tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068676843543366992024-03-19T05:20:00.841-04:00the bitchy waiterfor those in the food service industry<center>
(now bookmark this page or follow this blog)</center>The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.comBlogger954125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-34487741568325403832013-04-03T15:11:00.004-04:002013-04-03T15:11:45.691-04:00I Have Moved <br />
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN62Dq2Oa9alEb94BZ0yk9igG6K8aM2QosJijQXllSeMRWEZlN062rGCWKY5oBjEv85nl3nOOJW5XEx4jJ0u7aGZOJulCgOw7BSvc1JIuYyBVB3z20_PhHEPmO_d2BKa7ltRqrrj_nKiiS/s1600/moved.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN62Dq2Oa9alEb94BZ0yk9igG6K8aM2QosJijQXllSeMRWEZlN062rGCWKY5oBjEv85nl3nOOJW5XEx4jJ0u7aGZOJulCgOw7BSvc1JIuYyBVB3z20_PhHEPmO_d2BKa7ltRqrrj_nKiiS/s400/moved.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div>
<b> <i> </i></b><br />
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<b><i>I have moved From now on, all new posts will be at The Bitchy Waiter at the new address. Please change your bookmarks and please also get me a vodka gimlet.</i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://thebitchywaiter.com/" target="_blank">Click here for the address. </a></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i>Thanks.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>-BW</i></b></div>
The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com516tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-4125162078875108062013-04-02T12:01:00.001-04:002013-04-02T12:02:22.008-04:00A Comment on Comments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0Kfk3qje5_d-6MUeT1_ehpgkpWSBFBeybwFYPSX3aXR24XkuBuZW_j-z85mXalMXybHK0_R5vX7mRBrmDsM-iLrPtT4MuTkV4D82fkVX3NqwaD5wVSgAJQ_IiMk3MMC4vAkCbbgWiwMp/s1600/comment+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0Kfk3qje5_d-6MUeT1_ehpgkpWSBFBeybwFYPSX3aXR24XkuBuZW_j-z85mXalMXybHK0_R5vX7mRBrmDsM-iLrPtT4MuTkV4D82fkVX3NqwaD5wVSgAJQ_IiMk3MMC4vAkCbbgWiwMp/s320/comment+card.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
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You know I love an opportunity to reach out to the readers and respond to comments. It fills my heart with pride to know that people take time out of their busy day of surfing Facebook and playing Words With Friends just to type out a comment to little ol' me. Last week someone let a comment slip out of their ass like a greasy Crisco fart. It plopped onto my computer screen and slid down leaving a trail of oil and bitterness. When I posted the photo below onto the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page, someone named Jarret had a thought. </div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">"Weren't
you a kid once? Did you not need help wiping your ass when you were
young? How quickly one forgets that youth is a right of passage that
everyone has to go through. It could be argued that, it's not the kids
that are behaving badly, but it is you who is so jaded and misguided
regarding children. Unless you were hatched from an egg or were born an
adult, everything you are complaining about was once done by you. Try
treating children and their parents with decency and respect and you
might find that kids aren't really that bad. Do unto others as you
would have done unto you..."</span></span></span></i></div>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5D_VKlMZ-1a7uwFQEC80KVC95XO1Ht5jrNgz52Ta4bD6G7PXhJNr0IzPmZvam8whqxwRCJegmiAYMTomH_Cnrzg5HJwapDXOUWAgTJKzsHuoCCUFeCpLZ1KcsYvXif06dZjeSK3R5Q-WL/s1600/552448_10151527684406684_474173317_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5D_VKlMZ-1a7uwFQEC80KVC95XO1Ht5jrNgz52Ta4bD6G7PXhJNr0IzPmZvam8whqxwRCJegmiAYMTomH_Cnrzg5HJwapDXOUWAgTJKzsHuoCCUFeCpLZ1KcsYvXif06dZjeSK3R5Q-WL/s320/552448_10151527684406684_474173317_n.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">The truth is Jarret, it's a fucking joke. That picture of the little girl in the waitress outfit is not actually in a diner. It's a fucking Halloween costume. I didn't kidnap a child and force her to a photo studio so I could take a picture of her and degrade her with a demeaning caption. I want to dissect your comment and make sure I understand it:</span></span></span></div>
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<ul>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><b><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Weren't
you a kid once? Did you not need help wiping your ass when you were
young?</span></span></span></i></b><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> Yes, I was a kid once but I can assure you I never once bothered people in a restaurant. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">The reason being that I was never <i>taken </i>to a restaurant as a child. You see, I grew up in an isolated cabin in the woods and my mother had a stroke so we didn't go anywhere. I created my own language based on my mom's fractured ability to speak and all was fine and good until I was discovered by Dr. Jerry Lovell who looked a lot like Liam Neeson. And what the hell does this photo have to do with ass wiping?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><b>How quickly one forgets that youth is a right of passage that
everyone has to go through.</b> </span></span></span></i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">You say that as if youth has already passed me by. You're wrong, Jarret. Wrong. Youth is subjective. Fifteen years ago, I thought 45 was old. Now, I think it's pretty young. The right of passage never ends. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><b><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">It could be argued that, it's not the kids
that are behaving badly, but it is you who is so jaded and misguided
regarding children.</span></span></span></i></b> Me jaded? Seeing that the name of this blog describes me as bitchy, you obviously have a keen sense of stating the obvious. Touché.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><b>Unless you were hatched from an egg or were born an
adult, everything you are complaining about was once done by you</b>.</span></span></span></i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> I was not hatched from an egg and that is very rude of you to even imply that my mother was a bird, reptile or duck-billed platypus. Neither was I born an adult, just a very mature child. And what exactly am I complaining about in the photo? All I want is for the little girl to go get me a vodka gimlet. Is that too much to ask?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><b>Try
treating children and their parents with decency and respect and you
might find that kids aren't really that bad</b>.</span></span></span></i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> I always treat children and their parents with respect. Just this morning in the elevator of our building, I saw the little girl who lives across the hall for me. She used to have very beautiful long hair but today I noticed it had all been hacked off into a very handsome look. I complimented the little girl and told her that she looks way prettier now and that she should go sign up for the girl's softball league and golf team. I also told her parents that their daughter is going to make some lesbian very happy someday.<b> </b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><b>Do unto others as you
would have done unto you... </b> </span></span></span></i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span class="text Prov-21-23" id="en-KJV-17008">Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.</span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[42].[1][2][1]{comment10151527684406684_9562119}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> Thank you for your comment, Jarret. I do appreciate it. And thank you for coming to a page that is all about bitching and then getting upset that people bitch. There may be a better Facebook page out there for you to enjoy. Might I suggest one about puppies or rainbows? Those are always so great. Except sometimes puppies need help wiping their asses and every once in a while a rainbow comes from an egg. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com221tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-32586992333700797462013-04-01T12:24:00.000-04:002013-04-01T13:00:27.989-04:00Take This Job (and a Fish Stick) and Shove It<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY05eNm5U8tjkUUmJZIASwm4VkIADZkYYZVkWihFE1FcUxFUwV6OIVyC488zsKN8UXjr0SaW5BsQvCSbzsEszsubZu0vNf2qNsQVruHP0pAsruWRGMyH1tNjDCqoZ6-QLk_8-B3ROAS2fn/s1600/mrs-pauls-fish-sticks-44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY05eNm5U8tjkUUmJZIASwm4VkIADZkYYZVkWihFE1FcUxFUwV6OIVyC488zsKN8UXjr0SaW5BsQvCSbzsEszsubZu0vNf2qNsQVruHP0pAsruWRGMyH1tNjDCqoZ6-QLk_8-B3ROAS2fn/s400/mrs-pauls-fish-sticks-44.jpg" width="400" /></a>You know how people sometimes keep their feelings bottled up inside them and they never fully release all the frustration they feel? I do that. Believe it or not, this blog is just the tip of the bitchy iceberg of angst and fury that live deep within my hard-crusted soul. More often than not, I swallow emotions and assume that they will fade away into nothingness. It's a good plan, but it doesn't always work out. Every once in a while, all the pressure builds up and spews out like the volcano in episode #76 of <i>The Brady Bunch</i>, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4KMk6T5mQU" target="_blank">Today I am a Freshman,</a>" when Peter makes a volcano for a science project and it erupts all over Marcia and an her friends. I erupted at work.<br />
<br />
I have three jobs. Correction: I <i>had</i> three jobs. Thanks to my brutally honest opinion about the owner of the restaurant, I now only have two jobs. Some may say I quit while others will say I was fired. Suffice it to say, I no longer work there and people will be talking about my exit for years to come. <br />
<br />
I walk into work and the first thing I notice is that all of the tables have been cleared and everything is in a pile on the bar; table tents, candles, comment cards, menus. There are no chairs at any of the tables as they have all been dragged to the back of the room. The tables are covered with dust and the floor has trash all over it.<br />
<br />
"What the fuck happened here," I ask the hostess?<br />
<br />
"Oh, Mr. Vigoda let his son shoot a music video here today, so it's a little bit trashed."<br />
<br />
"A<i> little</i> bit trashed? It looks like the aftermath of a poor white trash Tupperware bukkake orgy."<br />
<br />
"What does that mean?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"Are they coming back in to clean it up?"<br />
<br />
"No, they're all gone. Mr. Vigoda told me to tell you thank you and that he owes you."<br />
<br />
The only thing he owes me is the last three years of my life and I may be about to take his in exchange for it. I pull out my cell phone and scroll to my contacts and hit the one called ASSHOLE. <br />
<br />
"This is Abe Vigoda, go." I hear the voice say on the other line.<br />
<br />
"Umm, what happened to the restaurant, Abe?"<br />
<br />
"Oh! Hey, BW. Yeah, sorry about that. My son's band, Fish Stick, shot their music video there today. Pretty cool, right?" he says with enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
"Well, I guess it's cool for them, but the place is a wreck. Am I really the one who has to put this all back together? Ain't nobody got time for that."<br />
<br />
Mr. Vigoda laughs. "I love that Sweet Brown video. Hey, maybe Fish Stick's video can go viral like that one did!"<br />
<br />
The man is completely unaware how unfair it is that his no-talent son has left a huge mess for me to clean up as I make $5.00 an hour. I have hated Mr. Vigoda for too long and before my mouth knows what it is doing, I say:<br />
<br />
"This is total bullshit. I don't work here so I clean up your fucking messes. I work for tips so unless Fish Stick is about to come back in here and leave me a huge fucking tip I am not cleaning this shit up. We open in an hour so if you want this place to be ready by then, I would suggest you get your ass back in here to do some opening side work because I quit. Go fuck yourself with a fishstick, asshole."<br />
<br />
I hang up and the hostess stares at me.<br />
<br />
"Did you really just tell Mr.Vigoda to go fuck himself with a fishstick?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I think I did. And I think I just quit too. Oh, fuck, what have I done?"<br />
<br />
My cell phone rings and I look down to see ASSHOLE flashing on my screen. I press the button to ignore it. Thirty seconds later, the phone at the host stand rings and the hostess picks it up.<br />
<br />
"Thank you for calling The Restaurant, this is Emily, how can I - Oh, hello, Mr. Vogoda. Ummmm, BW?" She looks at me and shrugs her shoulders. "Ummm, I think he's in the restroom."<br />
<br />
I grab the phone out of her hand and yell into into it, "Go fuck yourself with a fishstick!" and then slam the phone down.<br />
<br />
It is now definite that I have quit my job. Slowly, I walk over to the computer and punch out.<br />
<br />
"Bye, Emily. Tell everyone I'm really sorry but I had to go."<br />
<br />
The phone rings again and as I head to the door, I see Emily pick it up. I don't hear what she says because I have already let the door close behind me.<br />
<br />
I quit my job in the most epic of ways. Thankfully, I still have two other jobs where I can always pick up extra shifts. I will miss the people I worked with but I will not miss the job itself. And I will most certainly not miss Mr. Vigoda. For the rest of my life, I will always imagine him with a box of Mrs. Paul's fish sticks and a big crunchy frozen fish fillet hanging out of his ass.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<b><i><span style="font-size: small;">April Fool, bitches!</span> </i></b><br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com212tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-51980642584806389512013-03-28T12:34:00.000-04:002013-03-28T12:38:59.595-04:00No Reservations, Please<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpd4ftWJ_mAq_OUYG4i3AgDNGdonQk0OxlkMBYxPr8kppXDB-jWqvFtwaAfMCbhI-y4eDhgdz5JTnYWQpTuXhdw7oOxtjFSBMEvNh1gV_ENB4O95279d3hq-wbAchrf3fEoKRaV55GjmB/s1600/Blow-up_doll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpd4ftWJ_mAq_OUYG4i3AgDNGdonQk0OxlkMBYxPr8kppXDB-jWqvFtwaAfMCbhI-y4eDhgdz5JTnYWQpTuXhdw7oOxtjFSBMEvNh1gV_ENB4O95279d3hq-wbAchrf3fEoKRaV55GjmB/s400/Blow-up_doll.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
At the restaurant I work in, we do not take reservations. No matter how whiny and petulant a guest will get, we still won't do it.<br />
<br />
"But please? It's gonna be my mom's 70th birthday and there will be fifteen of us. We just don't wanna have to wait when we get there. We'll be there at 7:30, I promise. Please? Pretty please??"<br />
<br />
"Nope."<br />
<br />
"I don't understand why not. Don't you want my business?"<br />
<br />
This conversation happens at least once a week. <br />
<br />
The truth is, Ms. Whiny, we don't need your reservation because we can fill those tables without having to keep them empty for an hour before you say you will get there, that's why. So put your name on the list and have a seat at the bar and we'll call you when your fucking table is ready. Oh, and happy birthday to your mom.<br />
<br />
Customers don't understand that a reservation for fifteen can kill a whole evening if the restaurant is as small as mine. In order to keep those fifteen seats open for a 7:30 reservation, that means we can't seat them past 6:45, and that's pushing it. At 7:30, four people will show up and then at 7:35 three more and by 7:45 maybe ten people will be there. They will spread out in the space that we saved for fifteen people and than at 8:00 they will finally tell us, 'I guess nobody else is coming so we'll go ahead and order now." The problem is that there are now ten people sitting at a table for fifteen and those five seats are going to be useless for the rest of the evening. They will leave at 10:00 and we will never have gotten to turn that table over even once. I'd rather see seven deuces that I can turn and burn and reset the tables and do it again. <br />
<br />
A restaurant in Beverly Hills called Red Medicine takes reservations but if you skip out on it, get ready for a little bit of Twitter shame. According to <b><a href="http://www.nbclosangeles.com/news/local/Twitter-Shame-Restaurant-Reservations-Red-Medicine-200232011.html" target="_blank">NBC Los Angeles,</a></b> the manager has taken to <a href="https://twitter.com/redmedicinela" target="_blank">Tweeting</a> out the names of people who make reservations and then don't show up.<br />
<br />
When someone named Kyle Anderson bailed on his res, they tweeted, "I hope you enjoyed your gf's bday and the flowers that
you didn't bring when you no-showed for your 8:15 res. Thanks." Of course, Kyle Anderson probably never saw this Tweet and if he did he probably didn't care because he was too busy trying to decide if his girlfriend would rather have red carnations for her birthday or pink roses with tons of baby's breath. Truth be told, most blow up dolls would rather go with the carnations since the thorns on roses can be dangerous for them. Keep that in mind, Kyle.<br />
<br />
Of course there are plenty of people who think what the restaurant is doing is wrong. I, however, freakin' love it. When I worked at the Marriott, I hated when people made reservations and then didn't show up. I would always call and leave some passive aggressive message on their answering machine.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Hello, Mr. Anderson. This is BW calling from the Brooklyn Marriott about your 1:00 brunch reservation. It's 1:15 now and I just wanted you to let you know that your table is ready and I am waiting for you. I hope you're on your way and that everything is alright. If you've decided to not come, a phone call would have been nice." </i></blockquote>
<br />
My manager out a stop to that. They're just lucky I didn't have this blog back then.<br />
<br />
But why shouldn't we shame these people who skip out on a reservation? If we make an appointment for a massage or with a doctor and we don't show up, we are hit with a cancellation fee. It's not like Red Medicine is charging them money when they don't show up, it's just doing a little bit of good old-fashioned public shaming. Think back to Nathaniel Hawthorne's' opus, <i>The Scarlett Letter.</i> When Hester had to wear that big red "A' on her dress to announce to the village that she was a big ol' whore, I bet it taught her a lesson, don't you think? Maybe Kyle Anderson will think twice the next time he's gonna blow off a dinner reservation. And speaking of "blowing off," I hope he had a wonderful night with his girlfriend.<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com135tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-48751129001701240432013-03-27T15:00:00.000-04:002013-03-27T15:20:58.544-04:00Equality for All or Quinoa Equals Mashed Potatoes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today is the second day that the Supreme Court is hearing arguments about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/California_Proposition_8" target="_blank">Proposition 8</a> and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DOMA" target="_blank">Defense of Marriage Act</a>. I won't go into the specifics of what each of those means because most people have a pretty good idea already: same-sex marriage. If you are on Facebook, you can't help but notice how many people have changed their profile photos to some version of the equality sign so I had to get in on the act and make one that I feel represents my food service industry history. <br />
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On April 2nd, I will celebrate my one year wedding anniversary with my husband. One year of marriage may not seem all that impressive, but April 2nd will actually be our 22nd anniversary of being together. We spent the first twenty years or so waiting for people to realize that our relationship does not affect anyone else's and thankfully, New York State came to that realization in July of 2011. I think a lot of people don't fully understand how same-sex marriage is absolutely non-threatening to the rest of the world. Maybe if I put it it in terms of food, it will make more sense.<br />
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If you go into a restaurant and look at the menu and see something that you would never order you simply order something else. If you don't want to eat quinoa you order the mashed potatoes instead. What you don't do is scour the restaurant to see if anyone else ordered quinoa so you can tell them how much you hate it. You don't make a cardboard sign that says "God Hates Quinoa" and picket their table. If they order quinoa and it sits on their plate and their plate alone, how will that affect your plate of mashed potatoes? I can't think of any way that it would. Therefore, you simply eat your mashed potatoes and they eat their quinoa and both of you enjoy your dinner. Same-sex marriage is the same thing.<br />
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If you are a raw vegan and only eat cold zucchini lasagna with almond cheese that is your decision. Personally, I don't understand it but that does not mean that I think all raw vegan restaurants that serve cold zucchini lasagna with almond cheese should be shut down. I just make a conscious decision to eat elsewhere. Just like that person is not going to go to my favorite bar-b-q place and order brisket with mac and cheese. Vegans and carnivores can live happily amongst each other and they just agree to disagree. Same-sex marriage is the same thing.<br />
<br />
Maybe someone thinks same-sex marriage is wrong because it's unfamiliar to them and therefore scary. It's like me and seafood. I didn't grow up eating seafood of any kind and as an adult, I still hated it. What I eventually realized was that when I said "I hate seafood," what I meant to say was "I am <i>unfamiliar</i> with seafood." Gradually, I tried it and now there are a few items that I like. No, I don't expect straight people to dabble in the world of homosexuality to see if they like it. I just expect people to open up their horizons a little bit and be willing to see if it's something they can tolerate instead of hate. When I first tried shrimp, I tolerated it and now I like it. Is it my favorite thing to eat? No, but I don't shudder at the thought of a plate of shrimp as I did when I refused to consider the possibility that shrimp can be very good and it is not threatening. Same-sex marriage is the same thing. <br />
<br />
Lots of people are against same-sex marriage because they think the Bible says it's wrong. I know that Leviticus 18:22 says, "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it <i>is</i> abomination." But what about<span class="text Lev-11-8" id="en-ESV-3006"> Leviticus 11:7-8? It says, "</span>And the pig, because it parts the hoof and is cloven-footed but
does not chew the cud, is unclean to you. You shall not eat any of their
flesh, and you shall not touch their carcasses; they are unclean to
you" Have another bacon cheeseburger and consider that maybe every line of the Bible isn't exactly correct.<br />
<br />
I know that in time, this country will recognize same sex marriage as a right. It's happening and honestly, it's happening faster than I ever expected it to. Forty years from now, it will seem silly that there was a time when so many people were against it. I hope that the Supreme Court makes the right decision. Marriage is something that everyone should have a right to; gay, straight or even that drunk couple who met at a casino in Vegas and got married by an Elvis impersonator two hours later. Seriously, they have a right to get married and people who have been together for thirty years and raised children together don't? It makes no sense.<br />
<br />
Remember this: same-sex marriage is just like letting someone at the next table order quinoa when you order mashed potatoes. A starch is a starch and a marriage is a marriage. They're just different.<br />
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I hope you will share this post. It would mean a lot to me if you did and you can consider it an anniversary gift to me and my husband, Mark.<br />
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<br />
"Hello, ladies. Can I get you anything to drink tonight? A Pear Cosmo? Or maybe a glass of wine?" <br />
<br />
'We were thinking of ordering a bottle of wine, actually but we don't usually order a whole bottle. What do you suggest?" one of them asks.<br />
<br />
I cringe at the question because I am the first to admit my lack of wine knowledge. In the types of restaurants I usually punch in at, bottles of wine are not a top seller. Seven years of serving breakfast and lunch didn't really require me to know a lot about bottles of wine.<br />
<br />
"Well, would you like red or white?" I ask.<br />
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"What's the difference?"<br />
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I do a mental face palm and realize that even though I grew up drinking Boone's Berry Farm and California Coolers, I am practically a sommelier compared to these girls.<br />
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"Red is served room temperature and white is served cold," seems to satisfy their quest for wine knowledge.<br />
<br />
The ladies hem and haw trying to decide what to get when they finally ask me the most important question that anyone who is ordering a bottle of wine can ask:<br />
<br />
"Can we get a taste of the White Zinfandel?" <br />
<br />
A taste of the White Zinfandel? What are you tasting it for, to see if it's tastes like ass? I can tell you right now, it does. It will taste like Mr. Kool-Aid took a piss inside a wine bottle and then shit out a couple of Splendas. It will taste like a raspberry Fla-vor-Ice that was in the freezer too long and got a mean case of freezer burn and then sat outside in the sun for two days. It will taste as bad as your make-up looks.<br />
<br />
"Absolutely, I will be right back with a taste of our finest White Zinfandel."<br />
<br />
I return moments later with two glasses. It would have been sooner, but the bartender had to dig deep into the reach-in to find a bottle of our finest White Zinfandel. It was behind the whipped cream, the huge jar of olives and an old container of yogurt that the hostess had left in there about two weeks earlier.<br />
<br />
I place the glasses before the ladies who each pick one up and sniff inside giving their olfactory senses a a workout trying to decipher between a "subtle floral aroma" and "nasty ass whiff of Hawaiian Fruit Punch."<br />
<br />
They swirl the wine around in their glasses and hold it up to the light to see if it "has legs." Finally, they let it wash over their taste buds and I await their reaction.<br />
<br />
"Hmmm, I think I like it, what do you think?" one says to the other.<br />
<br />
"It tastes really good. That is a very nice bottle of wine. I say we go for it."<br />
<br />
They do indeed "go for it" spending a whopping $28 for a bottle of our finest White Zinfandel. They pair it with a hummus plate and spinach artichoke dip, because these bitches are fancy like that.<br />
<br />
When they are done, the bottle is empty and they tell me how much they loved the wine. I can't really judge because I have been known to drink wine out of a box, champagne out of a can and a margarita out of a plastic to-go cup on the Q32 bus. What I can do though is write a blog post about the two ladies at Booth 3 who think that a bottle of White Zinfandel is a sophisticated night on the town.<br />
<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com215tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-39074475201331945972013-03-21T14:50:00.000-04:002013-03-21T14:52:45.715-04:00Dishrack Spooge Facial<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHzPoSazQnT5RBSbo_WePKpj4STTyrZfeoRGYl8XMyWHAYA4chmTZIkI9VlLa-_E7PDIeM5gOB2xSG5FscCMvmyLQR80bwsTSqwCupsbf8maU0dQGxMDB7aw18e8QUQeZo-1yGqDdiAs1P/s1600/IMAG1057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHzPoSazQnT5RBSbo_WePKpj4STTyrZfeoRGYl8XMyWHAYA4chmTZIkI9VlLa-_E7PDIeM5gOB2xSG5FscCMvmyLQR80bwsTSqwCupsbf8maU0dQGxMDB7aw18e8QUQeZo-1yGqDdiAs1P/s400/IMAG1057.jpg" width="225" /></a>I am disgusting. My face is disgusting. I feel disgusted because my face is covered with liquid gunk that spewed forth from the dish rack when I threw a rack of glasses on it. Anyone who has spent time in a restaurant knows what I speak of. I will let the gunk speak for itself:<br />
<br />
<i>Hey, ladies and germs, I'm a puddle of water and I am sitting on the dish rack waiting to jump into your mouths. Well, I'm not just water. I'm mostly water but I also have some wine and soda mixed in with me and a little bit of orange juice and whatever else people have been drinking tonight. Plus saliva. Lots and lots of saliva and backwash. When waiters dump the glasses into the rack that sits on the dish rack, whatever is left in the glass drips down and then rests on the ledge and it turns into me. You can call me Liquid Gunk. I just sit here until someone takes the rack down to put it in the dishwasher and then when they put the rack back where it was, if they don't do it slowly, it's going to make me splash all into their faces. It's my favorite thing! And tonight, I got to jump all onto the Bitchy Waiter's face. I just barely missed his mouth.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I have been dying to spooge all over his asshole face forever because he never scrapes the plates clean and he doesn't seem to know how to separate silver. He's always in the dish room eating bread or french fries or checking his Facebook. I have been waiting for this moment for a couple of years. I thought it would never come because he's such a lazy bitch that he hardly ever moves the racks of glasses. "That's Juan's job or Diego's or whoever the fuck," he says. Well tonight, he needed some glasses and so he pulled the full rack of dirty ones off the the ledge and put them in the dishwasher. Man, I was excited! I watched him pick up an empty rack and lift it over his head to put it in its place. If he was thinking, he would have done it slowly giving me no reason to splash, but I figured since he never does it, he wouldn't even think about it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He threw the empty rack onto the shelf and it landed in me so violently that I threw myself at his face with all my might. I aimed right for his mouth, his eyes and his precious hair that he always bragging about and I spooged all over him. I gave that bitch a Liquid Gunk facial. I didn't get into his mouth which is just as well since it was probably full of Chardonnay anyway, but I did get into his hair.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Goddammit!" he yelled. "Fucking nasty ass water just got all the fuck over me. Fuck!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I looked over at Michael the dishwasher who was laughing. I dunno why Bitchy Waiter thinks his name is Miguel. </i><br />
<br />
<i>"You have to put the rack up slower next time," Michael said.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Yeah, whatever," said Bitchy Waiter. "This is why I don't do this shit!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Michael and I both know that the reason he doesn't do the racks of glasses has more to do with his laziness than getting Liquid Gunk in his hair.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"I'm going to the restroom to wash this shit off my face. When that rack of glasses comes out of the dishwasher, send 'em out, comprende? Gracias, Miguel. God, my face is all sticky. I feel like a ten-dollar hooker at an after-hours orgy. Fuck!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So yeah, I got him. I feel proud. And maybe he will learn now that when he puts the empty glass rack back on the ledge, he has to do it slowly because if he doesn't I will come all over his face just like I would with a ten-dollar hooker at an after-hours orgy. He deserved it. He's a bitch.</i><br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-8836168182841858102013-03-20T13:30:00.000-04:002013-03-20T13:38:49.868-04:00A Comment on Comments<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OLHLsQPgr54aPImpoYbzwI2_c01CqHQ1DeoadOHRo8wLisz8-wRR5QlJzpwR5sx67PRDlNrYefFopVHllWRSbPw-tTVejM7XFm-lqMrjwbwX7_Y_rIx1QTyMp3emp3-kcJuNQSzzHH59/s1600/comment+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OLHLsQPgr54aPImpoYbzwI2_c01CqHQ1DeoadOHRo8wLisz8-wRR5QlJzpwR5sx67PRDlNrYefFopVHllWRSbPw-tTVejM7XFm-lqMrjwbwX7_Y_rIx1QTyMp3emp3-kcJuNQSzzHH59/s320/comment+card.jpg" width="247" /></a>A few days ago, I posted a<a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151508144376684&set=a.161668256683.119337.112430746683&type=1&theater" target="_blank"> <b>picture on the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page</b></a> that was making fun of those customers who tell us they are ready to order and then make us stand there for five minutes while they try to make a decision. How many times has a customer insisted they they know what they want and then you have to watch the bitch dig through her purse to find her glasses so she can lay her eyeballs on the menu for the first time ever?<br />
<br />
"I can see you're not quite ready to order so I'll give you some more time, ma'am."<br />
<br />
"No, no no! I'm ready, I'm ready! Ummm, lemme see. Do you have salad? Wait, I dunno if I want a salad or not, I just had a salad two weeks ago. Do you have soup? Or what about onion rings? Hey, do you have one of those Awesome Blossom thingys? I'm trying to get in a vegetable serving."<br />
<br />
"No, ma'am, we don't have Awesome Blossom Thingys. I'll let you look at the menu a little bit more and come back in three minutes."<br />
<br />
"No, no, no! I'm ready, I'm ready. Hmmmmm." <br />
<br />
If you're not ready, you're not ready. You don't have to make us watch you go through every single possibility. Just say you're not ready and we will come back in a few minutes, I promise.<br />
<br />
One person took offense to the photo. Why she is on a Facebook page called Bitchy Waiter, we will never know. If someone comes to this blog or the Facebook page and thinks something that they see is bitchy, then I feel I have accomplished what I set out to do. The woman who didn't like the photo is named Lacy and here is what she had to say:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7FVrGYXw4yclGiKSKkYrfUDbXnNQ_ycAJk8jW4GjNSB3YVjORlT5nPVodQtV_cD0MPuhCm07tiElG6sjfbfCEs3grsfkagieVPIQM9H7vJjlnEjDq66Nn-i1Oj8PtsSZ-OagfrI5rBDW/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-03-20+at+11.11.43+AM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="95" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7FVrGYXw4yclGiKSKkYrfUDbXnNQ_ycAJk8jW4GjNSB3YVjORlT5nPVodQtV_cD0MPuhCm07tiElG6sjfbfCEs3grsfkagieVPIQM9H7vJjlnEjDq66Nn-i1Oj8PtsSZ-OagfrI5rBDW/s400/Screen+shot+2013-03-20+at+11.11.43+AM.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">If
you were a GOOD waiter you could help them make a decision.... God
forbid someone earn their tip. I'm so sick of rude servers. When you're a
server you need to remember even if a customer is getting on your
nerves, they're paying you! jeez!!</span></span></span></i></blockquote>
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Lacy, Lacy, Lacy, please get back into your suburban home, continue watching all the Dr. Oz episodes you have on DVR and shut the fuck up. If you were a GOOD <i>customer</i>, you would understand that you're not the only fucking person in my section and I don't have time to watch you try to decipher the difference between a roasted chicken breast and a grilled pork chop. We all know you're going to order a cheeseburger with fries anyway. Earning my tip does not mean that I have to spoon feed you suggestions of what to order. I don't know what you want. What if I suggest my favorite dish only to learn that you have a peanut allergy and you can't eat the Chinese Chicken Salad? What then, Lacy? Did I earn my tip even though you didn't take my suggestion? I will offer you my opinion if you ask what is better between two choices, but I will not suggest food if you haven't even bothered to look at the menu yet. Giving a customer more time to decide what they want to order is not rude. In fact, I find it to be the opposite of rude. Rude would be me saying, "Look, you said you were ready to order so what the fuck do you want, bitch??" </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">We get it, Lacy. You're one of those people who likes to remind us that the customer is always right and that if it wasn't for you, we servers wouldn't have jobs. Well, that's a two-way street, Lacy. I can just as easily say to you that you need <i>us</i> because if it wasn't for the waiter, all you would have for lunch is another Slim-Fast shake and a bag of Doritios. We servers do remember that even if a customer is getting our nerves they are paying us. However, do <i>you</i> keep in mind that even if a waiter is getting on your nerves, he's still the one that is allowing you to have that love affair with all things deep-fried? Jeez!!</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[171].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479314}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Lacy went on to say:</span></span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[11].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479387}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[11].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479387}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[11].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479387}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">I
get your frustration, but as a patron, it's frustrating to see pages
and pictures like this online. So yeah, I get a
little annoyed to see that I'm paying people to go home and mock me on
Facebook.</span></span></span></i></blockquote>
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[11].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479387}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[11].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479387}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[11].[1][2][1]{comment10151508144376684_9479387}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Here is my advice to you, Lacy: stop looking at Bitchy Waiter! Cut me from your life and you can be certain that you will no longer see these horrific images from me. Simple, isn't it? Fare thee well, Lacy. Good luck dining out for I have reason to believe that waiters <i>do </i>find you annoying. Hell, I find you annoying as all fuck and I have never even waited on you.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-53193302485449571922013-03-14T13:04:00.001-04:002013-03-14T13:06:02.949-04:00The Newly Trained Waiter Who Is No Longer Bitchy But is Wonderfully Proficient<div class="ajy">
<img alt="" class="ajz" data-tooltip="Show details" id=":b2" role="button" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/images/cleardot.gif" tabindex="0" /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaav-ujsxRAA1C1t8l9T1vW_J3_D4y_xE6gPFwG8TEJXKCTJc-w_6kQ9ygJbAADq-pTM0qywKAdAtVlGypmXnVWxRXW8HPYDArpzdgKnihXSg-ghOyaQWIvvG46GZyASSA1-knXdcMbp8q/s1600/il_fullxfull.359029717_6bow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaav-ujsxRAA1C1t8l9T1vW_J3_D4y_xE6gPFwG8TEJXKCTJc-w_6kQ9ygJbAADq-pTM0qywKAdAtVlGypmXnVWxRXW8HPYDArpzdgKnihXSg-ghOyaQWIvvG46GZyASSA1-knXdcMbp8q/s400/il_fullxfull.359029717_6bow.jpg" width="357" /></a>I
did it. I went through training with a 22 year-old and survived even
though she was about the same age as the underwear I had one. You can <b><a href="http://www.thebitchywaiter.blogspot.com/2013/03/waiting-tables-since-beginning-of-time.html" target="_blank">click here</a> </b>to read yesterday's post about how I felt about having to go in to work early for some training. It turns
out that those 22 year-olds really know what they're talking about. I
mean, did you know that when taking a drink off a tray with one hand you
should move your other one that you are holding the tray with ever so slightly to maintain the balance of
the tray? Alert the news media! Tweet it! Tell the new Pope to send out another smoke signal because this is big news.<br />
<br />
Another piece of vital information that was passed on to me were these
words: "Never argue with a guest and give up the need to be right." This is a very simple rule for me to
follow because in order to argue with a guest, it would mean I have to
give a shit and I have absolutely no shit left to give. The last time I
gave a shit, it was in a paper bag that I set on fire on the porch of my
high school drama teacher, Mrs. Deheul. I don't argue with customers. I
smile at them and then walk to the side stand and tell one of my
co-workers how stupid the bitch at Table 27 is. I then jot down a few notes so that when I blog about the dumb bitch, I will have some every specific details. And what point is there to disagree with a customer? I gave up the need to be right the day I put on my first pair of slip-resistant shoes because there is nothing right about those ugly fucks. One time someone ordered the New York <i>Stripe</i> Steak. I could have
told them it was a <i>strip</i> steak, but that would have meant that I cared and I
didn't. "One New York <i>Stripe</i> Steak, comin' right up!" I said.<br />
<br />
Another point that came down from management was this pearl of wisdom that fell out of an oyster's ass" "Make all guests feel like they are the only one." Okay, sure. If that
means I can ignore the other people in my station, then I am all for it.
Say I am taking an order at Table 4 and as I am talking to them, the
asshole at Table 5 is snapping his fingers at me. I will just ignore
Table 5 because I want to give Table 4 the impression that they are the only ones in the restaurant.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Me:</b> Our special tonight is pan-seared cod that we will put extra sauce on to disguise the fact that the fish is past its peak and-</i><br />
<i><b>Table 5: </b>Hey, waiter!</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b> ...it is served with haricot verte and garlic mashed potatoes...</i><br />
<i><b>Table 5:</b> Hey, waiter! (snap, snap)</i><br />
<i><b>Table 4: </b>I think that man is trying to get your attention.</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b> What man?</i><br />
<i><b>Table 4:</b> The man at the next table who is waving his arms and snapping his fingers at you.</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b> I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. Are you having hallucinations, because you are the only customer I see here. I know this to be true, because management told me so. If you are seeing someone else in this restaurant you must be high on drugs and I will have to call the police. You're the only one here. You are the only one here.</i><br />
<br />
We also have a new rule that tells us we should check back to our table a minimum of six times to make sure they have everything they need. I think that's a great idea because everyone wants a waiter to be at their table every three minutes to hover around like a fruit fly on an old banana. Maybe we should just suspend ourselves on wires so we can drop down from the ceiling every thirty seconds to let them know we're watching them. If I was in a restaurant and my server asked me if I needed anything on six different occasions, I would want to punch him in his nut sack. I'd still leave him a 20% tip, but he'd also get a cunt punch.<br />
<br />
After training ended, I started my shift and gave the same level of service I have always given which is somewhere between adequate and half-assed. My tips were great so I felt that all was fine in my station. Did the additional "training" help me earn those tips? Who knows? All I know for certain is that somewhere in this world, a baby was born today that in twenty-two years is going to be training me on how to be a better waiter. I can't wait to meet that person.<br />
<br />
After the shift, the bartender created a special shift-drink just for me. It had Absolute Hibiscus vodka, pineapple juice and cranberry. He named it Hi-bitch-cus Martini. All in all, a good night at work.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>(Thanks, JC, for being such a good sport.)</i></div>
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-41431703044740409232013-03-13T14:13:00.002-04:002013-03-20T15:34:55.667-04:00Waiting Tables Since the Beginning of Time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierLkVQz8whMkExzc2BnRk7kQGv5BPDwmh3yoUpJbMAyxpH7HIEFCr0bE1qEYQsS7APxu5UCNgQ8yTkYS5ZuBkIO9jlIXWRh64lG_HuqdS_NA4yV6yNT5mxRGZxHaoB50Y7TsNu2PKH4iT/s1600/caveman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierLkVQz8whMkExzc2BnRk7kQGv5BPDwmh3yoUpJbMAyxpH7HIEFCr0bE1qEYQsS7APxu5UCNgQ8yTkYS5ZuBkIO9jlIXWRh64lG_HuqdS_NA4yV6yNT5mxRGZxHaoB50Y7TsNu2PKH4iT/s400/caveman.jpg" width="381" /></a>I don't know if you know this or not, but I have been waiting tables for a really long time. The first order I ever took, I remember that the man asked me for his brontosaurus burger to be rare and I was like, "Umm, no shit, it's always rare. We ain't discovered fire yet, asshole." Needless to say, I know my way around a tray. However, today at work I am going in early to be trained. Keep in mind I have been at this particular job for over three years so I was under the impression that I knew how to take an order and then carry a drink twenty feet and hand it to someone, but I guess I was wrong. Last week, a head server was determined and today I will go meet with that head server to learn important information about either serving drinks or giving head. Fingers crossed it's about oral sex, but I have my money on the other. The head server was born on August 26th, 1990. I looked at my diary from that day to see what I was doing when our head server made her first appearance on this earth. It said, "August 26th, 1990: work was a bitch and so was the hostess." I have been waiting tables literally since the day she was born. Here is a list of some things that are older than the person who who will be training me today:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>My Birkenstocks that I bought in 1987.</li>
<li>This diary entry from August 25th, 1990: "Up at 7:30 and to an audition. Home an napped for two hours, then to a call back. I did good. Then to work at Bennigan's which was okay. Now to sleep for a long time."</li>
<li>The white bistro apron that is in my Halloween costume box.</li>
<li>High definition television which was invented in 1989.</li>
<li>Hot Pockets.</li>
<li>Disposable cameras and disposable contacts.</li>
<li>Dopler radar.</li>
<li>When Harry Met Sally.</li>
<li>A Goldfish cracker that I saved during a game of Yahtzee that is still in the box with the date written on it. </li>
<li>Some of the stories I have written about on this blog <b><a href="http://thebitchywaiter.blogspot.com/2011/04/chocolate-fishy-goodness.html" target="_blank">like this one</a></b> that took place when the head server was two months old.</li>
</ol>
I will go and I will be trained. It has been said that you can't teach an old dog new tricks but I do not know if that holds true for waiters. My mind is open to new possibilities for this training. Maybe there is some new way to take orders that I have not learned of yet. Have I been wasting time using pen and paper when I could have been sending the orders telepathically? Have I been wasting steps carrying drinks when they could have been teleported directly to the table? I will learn all of these wonderful new techniques tonight at 5:00. I expect that tomorrow, my blog will have to change its name to "The Newly Trained Waiter Who Is No Longer Bitchy But is Wonderfully Proficient."<br />
<br />
Get ready, Head Server. Prepare to show me the way. Let me know what I have been doing wrong ever since you were still pooping in your pants and learning your ABC's. I am all yours. As soon as I take a Prozac which is also older than you by one full year.<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-44361995910680355942013-03-11T13:47:00.003-04:002013-03-11T13:48:37.908-04:00I Just. Want. Mayo.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpxUYQfoOvcFa55PbxFDXZbRNg7w5223nZrm5MFIWD-R1VSF7VPqY-Nio03coE5Rkx9osd89L-aoq0ykIdn4Wu_Ii1kS8ueD_3zO4tck-U0hXDd7eNJOxj-AHw6d5gWHg8w6IQsgy73yy/s1600/51Q7d9zzGuL._SL500_SS500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpxUYQfoOvcFa55PbxFDXZbRNg7w5223nZrm5MFIWD-R1VSF7VPqY-Nio03coE5Rkx9osd89L-aoq0ykIdn4Wu_Ii1kS8ueD_3zO4tck-U0hXDd7eNJOxj-AHw6d5gWHg8w6IQsgy73yy/s320/51Q7d9zzGuL._SL500_SS500_.jpg" width="320" /></a>We need to come with a name for that amount of time that passes from when you ask your server for mayonnaise for your burger and the time that it actually gets to your table. Those few minutes can be maddening.<br />
<br />
Here in New York it seems that most people use ketchup on their burger but for many of us who grew up in the south, the only natural thing to smear all over your red meat sandwich is dollop after dollop of rich creamy mayo. When I take an order for someone's burger I don't ask them if they want mayonnaise or mustard with it. I figure they will tell me if they want it and I will get it for them. If they tell me when they order their burger, I always go get it right away so that it is on the table when their food arrives. If they tell me when I serve the food, I get it immediately. It takes precedence over everything else because I don't want their burger to get cold while they wait for condiments. If someone else is waiting for a beverage or needs more bread or wants more water or needs me to snap a picture of them on their anniversary, it all waits until the other customer has their blessed mayo. I practically worship at the House of Mayo so I know how important it is. To be honest, I converted to the House of Mayo after growing up in the Chapel of Miracle Whip. <br />
<br />
Last night I took off my apron and was a customer for a change. Sitting at the bar, I order a burger but forget to to say in advance that mayo will be necessary. When the food comes out, I tell the bartender that I would like some.<br />
<br />
"Absolutely, right away," he says.<br />
<br />
Famous last words.<br />
<br />
I watch as he proceeds to make a couple of drinks and greet some other customers. I nibble on a french fry. I see the bartender take care of someone's check. I eat another fry. Finally, I see him tell a busser something and I expect that thirty seconds later he will emerge with my condiments but all I see is the busser come back with a rack of glasses. I try to catch the bartender's eye thinking that maybe he has forgotten my request, but he does not look my way. I continue to eat my french fries as my mouth begins to drool looking at my naked hamburger. <i>I want my fucking mayo and I want it now.</i> I see another server come to the bar and ask for change so now the bartender is counting money out of his drawer. He pours two more beers as my burger dies a slow death. I look at the ramekin of ketchup on my plate and decide that I can use it in a pinch. About five minutes have passed. Giving up all hope, I spread ketchup on my no-longer warm bun but this is when I see the bartender go to the kitchen and return with an industrial size jar of mayo that he opens. He disappears again and returns with two ramekins. As if in slow motion, I watch him spoon out the creamy deliciousness into the ramekins. I have already begun to eat my burger and one third of my fries are gone. When he finally brings my mayo, seven minutes have passed. Seven minutes? Unacceptable.<br />
<br />
Usually, I am on the side of the server, but this guy failed me. When customers need something for their meal that they need before they can start eating, it has to be done right away. If someones asks for fresh pepper, you do that immediately. Or at least as soon as you can find the goddamn pepper mill because some asshole co-worker never puts it back where it supposed to go and it's always hidden the fuck away. But you do it quickly. If a customers needs another fork because they dropped theirs onto the floor, you do it right away. Or at least as soon as you can get the goddamn dishwasher to run the silver because you're out of it and you've been asking for him to wash it for ten goddamn minutes. If they ask for more napkins you do it as soon as you can because not having a napkin isn't going to keep them from eating. Do you see the difference?<br />
<br />
Those seven minutes I waited for my mayo was a very trying time for me. They were hellish and miserable and I can never get those seven minutes back. C'mon servers, we have to step up our game if we expect decent tips. I still left 20% because I don't know how to do a tip less than that, but plenty of people would have taken that seven minutes as a reason to tip 10% or even less.<br />
<br />
So what can we call that time that passes whole waiting for mayo? I guess it all depends on the server. With the guy last night, I would call those seven minutes Mayonnaise: Missing in Action. Had it been in my station and someone asked me for mayo. the time that they would wait for it would be called Miracle: Whipped and Ready.<br />
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<br />
Bored, I head to the patio to see if it needs any attention. I pick up an errant lemon wedge and straw wrapper. I notice that a big spider has spun its web linking it from the fence to the giant Pelligrino patio umbrella. I toss a leaf into the web so I have something to watch as the spider races to the unwelcome item. Once he discerns it is not a fly or some other tasty morsel, he tosses the leaf to the ground. I throw another leaf into the web for an encore performance. It is now 10:45. <br />
<br />
The candles are still lit on the tables because we do not want to give the impression that we are closing early. Knowing that my manager does not like us to do certain things before the official closing time, I leave the chalkboard scrawled with the words "No Smoking" on the patio as well as the two tables that will need to be dragged inside. At 10:56, I untie my apron and walk over to my manager who is scrubbing the line and wiping down the stove. "Do you mind if I run downstairs and get the book?" I ask. The "book" is what I fill in every night with who worked and what we made in tips. <br />
<br />
The manager looks at the clock and then back at me. "Well, we're not closed yet."<br />
<br />
Is she for real? All I want to do is run to the office and get the book so I can get a two fucking minute head start in entering information. The date, the names, etc. "Okay. I'll wait<i> four minutes.</i>" I put my apron back on.<br />
<br />
Five minutes later, at 11:01, I blow out the candles, drag the tables inside from the patio and pour out the last water pitcher. My manger graciously brings "the book" upstairs for me. "Thank you," I say. She does not respond.<br />
<br />
At 11:06, I am finished. The tips have been logged, the goodbyes have been said and the apron has been removed for the night. And then she has something else to say to me. <br />
<br />
"I need people to be here who encourage customers to come in late, not people who are ready to leave."<br />
<br />
I am getting angry.<br />
<br />
"I don't want it to look like we are closed when we are still open," she continues. I guess me going downstairs to pick up a blue binder would somehow signify to the world that we are closed, while scrubbing the line and wiping down the stove in our open kitchen is screaming to customers "Come in, we're open!"<br />
<br />
"Did I do something wrong?" I ask. "Because all I did was ask to go get the book to start filling in names. We haven't had anyone in here for 45 minutes."<br />
<br />
"Well, it's just-"<br />
<br />
"Because I don't see how me getting the book four minutes before closing is any different than you breaking down the line," I continue.<br />
<br />
"Well, we need to be busier late at night," she tells me <br />
<br />
I am still trying to figure out how that affects me. Does she want me to wear a fucking sandwich board in front of the restaurant? Would she like me to telephone people at random and just let them know, "Hey, we're still open in case you're wondering." Or maybe I should tell the guests who come in at 7:00 that they should go home and come back in three hours. None of this is my fault or my problem. She was just being snippy because she sees profits dwindling and she can't be mean to the economy but she can be mean to me. And if she wants there to be more customers then maybe she should look into Groupon. Oh wait, she doesn't want to do that. Or maybe have a happy hour. Oh wait, she doesn't want to do that either. If I thought she would listen to me, I would suggest that he offers 15% off to anyone who comes in after 9:00. I think that is a great idea, but what do I know? I'm just a waiter.<br />
<br />
I punch out and go home and then debate whether or not I should blog about this on the off chance that she reads it. Obviously, I decide to write it. Nothing I have said here is wrong. I even gave some handy dandy suggestions on how she could gain more customers. I kinda know a little bit about pimping oneself out for the sake of more followers and it's not any different than getting more customers. Maybe she is reading this and when I get back to work, she will want to discuss it with me. I will cross that bridge when I come to it but before I cross the bridge, I think I am supposed to answer three questions from the troll who lives under it. So let me answer those now and get it out of the way:<br />
<br />
<i>Yes, the Chicken Caesar salad has chicken in it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>No, I do not have another "real job" because this one seems real enough.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We close at 11:00. </i><br />
<br />
Wish me luck on this post. I might be digging my own grave but as long as the grave has a mini-bar, I'm good.<br />
<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-86673172690908326452013-03-05T15:13:00.000-05:002013-03-05T15:13:56.031-05:00Hello, My Name is.... Why Bother?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_qDRqAuX04HUs-9pLbcPiiA_OXzv5whB7k9P-gl2bi6MqG_ieR3Z6TCZptbKZTX3zNH0EhrU1_jP1AHzcgDSOmNgS9pekqk99o4LxYk5TRL_hfKY4SbakUU6o46QQs5L0-AJ9Ojkr5sB/s1600/hello-my-name-is.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_qDRqAuX04HUs-9pLbcPiiA_OXzv5whB7k9P-gl2bi6MqG_ieR3Z6TCZptbKZTX3zNH0EhrU1_jP1AHzcgDSOmNgS9pekqk99o4LxYk5TRL_hfKY4SbakUU6o46QQs5L0-AJ9Ojkr5sB/s400/hello-my-name-is.jpg" width="400" /></a>Since the subject was broached in a previous blog post that had something to do with an anonymous red-headed d-bag who I will not give anymore attention to because he does not need my help to gain more traffic, I want to discuss something further: servers who announce their names to their tables.<br />
<br />
Some restaurants require the old "Hello, my name is Ashley and I will be your server tonight" routine. I have worked at those places and I hated it. My name is not one that is easily recognized so it was always way more trouble than it was worth.<br />
<br />
"Hello, my name is Coby and I'll be your server tonight."<br />
<br />
"Oh, hello, Cody."<br />
<br />
"No, Coby."<br />
<br />
"Oh, Colby! Like the cheese?"<br />
<br />
"No, Coby, like the beef but with a C and a Y. Coby. "Like the electronics company?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, Coby! That's an interesting name. Were your parents hippies?"<br />
<br />
"Never mind. Hello, my name is <i>David </i>and I will be your server tonight."<br />
<br />
I was never a big fan of having to give out my name. (No, Coby is not my real name...) I have found that when you tell customers what your name is, many of them get too comfortable using it and they start asking for too much shit. Thankfully, I never worked at one of those places that puts paper on the tables with crayons for the children and some of the servers write their name onto the table. Once I went to a place where the waitress wrote her name in cursive upside down so that it was facing me. Color me impressed but I still wouldn't want to have to do it. So, no I don't give out my name unless asked.<br />
<br />
Since I work at a very small neighborhood restaurant two blocks from my home with mostly regulars, several of my customers <i>do</i> know my name. I suppose I don't mind it too much since I bump into them at the grocery and I'd rather they say hello to me by name than say "Hello, Asshole." But I only tell people when they ask. They always follow it up with their names which I promptly delete from my memory bank. If I remember the names of all of my customers how will I ever remember that episode #109 of <i>The Facts of Life</i> is the one that aired on October 3, 1984 and was called "Slices of Life" and it was the one where Jo began her own pizza making company? <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDWMyZXV2DY" target="_blank">Click here</a> </b>to see that episode and go to the 1:40 mark to hear my favorite line delivery in the history of the world. <br />
<br />
One regular that comes in thinks my name is Eugene. It is not. It is nowhere close to Eugene. I once played a Eugene in a high school play about Halloween, but that is where my connection with Eugene ends. I have told her my real name many times and she always tells me that I look just like Gene Wilder. Never mind that Gene Wilder is about 40 years older than me, she thinks I am the splitting image of the Candy Man. The next time she came in she had forgotten my name and called me Gene instead. I corrected her. I saw her once outside a bar in our neighborhood and she yelled out to me across the street, "Hello, Gene." I corrected her again. I saw her yet again at another bar and this time she called me Eugene. I imagine that her train of thought went something like this: <br />
<i> </i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Oh, what is his name again, I know I know it. He looks like Gene Wilder but I know his name isn't Gene. Is it Willy Wonka? No, that's not right. Maybe it's Dr. Frankenstein... Gosh, I dunno. I got it!</i>"</blockquote>
<br />
"Hello, Eugene!"<br />
<br />
I corrected her yet again. She came into the restaurant last week and greeted us all. She didn't say my name and I thought that least she isn't calling me Eugene. When she left, she gave me a hug and kiss (she'd had three glasses of wine) and slurred out, "S'wonderful to see you again, Eugene." I am done correcting her. I don't care. I don't know her name even though she has told it to me often. The difference is that I don't just make up shit when I see her:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Dionne Warwick, it's nice to see you! How have you been, Diana Ross? Well listen, Angela Basset, the next time you come in you make sure to sit in my station, okay, Oprah?"</i></blockquote>
<br />
I agree with most people that customers don't care about the names of their servers and servers don't want to give out their names, so can we just make a pact across the land that we will no longer do it? Let's be done with it. Let's accept our situation for what it is: a business transaction that will last for about 45 minutes or so. It should be just like a prostitute and her john; no names, no pleasantries and no emotions. We give each other what we want, and move on. As long as I give good service and I am given a 20% tip and not given crabs, I'm good.<br />
<br />
"Hello, my name is none of your fucking business and I will be your server tonight."<br />
<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com152tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-18082332527639466952013-03-04T23:00:00.000-05:002014-10-13T09:10:53.108-04:00New York Post Writer, Kyle Smith, Tips 11%<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDIXSyN8wkUbsGbNRd0MPz1QTMExfLlJyDkA8cE5Ju5Hi_sL4BTWDNdUup0G8KyNg4ayl9t61pGyKFRGex0exvcQeK97AkeFItys-5w3Pye570TT08mgMq3ZpVdDex8SN9QH7kTxq4_cR/s1600/Kyle_Smith_head_shot__6_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDIXSyN8wkUbsGbNRd0MPz1QTMExfLlJyDkA8cE5Ju5Hi_sL4BTWDNdUup0G8KyNg4ayl9t61pGyKFRGex0exvcQeK97AkeFItys-5w3Pye570TT08mgMq3ZpVdDex8SN9QH7kTxq4_cR/s400/Kyle_Smith_head_shot__6_.jpg" height="400" width="305" /></a>Every once in a while, an article gets shat onto the Internet about servers and so often it is written by someone who has probably never waited tables before. Correction: maybe they waited tables for a few weeks in college and think they have all the answers because they have "been there." The latest case is that of a New York Post article called <a href="http://www.nypost.com/p/news/opinion/opedcolumnists/you_got_served_J0xciA8V4GfJ55VsILSGxL" target="_blank">"<b>You Got Served"</b></a> by Kyle Smith.<br />
<br />
Where to begin, where to begin?<br />
<br />
Basically, Mr. Smith is complaining about being "held hostage" as a diner and being forced to be nice to a server that he sees as a servant. According to his article, he likes the servers in France a lot better than those in the United States and he also announces that he tips a paltry 11%. My first piece of advice to Mr. Smith is to swim your cheap ass right back over to France and live it up over there. Shove a couple of croque monsieurs up your ass and leave a Euro for your tip. No server in this country is going to miss you one bit.<br />
<br />
I want to look at several of the points he makes and respond to them individually:<br />
<br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>"I’m not here to make friends. I don’t even need to
know your name. By the time you tell me about the specials, I’ve already
forgotten it.</b></i>" - That is a two way fucking street, sir. No server wants to announce his name to their table. The ones who do that are more than likely required to do so because of some stupid ass training that came down from the corporate office of Applebee's or Fuddruckers. If servers are constantly announcing their name to you, it might be because of where you are dining. And we don't want to be your friend either. Don't try to shake my hand or tell me your name because I care about that about as much as I care about whether you have the french onion soup or the crab cakes.<br />
<br />
<i><b>"After taking my order, they disappear and give way to a series of surly
busboys who do the food delivery, the clearing, the refilling of the
water glasses."</b></i>- Don't assume that is happening to everyone because in my experience, I only delegate those tasks to the busser when I think the customer is an asshole, asshole.<br />
<br />
<i><b>"The worst part of dealing with American waitrons is we’re forced to be
nice to these creepy ex-darlings of their high-school theater
departments because of the unspoken hostage drama that’s taking place
behind the scenes with our food."</b></i> - It is also the worst thing for us; having to be nice to these creepy present-day dickbags of the New York Post because of the unspoken hostage drama that's taking place between their wallets and my bills being paid.<br />
<br />
<i><b>"And what’s with the squatting while you’re telling me about the specials?"</b></i> -I agree. It's stupid. Stop it, servers.<br />
<br />
<i><b>"Stand up and be a man. As much of a man as it’s possible to be while enthusing over whipped-feta crostini."</b></i> - Are you saying that a real man can't talk about whipped-feta cheese? That's like saying "be as much of man as it's possible to be while rocking a gingham button-up shirt and being a ginger."<br />
<br />
<b>"And in France, I’ve been baffled to get turned away from an entirely
empty establishment at 6 p.m. because all tables are already reserved —
for diners who intend to show up at 7:30 or 8 or 8:15. Don’t they want
my money in the meantime?"</b> - My thought is that they recognize you from the last time you dined there and they don't want to serve you again, stupide Americain.<br />
<br />
<i><b>"Enjoy my 11% tip."</b></i>- I will enjoy your 11%tip and I hope that by putting your picture up here, more servers in New York City will know what to expect from you. Maybe that way they won't sneak up behind you and ask you how everything is and you can eat in peace. However, we all know that if a server <i>didn't</i> ask you how everything is you would use <i>that</i> as your excuse to leave a shitty tip. You can't complain that servers are checking up on you. It's our job. If you're going to leave an 11% tip, I dare you to tell that to your server as soon as you sit down. I guarantee if you do that, he won't be there to see how everything is. <br />
<br />
I wish there was a place to leave comments on this article, but there isn't. However, Mr. Smith does have a blog that you can leave a message on and I think you should do it:<b> <a href="http://kylesmithonline.com/?p=10101" target="_blank">leave a comment here!!</a></b><br />
Don't use profanity or it will not get posted. Tell him The Bitchy Waiter sent you.<br />
<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com82tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-53657473713132294772013-02-28T15:19:00.000-05:002013-02-28T15:19:11.980-05:00The Case of the Missing Credit Card Voucher<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx067CUHGIhPRMNccVTBdNmnWnkN7Gy0SOTKn34BV3Q8QaqqVfgIBSxrGtFVXxia8rQNWtAbOAd4PJ2VVvQ4FYHlzItaIGHQYR9RmNT2GAvvdg_FKQ4n9zGfCVv0bJJ8PCvSEB06oKIcCE/s1600/credit-card-slip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx067CUHGIhPRMNccVTBdNmnWnkN7Gy0SOTKn34BV3Q8QaqqVfgIBSxrGtFVXxia8rQNWtAbOAd4PJ2VVvQ4FYHlzItaIGHQYR9RmNT2GAvvdg_FKQ4n9zGfCVv0bJJ8PCvSEB06oKIcCE/s320/credit-card-slip.jpg" width="287" /></a>Thursday, 9:58 PM<br />
<br />
I'm closing the place down and waiting for my last two tables to pack it up and move on out. It's a dark and rainy night outside and the warmth of the restaurant is no doubt keeping the customers here longer than normal. I can't blame them for not wanting to go out into the elements, but as Sherril Holland, manager at Houlihan's, used to say: "You don't have to go home but you can't stay here."<br />
<br />
Finally, one of the tables begins to put on their coats and it signals to the other table that it might be a good idea to ask for their check. I remind them that I placed it on the table twenty minutes earlier. The woman laughs at her own absent-mindedness and she digs into her purse to hand me her Visa card.<br />
<br />
"Good night, folks," I say to the exiting customers as I walk to the credit card machine. "Stay dry. Thanks for coming in."<br />
<br />
I swipe the card and am annoyed to learn that the magnetic strip is not working. I swipe it again in the hopes of avoiding having to punch in all the numbers manually. It still doesn't work so I dig my reading glasses out of my apron to read the card. The total is $72.63. The machine prints out two vouchers; one that says Merchant Copy and the other that says Customer Copy. As per the norm, I take the Customer Copy and fold it up along with the original receipt and then wrap it around the credit card. On the other copy, I circle the words Merchant Copy and place it in a folder.<br />
<br />
"Here you are folks. Thanks for coming in and have a good night," I tell them.<br />
<br />
I move over to the other table and begin to clear it, placing the empty water glasses and napkins onto a tray and head to the dish room. When I return to the dining room with a towel and cleaning solution I see my last customers walking away from their table ensuring that my night is nearing an end. I say good night again and they are gone.<br />
<br />
I head to my last table to clear it and pick up the credit card folder. There is no voucher. I run to the door of the restaurant to see if I can catch them, but they have disappeared into the darkness and all I see are people walking their dogs in the rain.<br />
<br />
They took the fucking voucher. <br />
<br />
I know that I gave them two vouchers. I know one was very clearly marked Merchant Copy. I know I will not be getting a tip.<br />
<br />
Where did that voucher go? Could it have been stuffed into her purse with the other one? Did she eat it? Did she shove it up her ass to avoid tipping me? I will never know. All I know for certain is that when people walk out of the restaurant with the signed copy of a credit card voucher, I will not be getting a tip. I know that I served them for absolutely no reason other than for the sheer joy of serving and we know how much that is worth.<br />
<br />
Don't take the signed copy. I can't just assume that you left 20% and add it because the second I do that, a call will be made to Visa and my ass is in trouble for credit card fraud. Yet I can't make a call to Visa and charge your ass with stiffing me.<br />
<br />
Maybe it was taken by accident, but maybe it wasn't. Is it that hard to believe that people would willingly walk out with the signed copy just to avoid that $14.00 tip? It is feasible and very very likely. <br />
<br />
I close the card with no tip. I don't risk getting fired by adding a tip that I didn't see. It's a shitty ending to night. What do you do when someone walks out with the signed copy?<br />
<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-43944970835254917672013-02-27T15:44:00.000-05:002013-02-27T15:44:49.670-05:00I Do Not Want to Charge Your Phone <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kvqBVDrt3CbWmqQsJc_4r7VNCWuBx20690AvSuBrYT9oVcdzDgMnDxWVR4EJdBCV1HQndDaHZlvkTGXCrDB3E5AOQP0cdfLmFO8yBIwlVa6HIGJbUwNyd_tly-RmXYPqNliBDo4nxvtZ/s1600/batterydrain1jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kvqBVDrt3CbWmqQsJc_4r7VNCWuBx20690AvSuBrYT9oVcdzDgMnDxWVR4EJdBCV1HQndDaHZlvkTGXCrDB3E5AOQP0cdfLmFO8yBIwlVa6HIGJbUwNyd_tly-RmXYPqNliBDo4nxvtZ/s320/batterydrain1jpg.jpg" width="320" /></a><i>Dear Customer,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I don't care about your technology issues. They do not affect me. Please do not ask me if we have an electrical outlet somewhere that you can charge your phone, because this is a restaurant and not an iPhone charging center. Why would you expect me to carry your phone to the side stand for you and charge it just so you can be sure to have enough battery left when you leave to play Angry Birds? No, we don't have any outlets "right here." They are away from you and if I take your phone and plug it in and it's somewhere you can't see it, who is responsible when water is spilled on it or it is stolen? Me. I get that you really want to have enough power to snap a flash photo of your calamari so you can send it to Instagram and Yelp, but it really isn't my problem. The same thing goes for your iPad. And no, I don't have "an extra charger" either. If you ask me to charge your phone, I will say no. I will make up some story about how our manager won't allow us to do it. If I see some random phone that is being charged in the side stand and I find out that it belongs to a customer, I am going to take that phone and give it to the dishwasher and ask him to go take another picture of his junk. It will be a nice surprise for you when you look at your gallery later: Juan's big uncut burrito. Mucho grande, no? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Do not ask your server to charge your phone. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also, I don't know why you don't have a signal in my station. Maybe I would care a little bit more about a signal if I was allowed to have my phone with me while on the floor, but I am not so I don't give a flying T-Mobile fuck about how many bars you have or don't have. Put the goddamn phone in your pocket for thirty minutes and why don't you try to have a real connection with someone for a change, like maybe with the person you came to eat with. Facebook will not dry up and blow away if you don't check-in and no, we don't give any discounts because you are the mayor on Foursquare. I don't know what that means. Stop asking.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>For those of you who do have enough battery to take pictures, enough already. At least let me put the goddamn plate down before you start doing a photo shoot of your penne pasta. None of your friends on Facebook are sitting at home waiting to see what you had for dinner. Trust me, they don't care.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In conclusion, let me reiterate that no server wants to take your phone and charge it for you. It is annoying to us and not our responsibility. No amount of "pretty please" is going to make me want to carry your $200 toy away from your table and babysit it for the next half-hour. Do not try to convince me. And remember: if you do find a server to do it, you might just end up with some questionable photos of a very large Latino penis. Actually, maybe for some of you it's worth a shot just to get your own private photos of a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/originalkarma/7451461462/" target="_blank">burrito dick</a>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Love, </i><br />
<i>The Bitchy Waiter</i><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">Click <a href="http://twitter.com/bitchywaiter">here</a> to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.<br />Click <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bitchy-Waiter/112430746683">here</a> to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.</span><i> </i>The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-49021728043777671212013-02-26T15:30:00.000-05:002013-02-26T15:47:58.556-05:00Gluten-Free for You and Me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPP6yoFsRi7P2mism_3NDSi7eQCaBlm24t5PKwb084lD0k2jFWmxIcDubIj5ZX8oL3B_OXiaLQ44oh9PivEOIGjmWhwnGBdrsg9xk2z0bS5dLSJ4fn9lNagiLETPEELWm_6GdWOuFWn2OV/s1600/gluten+free.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPP6yoFsRi7P2mism_3NDSi7eQCaBlm24t5PKwb084lD0k2jFWmxIcDubIj5ZX8oL3B_OXiaLQ44oh9PivEOIGjmWhwnGBdrsg9xk2z0bS5dLSJ4fn9lNagiLETPEELWm_6GdWOuFWn2OV/s320/gluten+free.jpg" width="320" /></a><i>Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I don't know if it's really a sin, but I may have done something to put someone in harm's way. Well, it wasn't really my fault, I guess, but I still feel bad about it, Lord. Okay, I don't really feel too bad about it because now that I think abut it, it really didn't have much to do with me at all. Am I responsible for something I knew nothing about? Never mind, God, I'm sure she's fine.</i><br />
<br />
All servers deal with customers who have allergies. It's part of our job to accommodate requests so that our guests can enjoy their food without worry that their throats are going to swell up and they will asphyxiate because they ate a nut. Of course I don't want someone to die because I forgot to type in "nut allergy" on the ticket. I can only assume that if you kill one of your customers, the tip is going to be pretty low. It's never happened to me, but I'm just going to assume.<br />
<br />
I don't think gluten is ever going to kill someone, but I don't want to be responsible for stomach cramps either. There are a couple of regulars at the restaurant who can never eat gluten. One lady in particular is adamant about it, which I totally get. What I don't understand is how she can ask me every single time if the sauce that goes onto the roasted chicken is gluten-free. <br />
<br />
"No, ma'am. The sauce has flour in it. We have not changed the recipe since the last time you were here, I'm sorry."<br />
<br />
"Oh, really?" She says. "That's a bummer, because I'm allergic to gluten. Like, if I even have a little bit of it, I don't feel well. It's horrible for me. Like I even have to have my own mayonnaise at home because if my husband gets crumbs in the mayo and I use it, I get sick. Blech! Toilet for hours, you know what I mean? So, can you make sure the kitchen knows to be very careful? Thank you!"<br />
<br />
"Yes, ma'am, absolutely."<br />
<br />
"Okay, so I will have the roasted chicken with no sauce, okay? No sauce. Like not even on the side. I will pay for it if I eat it. Thank you!"<br />
<br />
"Yes, ma'am, very good."<br />
<br />
Every time we go through this. Every. Single. Time. I got it, lady: you don't eat gluten. It gives you projectile diarrhea or whatever. Enough, already.<br />
<br />
A few days ago, the phone rings at work, and being the dutiful employee I am, I answer it on the seventh ring since it seems clear that no one else is going to fucking do it.<br />
<br />
"Thank you for calling This Restaurant, this is The Bitchy Waiter. How may I help you?"<br />
<br />
A lady on the other end wants to hear the specials of the day. I rattle them off and she decides she wants to place an order to pick up.<br />
<br />
"This is what I get for answering the phone," I think. "Now I have to ring this in under my number and I know she isn't going to leave a tip on a to-go order. Where do we keep the to-go boxes anyway? Fuck. I will never answer the phone I again!"<br />
<br />
I place the order and rummage around around the bar to find all the to-go utensils for her curry cauliflower soup and roasted chicken breast, with no gravy. I think nothing about the order until 15 minutes later when the food is in the window. I put it all together and place it on top of the oven to keep it warm until the customer comes in to get it. The bartender will probably deal with it so I don't give it another thought.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, I see that the food is gone so I look over at the bar to see the bartender thanking the customer as she walks out the door with her soup and roasted chicken, with no gravy. As she passes in front of our window I see that it is the "no-gluten" lady and she is carrying a gluten-free roasted chicken and a cup of curry cauliflower soup that has gluten all up in it.<br />
<br />
<i>Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I don't know if it's really a
sin, but I may have done something to put someone in harm's way. Well,
it wasn't really my fault, I guess, but I still feel bad about it, Lord.
Okay, I don't really feel too bad about it because now that I think abut
it, it really didn't have much to do with me at all. </i><i><i>Am I responsible for something I knew nothing about? </i>Never mind, God,
I'm sure she's fine. </i><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">Click <a href="http://twitter.com/bitchywaiter">here</a> to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.<br />Click <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bitchy-Waiter/112430746683">here</a> to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.</span> The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-7421530255994584162013-02-25T12:17:00.000-05:002013-02-25T12:24:23.588-05:00Restaurant Managers Say the Darndest Things<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChsBt49I2o8NInxteUtKI-Y3Q3tccQMz_PCCpfO416Vbo_jrvghDaVuS0C2wOWG6-xr1rcQrUaGuf_NDieQmE6jY2H9zhSUR1cDdywoCsxiiUNUEIgqyDoUIUj1G4vfc92rcZcjFUaF91/s1600/RestaurantManager.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChsBt49I2o8NInxteUtKI-Y3Q3tccQMz_PCCpfO416Vbo_jrvghDaVuS0C2wOWG6-xr1rcQrUaGuf_NDieQmE6jY2H9zhSUR1cDdywoCsxiiUNUEIgqyDoUIUj1G4vfc92rcZcjFUaF91/s320/RestaurantManager.jpg" width="313" /></a>Restaurant managers are a curious breed. Do you think any of them grew up wanting to be a restaurant manager or is it something that just happened? I was looking through an old journal last night and out of it fell a bev nap that was covered in writing. It was dated December 1, 1994 and written while working at Houlihan's in Times Square. It was mostly about my frustration with that particular job and the managers in particular:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Is it the right thing to do when I get up every day and come to this dung heap of a restaurant? And looking at the various managers flit-floating around reminds me that the life of a restaurant manager is empty. As empty as my pockets are after a typical shift at this joke of a job."</i></blockquote>
<br />
I remember that we had a regional manger in the restaurant that day so everything had to be ship shape.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"And isn't it funny how they think that I care if his silverware is extra clean? Owners and area managers see their restaurants through a cloud of smoke. So sad for them to think that everyone's silver is as clean as theirs. Or that everyone's food comes out that fast. Idiots! All of them."*</i></blockquote>
<br />
I recall ringing in an order for the area manager and having to type in that it was a VIP so the kitchen would know to make it first and to make sure it was perfect. Meanwhile, the secretary at table 72 who comes in every other day has to wait for her salad longer than usual and no one will go through it to make sure that every piece of lettuce is pristine.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"But back to the ridiculousness of the restaurant business: it sucks. But the people you work with usually are very nice. However, the people you work for usually are very stupid. Power breeds stupidity."</i></blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokXymUYQCiHbbxKwnpBEE9PDoQtHgIGNPtRa1kHniOYW-egvgdKAybe9Pq6Edxc9gjVHOHy7bRnkrsHKPXhkekMD2qLU9K9drWnqNIQLeoNnp4X4Pn4VdsvAOltGFdYKsMEr8AQIzvqZg/s1600/IMAG1009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokXymUYQCiHbbxKwnpBEE9PDoQtHgIGNPtRa1kHniOYW-egvgdKAybe9Pq6Edxc9gjVHOHy7bRnkrsHKPXhkekMD2qLU9K9drWnqNIQLeoNnp4X4Pn4VdsvAOltGFdYKsMEr8AQIzvqZg/s320/IMAG1009.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The words on that bev nap were written almost twenty years ago and it tells me three things; Number one: things never change. Number two: I have been a bitchy waiter for a long fucking time. Number three: my handwriting is immaculate.<br />
<br />
At a recent "mandatory meeting" at work. I listen to the owner saying things that I could have written down on that same bev nap back in 1994. The corporate-speak and general bullshit that spews from his mouth is making me sick to my stomach and I find it hard it believe that he really thinks that what he says is inspiring to us.<br />
<br />
"We all have to be on the same team, because if we're not on the same team, it means we are fighting against each other. Our cart has to be going in the same direction. If my wheels are going one way and your wheels are going another, how will we ever get anywhere?"<br />
<br />
Really? That is supposed to make me want to work harder for you? There must be a high school guidance counselor somewhere who is pissed off because he is missing the inspirational poster from his wall. It sounds like it came from the same people who gave us the image of the kitten hanging from a tree limb with the words "Hang in there!" Managers could do a lot better if they would just talk to us like we are people and not cogs in their food service machinery. We are not stupid. We want the same things they want: plenty of customers, an enjoyable place to work and money. Inspirational quotes are not going to inspire us.<br />
<br />
"My number one priority is you guys. I want you to be happy and I want you to make a lot of money," he says. Don't lie to us. I would respect you so much more (no, I wouldn't) if you could be honest and say that your number one priority is that the <i>restaurant</i> makes a lot of money and you hope that trickles down to us. Don't blow smoke directly up my ass by saying you care about me when every time I make a suggestion you just dismiss it with "it sounds like you need more training" or "well, we have to keep doing it this way in order for us to grow." Just be honest and say, "It's my way or the highway." At least then, I will know that you're an asshole instead of you trying to conceal it with the touchy-freely crap you wrap up your ego with.<br />
<br />
Bitter, me? Sure, I am, because I know that so many other servers have to deal with restaurant managers who are exactly the same as mine. Yes, my job knows I write a blog. Does the owner read it? I don't know, I doubt it. And if he does, I can't imagine that he made it all the way to the end of this post. Besides, the beauty part of me having three jobs is that I can always say it wasn't about them, it was about my other boss. But my friends who I work with who read this will know <i>exactly </i>who I am referring to. <br />
<br />
My apologies to the good restaurant mangers out there. I know you exist. It's just that you are an endangered species.<br />
<br />
<br />
*Even back in 1994, I was quoting musical theater. "Idiots! All of them," is from <i>The Threepenny Opera</i>.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">Click <a href="http://twitter.com/bitchywaiter">here</a> to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.<br />Click <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bitchy-Waiter/112430746683">here</a> to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.</span> The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-32601606070846083692013-02-21T13:17:00.000-05:002013-02-21T13:18:07.355-05:00Do Your Really Want That Water or Are You Wasting My Time?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_tuxPGGoeHpJrPeNmCf7KQZT9d70AZXL1Lk8ftlnua83zu8votqyiebinLeGgjY5LrlzZmA5oeCdXlucj_SKnFVK9jgqzjxmJP9e-vCjAkAY_j1FonOhmBlWMruQoQovmfSOMdLjMJSy/s1600/0714_water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_tuxPGGoeHpJrPeNmCf7KQZT9d70AZXL1Lk8ftlnua83zu8votqyiebinLeGgjY5LrlzZmA5oeCdXlucj_SKnFVK9jgqzjxmJP9e-vCjAkAY_j1FonOhmBlWMruQoQovmfSOMdLjMJSy/s400/0714_water.jpg" width="400" /></a>As in the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, I see water, water every where, but not a drop to drink. Unlike our seafaring sailor who was surrounded by salt water and unable to satiate his thirst with his surroundings, I see glass after glass of tap water that people ask for but they never let pass their lips.<br />
<br />
We don't live in a country where there is very often a water shortage so people feel free to waste water in the same way they waste their breath by telling me how they want their burger cooked or what they're allergic to. <br />
<br />
I go to a six-top to see what they would like for their two-drink minimum while watching the show. We are not a restaurant, so we don't have pitchers of water at side stands that we fill glasses with every two minutes.<br />
<br />
"Hello, folks, how are you tonight? Can I get you anything to drink yet or would you like a few minutes to look over the cocktail menu?"<br />
<br />
Silence ensues.<br />
<br />
"I can come back in a few minutes if you need some more time. I do realize our cocktail menu is quite extensive and it can take some time to decide which one of our delicious libations you would like to enjoy this evening."<br />
<br />
More silence. And then those dreaded words from one woman:<br />
<br />
"I don't know what I want, so can you just bring me a glass of water while I decide? Just bring everyone a glass of water."<br />
<br />
What if everyone doesn't want a glass of water, lady? Did you ever think of that? Are the other five people going to drink that water or am I just using up valuable time to bring glasses of water that will never be touched? Her five friends don't even acknowledge that she has just asked for water on their behalf which tells me that I am going to be doing this for nothing. We have a total of 75 people seeing this show. If I bring a glass of water to every single person, that is three extra racks of glasses that have to be cleared, carried down the stairs and sent through the dishwasher. That is 75 glasses that we will go through and maybe make us run out of them for important things like vodka tonics and my wine.<br />
<br />
I return to the bar to ask the bartender for six glasses of water. He is up to his ass-less chaps in chits trying to keep up with the demand for real drinks like martinis and Manhattans but now has to put the brakes on productivity to get water for six people, five of which didn't even ask for it.<br />
<br />
"It's so fucking irritating when someone orders water for the whole table. Ain't nobody got time for that," I bitch.<br />
<br />
"I'm sure you've blogged about it before, right?" asks Tom.<br />
<br />
I realize I have not.<br />
<br />
"But then again," he continues, "it's not like it would be a whole blog. Probably just a paragraph."<br />
<br />
"Oh, I can make it a whole blog post," I counter. "Just wait."<br />
<br />
I return to the table with the six glasses of water and, surprise, surprise, they still aren't ready to order. I place the six glasses on the table and notice that four of the customers don't even notice that it happened. Meanwhile, the lady at the table next to them sees the waters and decides that she too is parched.<br />
<br />
"That looks good. Can I have a glass of water?"<br />
<br />
"Me too," says another man.<br />
<br />
It's as contagious as yawning. Everyone who sees a glass of water now thinks they need one too. It's maddening. I feel myself falling into the weeds as I fetch additional glasses of water for people who moments before did not even know they wanted one.<br />
<br />
After the show, I go to clear the room and head back to the table that started The Great Water Demand of 2013. Of the original six glasses of water I had brought to the table, five of them still have the paper on the straw meaning they were never touched. As I suspected, it was all for naught.<br />
<br />
Look, I don't mind getting water, I really don't. I understand that water is a basic need and can be quite delicious when mixed with a cup of sugar and a packet of Kool-Aid. What I ask is that people think about it first before requesting "water for everyone." Let people make theor own decisions about their water intake. Don't assume they want it and certainly don't assume that I will be happy to do it. Rest assured, if you ever find yourself saying 'just bring water for everyone," your server is muttering under his breath how irritated he is.<br />
<br />
Let me end this post by quoting the last paragraph of <a href="http://www.bartleby.com/101/549.html" target="_blank">The Rime of the Ancient Mariner</a> and showing you how it relates to the above water situation:<br />
<br />
<i>He went like one who hath been stunn'd,</i><br />
<i>And is of sense forlorn:</i><br />
<i>A sadder and a wiser man</i><br />
<i>He rose the morrow morn.</i><br />
<br />
What that means in present day speak is this:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The customer was like, "oh my God,"</i><br />
<i>I feel so bad for asking for water for everyone when I didn't even know if they wanted it:</i><br />
<i>I know now it can be annoying and wasteful</i><br />
<i>And starting tomorrow I won't do that anymore.</i><br />
<br />
(See Tom? I told you I could write a whole blog post about it.)<br />
<br />
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<br />
According to <a href="http://www.kob.com/article/stories/s2935132.shtml" target="_blank">Eyewitness News KOB</a>, a restaurant owner in Albuquerque, New Mexico is trying that approach and it is not going over well at all. Last November, Albuquerque voters changed the minimum hourly wage for servers from $2.13 to $3.83. However, Eric Szeman, owner of<a href="http://www.route66maltshop.com/index.html" target="_blank"> Route 66 Malt Shop</a> had his employees sign a contract that said they agreed to keep their $2.13 an hour wage in order for them to keep their jobs. Of course they signed it because nobody wants to be looking for a new job in Albuquerque. <br />
<br />
I guess that after a few days they realized they had signed some illegal bullshit and some of the servers decided to complain about it. The next thing you know, they're all over the Internet and The Bitchy Waiter is writing a post about them. <br />
<br />
“We can't afford it,” Szeman says. “We don't have the money. We don't make the money." He also says his payroll went from about $3,600 every two weeks to about $6,000.<br />
<br />
However, sir, the law is the law. If the law says that you have to pay your employees $3.83 an hour then you kinda gotta do that, right? That's what laws are for; they are to be followed. I get that you now have to pay an extra $1200 a week to cover payroll costs, but you can't just make up your own labor laws. I would suggest you raise the prices on your menu to cover the costs. Surely the fine voters of Albuquerque will understand that in order for you to pay the new minimum wage they approved then you will have to raise the prices. Where else did the voters think that money was going to come from?<br />
<br />
I have looked at the website and see that the restaurant is open seven days a week for a total of 81 hours. If the owner needs to earn an additional $1200 a week to cover this new pay increase, that is only $171 extra dollars a day. If there are about 200 covers a day, then if each one of them paid an additional eight-five cents for their food, that would supply the needed money to pay employees the new wage. Perhaps 200 covers a day is unrealistic. If 100 covers a day is more likely, then add $2.00 to every item on the menu. It's what restaurants do. <br />
<br />
I also studied the <a href="http://www.route66maltshop.com/menu.html" target="_blank">Route 66 menu</a>. It's cheap. The Classic Burger is $4.99. Why not raise it to the whopping price of $5.99 and you will be well on your way to being a law-abiding restaurant owner again. Or change the price of the Frito-Pie to $6.49. That is still some affordable food. It does not seem that difficult. Perhaps it costs too much money to reprint the menus and update the website? (Truth be told, that website needs to be updated regardless of menu changes or not. It looks like an eighth-grader made it with a Geocities template 15 years ago. That music is annoying.) I really don't see a reason why the owner can't make this happen.<br />
<br />
I have a feeling that after pressure form the news media, he will eventually pony up the money and pay his servers the right wage. In the meantime, feel free to head on over to the<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Route-66-Malt-Shop/124136737660080?ref=ts&fref=ts" target="_blank"> Route 66 Malt Shop Facebook Page</a> and say hello to them. I'm sure they'd love to hear from you. <br />
<br />
Please share this or like it so that more people can put the pressure on this restaurant owner to do the right thing and pay his servers the legal minimum wage. And people in Albuquerque, I hope you will continue to patronize this restaurant even after the price of nachos goes up to $7.25. You voted to raise the minimum wage, now you have to put your money where your mouth is.<br />
<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
Back in the olden days of The Bitchy Waiter, I wrote a post called "<b><a href="http://thebitchywaiter.blogspot.com/2008/12/what-is-that-smell.html" target="_blank">What is That Smell??</a></b>" 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.<br />
<br />
Someone named Anonymous left this comment on that post recently:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
<i>"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...."</i></blockquote>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Code red, code red!! Get over to VYNL right away. We think someone let a stink bomb!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Thank you for your comment. By the way, it's "<i>you're</i> screwed" and not "your screwed." You're welcome.<br />
<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-65828454844079837142013-02-15T08:53:00.000-05:002013-02-15T08:54:47.438-05:00Welcome, February 15th. Servers Love You.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It is February 15th and we have survived another year serving on Valentine's Day. We all know it was horrible; two-top after two-top streaming into the restaurant trying to have their very own private special moment while crammed into a section that normally has three tables but on this day has five. Yes, we made money. Yes, we we worked hard. Yes, we welcome February 15th with open arms.<br />
<br />
<b>Here are some of the highlights of my Valentine's Day:</b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li> Getting to work and seeing that the whole menu had been reprinted and everything was one dollar more than it was on February 13th.</li>
<li>The mother and father who told their four year-old, "This is Mommy and Daddy's night, so we need you to be really quiet and play on the iPad." Cut to two hours later when the kid interrupts their lovemaking to ask for a glass of water and they just scream out for him to go play Angry Birds.</li>
<li> Amanda and her two girlfriends who could not understand why it was going to take an hour to get them a three-top. The restaurant was set up for couples and it takes forever for two two-tops that are next to each other to leave at the same time. Amanda and Company left after twenty minutes, presumably to go home to their dates for the evening: Ben and Jerry and big side of lonely</li>
<li>The man who called at 7:30 asking for a reservation. Hey, buddy, you're lucky we even had time to answer the phone. Any guy calling at 7:30 on Valentine's Day has poor time management skills and a really pissed off girlfriend. You're worse off than the men I saw at CVS yesterday afternoon scouring the picked over aisle of candy. Plan ahead, dude.</li>
<li>Brian who called at 9:15 to see if we were still on a waiting list. I told him that we only had two people on the list and I expected it to be slowing down in the next half hour or so. He showed up ten minutes later as part of a five-top and got pissed off that there was no table for them. "I just called, like two minutes ago and someone told me there were only two people on the list!" he tells me. "It was me you talked to, it was about <i>ten</i> minutes ago and people have continued to come in since then. And you did not tell me you were a party of five." They waited at the bar for thirty minutes until I was able to shove them into a booth that was way too small for five people.</li>
<li>The moment my manager finally cracked a smile. It didn't happen until almost 10:00. I expected him to have a managerial boner about the potential cover count but I guess the stress was too much to make him excited. He couldn't relax until he saw the light at the end of the "Closing at 11:00 Tunnel."</li>
<li>My co-workers who opened up a can of kick ass teamwork and made the night smooth and tolerable and almost enjoyable.</li>
<li>Telling people "no substitutions" all night. </li>
<li>Leaving work only forty-five minutes later than planned but still before closing.</li>
<li>Getting home to a surprise dinner of chicken and penne with homemade vodka sauce, salad and warm bread accompanied by pink tulips and a chilled bottle of champagne, followed by chocolate cupcakes with vanilla ice cream. Yes, I have a better husband than my husband does.</li>
</ul>
And how was your Valentine's Day??<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-1806972324319535842013-02-14T15:42:00.000-05:002013-02-14T15:42:25.768-05:00A Valentine's Day Prayer for Servers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">God, please be with me today as I am bombarded with lovebirds </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">who will sit in my station all night and look at each other all googly-eyed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">Give me the strength to not hate them when they order the $29.99 Valentine's Day Special, which consists of an app, two entrees and a dessert </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">and normally would cost around $40.00 and I would get tipped at least $8-10 but tonight will only net me about $6-7. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">God grant me the
sanity to accept the things I cannot change, like the fact that some people will be out to dinner for the first time in 12 months; <br />
Give me the courage to change the things I can, like a burger that is under-cooked but not one that is over-cooked;<br />
I also ask to earn the wisdom to know the difference between a man who is there with his wife and a man who is there with his mistress. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">Please be with me when that lady comes in from the street who normally sells bootleg DVD's but tonight will be selling plastic long-stemmed roses that light up; be with me so I know not to swat that bitch out of the restaurant with a rolled-up newspaper the same way I would a fly or a dog who just peed on the rug. </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">I will be trusting that the kitchen will make all things right<br />
if I surrender to their will;<br />
And that I may be reasonably happy with this shift <br />
and supremely happy when I get to leave with a pocket full of blood money.<br />
Forever in the next.<br />
Amen.</span><br />
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The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-81739226452833206442013-02-13T12:18:00.000-05:002013-02-13T12:19:49.178-05:00I Want a New Job<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Having been a waiter for so many years and always answering the age-old question of, "when are you going to get a real job?" I think the time has come for me to consider my next profession. I hear there is a wonderful job opportunity opening up in Rome and since my passport is up to date and I really want a career change, I think I shall be submitting an application for Pope.<br />
<br />
I never really thought about being Pope for a number of reasons; I'm not Catholic, I'm gay, I don't look good in hats, etc. However, I do think that the Catholic church needs some updating so maybe it's time they had a non-Catholic, gay (out of the closet) Pope. And I do look really good in crowns, so why not? I would think that the Pope has some really great health benefits and probably gets paid vacation. I doubt he has to clean ketchup lids or fill salt and pepper shakers. He lives rent-free in the Vatican and gets to ride around in that cool little Popemobile. He travels all over the world dispensing wisdom and spiritual guidance so it's pretty much what I already do now.<br />
<br />
As I mentioned, I did not grow up Catholic. I was raised a Southern Baptist where the fear of God was whipped into me by a preacher at the pulpit. Seeing that I am rather unfamiliar with what all the Pope has to do, I decided that a little research would be in order. I went to <a href="http://howstuffworks.com/">HowStuffWorks.com</a> and found out everything I need to know about Popedom so I feel like I have a pretty good shot of at least getting an interview. <br />
<br />
Assuming I get elected (and why wouldn't I?) I learned that Cardinal Dean will ask me two questions. I don't know who Cardinal Dean is but he probably is just a figure-head who will accept any old answer. In any case, I am prepared:<br />
<br />
<b>Question:</b> Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff? <br />
<br />
<b><do accept="" as="" canonical="" election="" li="" pontiff="" supreme="" you="" your="">
</do>
Answer</b>: Uh, the answer is "yes'" Cardinal Dean. Why do you think I even applied in the first place? Duh. And how do you like your burger cooked?<br />
<br />
<b>Question:</b> By what name do you wish to be called?<br />
<br />
<b>Answer:</b> Patriarch of the West Papa Bitchy the Pope #sideofmustard<br />
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As for the duties that will befall upon me, I think I can handle them. I have often said that waiting tables prepares one for almost any job in the world and now is my chance to prove it.<br />
<br />
<b>Serves as bishop of the archdiocese of Rome, providing spiritual guidance to its members</b>- I got this. If it has the word "serves" in it, I'm good. Next!<br />
<br />
<b>Appoints bishops and cardinal</b>- I can do that. It would be just like choosing a shift leader. You want someone who knows a lot but maybe not the person who knows the most. Sometimes the person who knows the most isn't very nice to those who know less.<br />
<br />
<b>Presides at beatification and canonization ceremonies</b>- I love to make things more beautiful and I wrote a paper once in junior high school about the Revolutionary War and I had a whole paragraph on cannons. No problem.<br />
<br />
<b>Spreads the word of the Roman Catholic Church through his travels</b>- If we change "Roman Catholic Church" to "Ways Customers Annoys Me" I am good to go on this one. I even have business cards that have my website on them.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Writes documents that define the Catholic Church's official position on issues facing the world</b>- Well, I like to write and as long as I have an Internet connection and Google, I can write about anything. Easy.<br />
<br />
<b>Confers with global leaders and politicians about these issues</b>- This would be a little out of my comfort zone because so far, the closest I have come to a global leader or politician is when I met Dr. Phil and when Gayle King tweeted me and she is one degree of separation from Oprah who is pretty much a deity herself. I also served Hillary Clinton a crab cake at a fundraiser once.<br />
<br />
I think the thing that would be the best about being the Pope would be the new uniform. Gone are the days of all black polyester slip-resistance shoes. I could wear pretty frocks any day of the year instead of waiting until October 31st and those red shoes he wears are absolutely fabulous.<br />
<br />
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Another thing I know that the Pope does is give out the Holy Communion which is bread and wine, right? I have totally done that like a thousand times. I can do this, y'all! "Real job" coming right up!<br />
<br />
If (more like <i>when)</i> I become Pope, I may have to let the blog slow done a little bit. I don't know how much time I will have to write, what with all the the movie premiers and church openings I will be expected to attend. Maybe I can start a new blog called The Bitchy Pope. I dunno, we shall see. I have not found the job application yet but I am sure it just takes some digging. The <a href="http://www.vatican.va/phome_en.htm" target="_blank">Vatican's website</a> is so complicated that "submit for this job" is buried somewhere. That may be my first order of business once I start: update the website. <br />
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Wish me luck, everyone. And happy Ash Wednesday. Again, being very unfamiliar with Catholicism, I am not sure what it this day means. To me, it looks like a lot of people got too close to a candle they were blowing out. Don't worry though. When I am Pope, I will Google Ash Wednesday and make sure I understand it. I want to take my new career as seriously as possible. <br />
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Pacis erit vobiscum! (That means "peace be with you" in Latin. Duh.)<br />
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<br />The Bitchy Waiterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416218015992830876noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-706867684354336699.post-80441759813664775922013-02-12T10:03:00.000-05:002013-02-12T10:04:34.067-05:00Fellow Server Needs Your Help!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I got an email from Katie yesterday asking for a favor. Luckily, it had nothing to do with splitting checks or wrapping something up to go that should have just been thrown away. She asked me to do something that I am happy to do.<br />
<br />
Katie has a friend named Briana Gilligan (best last name ever). They worked together at a bar in New Jersey and have been best friends for 7 years. The picture is of them after a lunch shift. Briana (on the right) is now battling her third round of
treatment to fight leukemia and she's currently in the ICU for a bleed in
her lungs. Katie told me that Briana actually reads this blog and the Bitchy Waiter Facebook page. (If medicine isn't making Briana feel nauseous, then my writing skills certainly are and for that, I apologize, Briana.). Katie wants a shout out for Briana because they both believe in mind over matter and positive thinking. Katie tells me, "I believe in the power of prayer and over the past 3
years it has worked. She can't die I will just.. die."<br />
<br />
I totally understand, Katie. This is something I can help with.<br />
<br />
There are a lot of people who read this and if every single one of you took two seconds to send out some positive thoughts to Briana who is in a hospital room in Seattle, it can't hurt. And then if you took another second to click this "like" button, then even more people can know that someone is needing good vibes.<br />
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Imagine if you were sitting in a hospital room and you saw on Facebook that thousands of people were thinking about you. How could that not make you feel better? What if we are able to make her feel so much better that she kicks the ass of leukemia and she gets to go back home to her "awesome" boyfriend back in Belmar, NJ? We see stories like this "go viral" all the time, so why not Briana's story? <br />
<br />
And if you want to do even more, you could consider going to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society website and leaving a donation. <b><a href="https://donate.lls.org/ECommerce/donatetolls.action" target="_blank">Click here to do that</a>.</b> I just did. You can give any amount you want and every little bit will help. You'll feel good if you do it, I promise.<br />
<br />
Briana, if you are reading this, please know that Katie is not the only one who wants you to get better. Besides your friends and family and co-workers, there is at least one bitchy waiter who lives in Queens who wants you to make a full recovery and every person who is reading this feels the same way. If the power of positive thinking and the prayers of a thousand strangers can help, then you are well on your way to getting better. <br />
<br />
Now go kick some leukemia ass!<br />
<br />
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