and you would try other tactics to get out of paying; hair in the food, a roach, self-induced vomiting, etc. By now though, it would be too late. The manager would already be on to you and know that you are just trying to scam a free meal. You'd have to pay and you'd be pissed about it. You wouldn't leave a tip, but that would be fine. In exchange for the stiff, I would gather my co-workers and we would simultaneously let one rip and create the world-famous Hippopotamus Fart. Hip hip, Poot-ray! Hip hip poot-ray! Hip hip poot-ray! You're welcome.

Thank you for your comment. By the way, it's "you're screwed" and not "your screwed." You're welcome.




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