Remember the Alamo and Meat Cleavers

We've all had those days where things get to be too much and we find ourselves at the end of our proverbial rope. Granted, our job can be a stressful one when we are dealing with people who think that their ham and cheese panini is the be-all end-all most important sandwich on the face of the planet and if they don't get it right this minute they are going to go bat-ass crazy. Or maybe you have a boss who wants to cut your shifts in half and doesn't care that you have bills to pay and cocktails to order and now you'll have to start putting that shit on your Visa card. There are any number of ways to deal with these stressful moments. Personally, I find that going into the walk-in for a couple of minutes where it is nice, cool and quiet does wonders for my peace of mind, especially when I go in there with a coffee cup of champagne that I can down in three seconds. Or sometimes going into the bathroom and splashing cool water on my face helps me feel better, especially when I go in there with a coffee cup of champagne that I can down in three seconds. The point is, there are lots of different ways to deal with stress. One way I do not recommend is throwing a meat cleaver at someone. But hey, if that's what it takes to calm you down, who am I to say anything? I say potato, you say meat cleaver.

This month, a waitress named Maria Benavidez in San Antonio, Texas was charged with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon after she done lost her temper and threw a meat cleaver at her boss hitting him in the head so hard that he needed six stitches to sew that shit up. Her bail was set at $30,000. Damn. If she makes $75 a shift, she has to pick up 400 extra ones just to pay for that. According to the news report, she was upset that her boss was cutting her hours. She was also upset because she opened an envelope containing a paycheck belonging to the victim's stepson, who also works there. I'm not quite sure what that means. Why was she opening that? Maybe to see how much he was getting paid? And then when she saw how much money he had she was like, "Oh I am so mad I am going to throw a meat cleaver at somebody!" I dunno. The story says she was asked to leave by the boss and when she didn't the police were called and that's when kitchen utensils started flying.

I can understand Maria's feelings. Sometimes we need to take out our frustrations somehow and she obviously didn't have access to some champagne. Once again, we see the dangers of not having a steady supply of bubbly on hand for emergencies just like this. It could have been so different:

Boss: Uh, Maria, are you opening my step-kid's paycheck?
Maria: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought it was mine. Oops! How silly of me. I don't know what I was thinking.
Boss: Well, stop it. And by the way, I am going to take away one of your shifts. Starting tomorrow, you only work twelve shifts a week and not thirteen. I am giving my step-kid your Monday lunch shift. Sorry.
Maria: What the hell? Are you kidding me? My Monday lunch shift pays for my weekly supply of Rose's Lime juice, asshole. How am I supposed to make that money up?
Boss: Well, maybe you can get a part-time job down the street at The Alamo. I hear they need tour guides and they pay you in cash and corn tortillas.
Maria: Oh no you din't. What, you just think because my last name is of Hispanic origin that I want to be paid in corn tortillas?
Boss: No, I was just kidding. Chill out. Haven't you ever seen the Pee Wee Herman movie where he goes on the tour of the Alamo? Pedro and Inez? C'mon, Maria. It was a joke. And plus The Bitchy Waiter was desperate to fit that scene into this blog post simply because this is happening in San Antonio.
Maria: That is not funny. I am so freakin' pissed off right now that I could throw a goddamn meat cleaver at your head!
Boss: Well, how about I give you some champagne in a coffee cup and we call it a day?
Maria: Really? Okay, that sounds swell. Thanks!

You see? Champagne always saves the day. Hopefully things will work out for Maria. Davy Crockett would not approve of using meat cleavers to solve our work problems. Sam Houston would want you to drink champagne and work things out. Santa Anna would totally want you to throw a meat cleaver at your boss's head. I guess we all have to do what is right for us. And a personal thanks to my seventh grade Texas History teacher, Mr. Moses for teaching me who the hell the main players were in the fight for Texas Independence. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a coffee cup of champagne that has my name on it. Remember the Alamo, bitches.

(By the way, go here and tell them that they need to have the Bitchy Waiter on their television show. Thanks.)



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

CBS Needs Some Bitchy Waiter

It has been brought to my attention that CBS Sunday Morning is looking for waiter stories and you know my attention-whore ass wants to get a piece of that spotlight so I need your help. They have a Facebook page where you can submit suggestions so you can always go here and say, "Oooh, girl, you'd better call The Bitchy Waiter 'cause he has the best stories ever. And his hair is all curly and shit and would look great on the television." My plan of gripe for this proposed television appearance is to discuss the people who don't know what the hell a menu is for. You know how freakin' annoying it is when someone sits in your station and doesn't bother to open the menu and says, "Can I get some cheese sticks right away? I'm starving." We don't have cheese sticks, Bertha Mae Mae.

They also have an email address where you can drop them a line about someone you think would be good for the show. So you could always click this link and say something like, "My stars, have you heard about The Bitchy Waiter? Well, I do declare he would be just perfect for your segment on waiters and their pet peeves. He's such a nice young man too. Such a dear."

It seems like only yesterday that I was doing the Dr. Phil show and basking in the spotlight of mid to low level fame and I want more of it. I hope you can take a second out of your busy day of playing Farmville and reading D-Listed and either go to their Facebook page or email them on my behalf.

I thank you.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

The Story of the Sad Man at Table 16

On my first day back to waiting tables after three weeks of no apron, I was welcomed back to work by one of my regulars. It was a family of four; mom, dad and two horribly misbehaving children who are holy terrors of evil. Seriously, they were my first table. What a way to start my foray back into the land of serving. When they come into the restaurant, it's like a hurricane made love to a tornado and then birthed an earthquake that came popping out of a volcano followed by a mudslide placenta. It's a disaster. As they scan the restaurant for a table, any customers sitting next to empty ones cower in fear that they will be the ones forced to finish their meal next to the band of brats. The family chose a booth. In my station. And so it began.

As soon as they sat down, mom and dad grabbed all the electric candles from surrounding tables so the kids had something to play with. I've discussed it before, but I think it's really poor parental judgement to let children play with electric candles. Their immature and mushy brains may not recognize the difference the next time they go to a restaurant that has real candles with flames. It is a recipe for disaster if you ask me, but nobody asked me and I am certainly not one to give unsolicited advice. But I'm right, right? How is a three year old supposed to know that some candles are for playing with and some candles aren't? Anyhoo, the kids were throwing the candles around, banging their cups on the table, screaming like howler monkeys in heat trying to cough up hairballs, dropping crap on the floor, and in general being a public nuisance and a big fat pain in my little ass. And then I caught a look of the father's eyes. They were glazed over with saddness. His second cup of coffee had done nothing to make him more alert and the situation seemed to be a desperate one for him. For me, this was going to last thirty minutes tops, but Dad was looking at the next 18 years of his life and it was depressing the hell out of him. I took a class in mind reading at the Learning Annex a few years ago. Madame Buluga taught me a few things so I delved into his thoughts and this is what I read:

Damn, this night sucks. I wonder if anyone would notice if I said I was going to the bathroom and instead just got on the 7 train to Grand Central and hopped a train and never came back. I have about $1200 worth of credit on my Master Card and I could get as far away as possible. Maybe change my name and get a haircut and grow a beard so no one will recognize me. I could get a nice simple job as a stocker on the overnight shift at a Wal-Mart in Topeka and live happily ever after. These kids are crazy. Why don't they behave? Oh, wait I know why; because all I do is ignore them and they have no concept of how to behave in public, that's why. And look at my wife. She looks just as pissed off as I am. Maybe she'd like to come with me to Topeka? Naah, then who'd take care of the kids? I'll leave her too, whatever. God dammit, why didn't I wear a condom three years ago? I had them. I was just too caught up in the moment to get it from the night stand. She was even telling me to put one on and I was all, "It's okay girl, I love you. Let's make a baby together." Famous last words, that's for sure. And then again two years later. She was telling me to put a goddamn rubber on and I was all, 'It's okay, baby. I love you so much. Let's give Jr. a little brother or sister. Lemme just do that for you. I wanna make another baby, baby." God, what a load of shit. If I don't get on the 7 train tonight and escape this hell, I will go get a fucking vasectomy right after we leave this restaurant. I will pay the check and go over to Snips R Us and get that shit taken care of. No more kids. And even then, I will never not wear a condom again. Ever. These kids are awful. "Hate" is a really strong word but "despise" might work. I despise my kids. Hey look at our waiter. Didn't I see him on Dr. Phil? Look at how friendly he is to his tables and so professional. His hair is amazing too. I wish I was him, not a care in the world I bet. His life is perfect. Mine sucks. You know who is hot? That chick from The View, what's her name? The red head? Joy Behar, I think. She's hot. Man, I'd love to show up at her place with some Fig Newtons and-

I lost the train of thought when he was hit on the side of his head by a coloring book that his daughter threw at him but it was just as well because I really didn't want to see where he was going with that Joy Behar thought. I gave them the check and they rounded up the kids and headed home. Hopefully he followed through on his plan to get his old boys dried out. It would be a service to himself, his wife, the restaurant industry and the world if he could assure us that he will bring no more screeching howler monkeys into existence. They come to the restaurant once a week and I'm almost willing to chip in for it. I really don't like them. They give me a headache, which is what the wife should say the next time he wants to make a baby with her.



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

An Order of Milk With a Side of Boob

Recently at the restaurant I had a lovely young mother come in with her adorable son. It was just the two of them on a "date night" and they were both very sweet. She specifically asked to sit out of the way of everyone which I assumed was because she had a rather large stroller as new moms are apt to have. I gave her a two-top at the front of the restaurant and handed her a menu. "I'll give you a chance to settle in and be back in a minute to get you whatever you'd like," I said. At this point the baby was just waking up in his stroller and she said, "Better give me a few minutes. Somebody just woke up and he's gonna be hungry." "No problem," I told her.

About five minutes later she called me over. She was now holding the baby in her arms and ready to place the order. The little boy was less than a year old. He had sleepy little eyes and full head of bushy brown hair and cute little hands that were grasping at whatever they could find. "I'll have the mac and cheese and then the salmon," Mom ordered. "And water is fine." She didn't seem to notice that the the little boy's hands were creeping into her blouse but it was obvious to me. This kid was feeling up his own motherright in front of me. That baby totally got to second base while I was taking an order. I smiled and went on my way.

When the mac and cheese was ready, I placed it on a tray and headed over to table 5. I was not prepared for what I saw. The baby was having his dinner and it was courtesy of a big right titty that was hanging out of young mother's shirt. There was a feeding frenzy going on over there. It was a milk buffet. Cafe con leche con boobie. It was like a National Geographic special happening. I don't have a lot of experience with the bosoms other than some close encounters of the drunk kind after too many California Coolers in the 80's. (Hi, Laurie, say hi to your husband for me. How are the kids?) Even though my knowledge of the breasticles is limited, I am pretty sure that letting one hang out in the middle of a restaurant so you can feed your kid as I am innocently trying to place a bowl of macaroni and cheese is inappropriate. We don't have a nursing station just like we don't have a changing table. Where else was she supposed to do it? I don't know, but I really didn't feel it was right.

"Here is your mac and cheese. Is there anything else you might need right now?" I asked. "Like a sheet, partition or a separate room?" I thought. "Or maybe a box of blindfolds for all of us who are not accustomed to seeing breasts while at our jobs?" I averted my eyes and backed away from the table. "There's nothing to see over here, folks, nothing at all. Do not look at table five, I repeat, DO NOT look at table five," I heard the voice in my head screaming.

By the time the salmon was ready, the little boy was just as full as mom was from her appetizer. The rest of the service continued sans boobs. She left me a great tip and was completely friendly. I know that breast-feeding is totally natural and I am in no way against it. I can appreciate it as long as I have consumed a four pack of California Coolers and Laurie is just as trashed as I am and laying on my bed circa 1985. But I question the appropriateness of the action in a restaurant without one of those shield thingies. I may be old-school, but if she didn't bring enough for everybody, then maybe she shouldn't have brought it at all.

Here is my question to you: was it right or wrong for her to nurse at a table in a restaurant? Yes, she was at a table away from everyone else but there was a table directly next to her that could have been sat. No, we do not have a place for nursing moms to have some privacy. Yes, boobies make me nervous whether they have a baby hanging off of it or not. No, I was not about to ask her to stop because I am not stupid. But I want to know what you think about the situation. Please share your thoughts. And before you jump all over me, please remember I am not against it. I was just surprised, that's all. And great. Now I totally want cereal.

You can read the follow up to this post here.




Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

There's No Place Like Home

I have felt naked for the last three weeks. It's as if I were missing a part of myself and everyone knew something was wrong with me. I was not whole. Well last night I became complete again because after three weeks of not waiting tables I tied on the apron and got back to work. As I positioned that black polyester piece of fabric with the perfectly placed pockets, everything seemed to make sense again. It was like I had clicked my heels together and been transported to a familiar and happy place called home. The sky was bluer, the birds were louder, and the glass of Chardonnay I had hidden in the drawer where we keep the paper towels seemed to taste even better than usual. I was a waiter again!

For the last three weeks, I have been training at another job so I took some time away from the service industry to focus on my new career which has no trays or aprons involved. The new job is great but I can't tell you how many times I have reached down to a non-existent apron to grab a pen. I may have to start wearing one at the new job because people need to learn how handy they are. When I wait tables, my apron has the following in it at any given time:

• pens
• wine key
• pad of paper
• spare change
• cell phone
• tissue and napkins
• lighter
• Trail Mix
• Justin Bieber
• notes for the blog
• a copy of Catcher in the Rye for when it gets slow
• gum
• mints
• several corks that I am saving to make one of these
• and Play-Doh (don't ask...)
  

At the new job, I have no apron. I keep a pen in my ponytail, gum in my pocket and my cell phone in my locker. It's difficult to do without my stuff, but I persevere. It's just one of the things I have to get used to not being a waiter all the time. One thing that is totally inconvenient at the new job is the tray that is permanently affixed to my left hand. It's very handy at the restaurant but a real nuisance anywhere else. My mom was right; I never should have had that surgically added, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Last night I realized that I missed being a waiter. It was nice to interact with customers again. When the lady at table 21 asked me if she was ever going to get to place her drink order, I was happy to tell her that she wasn't in my station but Jasmine would be right with her. Two minutes later when I walked past the lady again and she sarcastically asked me, "Are you Jasmine?" the urge to burn her eyebrows off wasn't even that strong. I simply smiled and told her, "No ma'am, I'm not Jasmine."

When table 35 called me over during the show to tell me something, I was eager to go hear what he had to say. "Would you tell those ladies at that table back there to shut the hell up?" he told me. "Yes sir," I replied and went right over to the two women. I didn't tell them to shut up though because that would affect my tip. I just asked them if they needed anything and they quieted down. The man at table 35 assumed I told them to shut the hell up, but I am a professional and know how to appease two tables at once.

When table 27 stiffed me on $84 because they thought the tip was included, I didn't mind. "Oh well," I thought. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake. Maybe next time they will tip better." They had also told me that they were coming back next week to see another show so I took a mental note to remember to not bust my hump if they happen to sit in my station.

Yes, it was good to be home again. There was a smile on my face, a pep in my step and a second glass of Chardonnay hidden on the shelf behind the coffee filters. Maybe waiting tables isn't so bad. Could it be that I like it? Could it be that serving people makes me feel good? Possibly. When I punched out and was stumbling towards the F train (thanks to the third glass of Chardonnay I had in a paper cup with a lid and a straw so it looked like I was drinking ginger ale and I was able to leave it in plain sight right next to the credit card machine), I realized what I liked about waiting tables. I had $91 in my pocket for an easy four hour shift and I had a damn good buzz that I didn't have to pay for.

I am a waiter and there's no place like home!



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Dr. Phil Jack-o-Lantern

The air is crisp and cool, the leaves are turning brown and all the patio furniture is getting dragged down to the basement meaning only one thing: fall is here. A lot of people love the arrival of autumn because they get to wear their favorite sweaters and make soups and stews again but for me fall just means that old man winter is right around the corner. The only old man I detest more than winter is the one who used to come into the Black Eyed Pea and do word searches all day while nursing a cup of coffee and making poopy bubbles in his old man drawers. One good thing about this season is the chance to put on a costume for Halloween. After that, it's five to six months of putting on long underwear, gloves, coats and scarves every time you step foot outside your house.

Someone recently sent me a link on how to make a jack-o-lantern with the face of Dr. Phil and seeing that I am super amazing best friends with Dr. Phil, of course I totally plan on doing this. Would his face be my first choice to carve into a pumpkin? No, it would probably be Carol or Marcia Brady, Flo or Benjamin Franklin but since I am so close to Dr. Phil, it is his face I shall use. Wait, maybe I can use Linda Lavin or Shirley from What's Happening. Or perhaps Angela Lansbury or one of the Golden Girls. Or maybe it doesn't have to be a face. It could be words of advice, like a fortune pumpkin: Man who tips big gets big reward. Man who tips little gets written about on a blog. Yes, that is what my pumpkin will be and I will carry it around with me at work. Oh, but it would be too heavy and throw the balance off my tray. Hmm, better go back to the face of Dr. Phil. After all, I owe it to Dr. Phil for giving me a national platform to speak my mind, so Dr. Phil it shall be! But wait, I want something scary on my pumpkin and Dr. Phil may be intimidating, but he's not scary. What face can I use that will be both scary and representational of Dr. Phil? I got it! Processed Chicken Lady:


Naahh, not her. I know she doesn't like processed chicken, but she may have an aversion to gourds as well and I certainly wouldn't want to make her uncomfortable. I'll use Dr. Phil's face but I will put it in front of speaker with scary sound effects and him saying "How's that workin' out for ya?" on a loop. Now that would be scary. So today after work, I will go to the store and buy a pumpkin and all my supplies and then come home and download all the instructions. I will do this right after I make myself a pumpkin martini. How do you make a pumpkin martini? Hmm, I probably need pumpkin vodka, but I already have regular, Citron and Blueberry so maybe I will just make a cocktail with one of those instead. Yeah, that'll be easier. I need easy. In fact, the very thought of carving a pumpkin to look like Dr. Phil seems to be way above my comfort level when it comes to cutting with a big sharp knife. Maybe I will just buy one of those little baby pumpkins and draw on it with a Sharpie. Then I can focus my attention on the important things; my cocktails. So yeah. That's what I'll do tonight. I will draw a face on a baby pumpkin with a Sharpie and drink cocktails until I feel like this:

Click here to learn all about the Dr. Phil jack-o-lantern! Tonight is my first night back to waiting tables after three blessed weeks without wearing an apron. Wish me luck. And please "like" this so the world can know about this amazing idea of the Dr. Phil Pumpkin Face.



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Take a Chance on Me

You know that I love my martinis and when I find a place that I like, I feel it is my duty to pass that info to others. I took a journey out to Brooklyn yesterday which is quite the trek when you consider I started in Queens and the MTA is a big hot mess that holds New Yorkers hostage. You never know what you're going to get when you swipe that Metro Card at the turnstile and get on the 7 train. My reward for braving the subway system was sweet though, for I came across a restaurant in Brooklyn called Chance. Please do not ask me what the food was like because once I saw their happy hour, I was mesmerized:


Could it be? Four dollar martinis, mojitos and margaritas all day Monday through Thursday? How is this possible? How have I not already set up a tent in the middle of their dining room and declared it my home? How have I not already started earning squatters rights so they can never kick me out? How is that we were the only people at the bar? I sat down and wiped the drool from my chin and tried to control my shaking hands as I held the menu imagining how far I could go with just twenty dollars.

Our bartender was named Jen and she happily made us a round of coconut cosmos. They were a little sweet for my taste but the four dollar price tag made them taste like nectar dripping from a golden flower of paradise onto a rainbow where it slid down onto the horn of a unicorn that was being ridden by Rainbow Brite as she sang an ABBA song. Yeah, I liked it. For my next round I went the pomegranate margarita route because it was clear that I would be drinking my dinner that evening and I needed the vitamins and anti-oxidants that would be present in the juice. To be honest, I don't really know what health benefits there are in pomegranate juice, but I like the idea that it's good for me. The margarita was made in a tall glass with a lot of ice and served with a smile.

By this point, I was a Chatty Cathy and started yucking it up with Jen. We began discussing Halloween costumes and how she needed to find something that was fun but also easy to be at work in since she would be serving up $4.00 drinks on Halloween night. She was leaning towards "sexy zombie hippie" which covers pretty much every base out there for a costume these days, but as we started getting more into it, we came up with additional ideas. You should go there on Halloween and see if she follows up on Sexy Zombie Ginger Grant from Gilligan's Island or Bitter Grown Up Lil' Orphan Annie. Either one will be brilliant as long as she puts enough vodka and/or tequila in the drinks that night.

We stayed a for a while until it was deemed necessary that food go into the stomach to soak up some of the liquor. Sure, I could have eaten there, but the fresh Autumn air was calling me and it was going to be nice to walk a bit and let the vodka and tequila move around. I told Jen to check out the blog, but I doubt she will. She will probably be too busy putting together her Halloween costume and won't have the the time to read this. (Give me a sign if you're here, Jen!)

Go check out Chance in Cobble Hill Brooklyn. C'mon, it's four freakin' dollars for drinks. How can you resist that temptation? When you get there, ask if the bartender is named Jen and if it's her, tell her Bitchy Waiter said hello. She more than likely will be like, "Um, what are you talking about? Oh, that drunk guy with the hair that looked like a Brillo pad and wouldn't shut the fuck up about Halloween? You know him? Get the hell out of here right now." And then you will just have to say, "Oh, I mean can I have a $4.00 martini please? You're pretty."

And if you thought this was going to be about ABBA, you can go here.



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Bitchy Waiter Meets Some Broadway Babies

I met some famous people a few nights ago and believe it or not I wasn't handing them a fucking plate of food when it happened. I went to see a great big Broadway show called Follies. It's kinda brilliant if you're a big fan of any of the following things: musicals, Stephen Sondheim or gayness. Through out the show I was holding back tears of joy because that's how I am; I cry at good theater. If you don't believe me you can ask the cast of the 1998 Broadway revival of Cabaret who witnessed me have a mini breakdown due to the severe nature of amazingness that was happening on stage. Anyhoo, after Follies, some strings were pulled and we were ushered backstage to meet two of its stars, Jan Maxwell and Bernadette Peters. Now before you ask "what the hell does this have to do with Bitchy Waiter and food service?" just wait a goddamn minute.

We went to the stage door and began waiting for the girls upstairs. Once we made it past the doorman at the Marquis Theater (and by the way, a shout out to John who watches the door over at The Addams Family who I am told reads this blog in his spare time), we were whisked into the dressing room of one Jan Maxwell. If you don't know her, please learn about her. I ordinarily find that going backstage after a show is very awkward and uncomfortable but seeing it was my friend's birthday and it needed to be special, the strings were pulled. Ms. Maxwell made being backstage a completely comfortable situation. Gracious, kind, congenial, lovely, talented, sincere and fucking cool are all words that come to mind when describing this woman. The next thing we knew we were talking about The Bitchy Waiter and I swear on a stack of ketchup-covered menus that it was not me who brought it up. "So tell me about this Bitchy Waiter," she said as I began losing my mind that she was even talking to me. I explained what it was in a few succinct sentences, but in my head, this is what was happening:

Oh my God you were so amazing in the show and can I just tell you how much I loved your performance because I have only heard the cast recording and I never really knew what the full story was about but now I do and you made that happen for me because you are so good and I also want you to know that you were the only thing I liked when I saw Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on Broadway because I thought that show was really really weak but every time you came on stage you lit it up just like you did tonight in every scene and especially in your songs Could I Leave You? and The Story of Lucy and Jessie and I wanna be your best friend and have cocktails at Lani Kai every Monday. Do you think we can make that happen?

Instead, I played it cool and told her that I write about waiting tables. "I waited tables," she said "but I was fired every time. I was horrible at it." So now Jan Maxwell and I had an instant and real connection because we had both been fired from restaurant jobs. (Yes, that counts as a real connection.) She chatted for about ten minutes and then we excused ourselves so she could go on with her night. She shook our hands and I asked her to please check out my blog. Yes, even when starstruck, I am pimping out my fucking blog.

We moved into the hallway to see what we should do next. Go home, get out, go to the stage, what? All of a sudden, who's that woman? I know her well, all decked out head to toe. Bernadette Peters floated over to us on a cloud of musical theater dreams, curls and Tony Awards. I wanted to embrace her Milky Whites (for you, Larry) just to see if she was real. She signed Larry the Birthday Boy's program and then let us adore her for a few minutes. It really was quite surreal to be having a conversation with someone I have known of for decades and only seen on television, film and stage. She too shook our hands and thanked us for coming. I did not learn if she ever waited tables and I did not mention the blog because I was too busy grasping for air since all of the oxygen was sucked out of the room when she came in. She was friendly and sweet to take time out to meet with us.

After we left the theater, we were all in need of a celebratory cocktail. My brain was spinning with excitement not only from meeting two musical theater superstars, but also because the production itself was so wonderful. If you're in or around New York City, you should see Follies. And if you go backstage, tell Jan and Bernadette that Bitchy Waiter said hello. They won't know what the hell you're talking about, but say it anyway. As I sipped my margarita I found myself dreaming of the great day when I'll be in a show. Oh.






Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Betty, Please, There's a New Girl in Town!

Today is October 15th. Or at least it is as I start typing at 11:45 PM on Saturday night. By the time I finish typing, it will be tomorrow but right now I am speaking of October 15th. It is the birthday of two very different women who have influenced me my whole life and nurtured me to be the kind, caring soul that I am today. One of these fine ladies gave me my sense of humor which some say is dry while others say is witty while still others say is completely non-existent. (I'm looking at you, Anonymous.) The other women gave me sense of drive and passion to put on an apron several times a week along with some sensible shoes and sling hash to make a living. Today is the birthday of both Penny Marshall and Linda Lavin, or as I know them, Laverne DeFazio and Alice Hyatt:



How is it that one simple day can produce two such iconic women of television? They weren't born in the same year, but still. The only way this day could have been any grander was if it was the birthday of Florence Henderson, but her birthday is February 14 making her not only my Valentine, but everyone else's too. Anyhoo, Penny Marshall used to make me laugh out loud on Tuesday nights when I would watch Laverne and Shirley with my two brothers. My favorite moment on the show was when the girls were were working in a diner. I don't rememeber why but it must have been because of a strike at the Shotz Brewery or something. Laverne was the fry cook and Shirley was the waitress. Anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant can watch this scene and recognize how quickly you can go from being in the zone to being in the weeds. Happy birthday, Penny Marshall:




And then we have Linda Lavin who the world knows as Alice. It's no secret that I have a major hankering for her co-waitress Flo, but let's give Alice some love. There she was stuck in Phoenix, Arizona because her station wagon broke down on the freeway on her way to Hollywood to become a star. But instead of getting her car repaired and continuing onward with her dream, she got a job as a waitress at Mel's Diner and stayed for nine years. Isn't that how it happens to so many of us who spend years and years with a tray in our hands? We're all, "I'm an actor who waits tables" or "I'm a writer who waits tables" and before you know it life is looking at you saying, 'Uh, you're a waiter, dude and I want my burger cooked medium-well." Bravo to Alice for showing us all what it's like to give up on your dream of singing and learn to accept the important things in life: your teen-age son, your friends, your job, and that stupid postman named Henry who always complains that Mel's cooking is so bad but comes in every goddamn day anyway. Happy birthday, Linda Lavin:


I know that by the time you read this, it will be October 16th and it will now be the birthday of other amazing women like Suzanne Somers and Angela Lansbury. Yes, it is true, both of these grand dames were born on October 16th. Is October like the coolest month for birthdays ever, or what? Happy birthday to Suzanne here and to Angela here. I must rest. All the awesomeness of these cool ladies is too much for my weary fingers tips.



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

A Comment on Comments

A comment reached out and poked me in the eye today and I am going to poke that bitch right back. Although I have been working my flat ass off for the last couple of weeks learning a new job leaving me precious little time to write, some comments are bold enough to pull me to the keyboard and respond. In this post about a waitress I had who may or may not have had an eye missing, someone wrote:

Before I clicked the link, I was honestly about to email you and offer a place to stay in the Annapolis area should you be back again. I clicked the link to see where you ate and was sadly disappointed at this ignorant post. She should cover her eye because you're uncomfortable. You freakin' faggot. And, yes, I am also family but you deserve to be called an ugly, horrible name for this insensitive post. Fuck you and your blog. I hope you lose a leg which would mean no waiting tables, you sorry fuck.

Ouch. The post about the possibly-one-eyed waitress was admittedly mean and it was brought to my attention by other readers after I posted it. I reread it the day after and thought, "Man, I am one big asshole. It's a good thing this blog isn't called Sentimental Sally Sweetly Waits Tables." I didn't delete it though, because I don't do that. Once it's up, it's up. And then a year later this guy has to comment and make me relive the horror of when I made fun of a waitress who may or may not have had one eye missing. I guess the worst thing about this comment is realizing that the next time I go to Annapolis, I won't be able to stay with this complete stranger who was very close to emailing me and offering me a place to stay. Darn. You mean I can't stay with you and sleep in the bunker you built underneath your house with walls covered in pictures of Jodi Foster, Silence of the Lambs and dirty aprons? Shoot, darn! And not only do I no longer have a place to stay (other than a hotel, bed and breakfast or with the people I know who live there) now he wants me to lose a leg too? Harsh, indeed. And from family, too!

I always like it when people tell me how insensitive and rude I am by being insensitive and rude. It makes it mean so so much more. And if I were to lose a leg, I would totally keep waiting tables. I would hobble my ass over to table 3 and show them that I am not handicapped. I would be handi-capable! And if crutches were not working for me, I would get a mobility scooter and prove that you don't have to have legs to be the best goddamn waiter you can be! I would become master of the pity tip.

Thank you for your comment. I'm sorry that it offended you and please accept this most sincere apology, crazy stalker type. Take care. And good luck with your one eye.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

The Story of Horse Face

Hey, maybe you have noticed that I have not been posting. It makes me feel horrible that I may be disappointing the bakers dozen of readers I have but, there's a reason for that. I got a new job and the training has been intense-40 hours a week for three weeks. At first I was getting up early to write, but my lazy body soon rejected that idea and the snooze button became my new best friend right after tequila, vodka and Marcia Brady. Soon, I will have new posts again. You can look forward to stories about hamburgers, Bernadette Peters and how my manager at work found out I was on Dr. Phil. In the meantime, you can read this post about a woman I liked to refer to as Horse Face because she had a horse face. It's mean of me to say that, but I'm the Bitchy Waiter and this lady had a true and remarkably face of horse. ~BW

It has been way too long since I have just let loose on some annoying ass bitch of a woman who sat in my station. Enough with the Dear Bitchy Waiter, Frazzled Stay at Home Mom and Ricki Lake stories, already. I need to vent about this lady last night who crawled up my ass and gave me a severe case of pruritus ani.

The show I was working was pretty much sold out, so we were crazy busy. I had a five top of women in their sixties who all seemed pleasant enough with the exception of the one bitch on the end who must have not been laid since the repeal of prohibition. She was so tightly wound that her face was all scrunched up in a permanent scowl with lips pursed and brow furrowed. At the end of the night, they gave me three credit cards and wanted $62 put on one of them and then the balance divided among the other two. No problem. I took them to the computer and divided it up but in my haste, I made an error in division which made the two cards have unequal amounts on them. I didn't understand why but I returned them to the table. At first, I thought that it had not balanced out because sometimes people ask me to put a certain amount on three cards but they have included the tips in that total and then the computer won't let me initially charge more than the original total. So I was trying to explain this to them, but they didn't get. Not only because it's a confusing situation to explain, but because that was not what they had done and I had just made an error, still unbeknownst to me. I told them I would be right back to explain it after I dropped off some other checks. It was then that I figured out what I had done. Tightly wound up bitch was getting all bent out of shape and steam started to shoot out of her ear holes. I ran back to the table and admitted my mistake. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I figured it out. I just put in the wrong total and it's totally my fault. The credit receipts have not been finalized so just tear them up, I will void them from the computer and if you give me your cards again, I will run them correctly." I was completely honest about it being my fuck up and it wasn't even that big a deal, but ol' Bitch Face was like, "What? Now, I have to give you my card again? Why, why why? I already gave it to you!" One of her friends tried to calm her down by telling her to chill out. I thought she should try rubbing her nose like they do a horse when it's stressed out. I figured since she had a horse face, why not?

I got back to their table about a whole two minutes later, but Horse Face acted like I had traveled through three different time zones. As soon as I got back to the table she whinnied at me that she needed to leave. It must have been time for her feeding and there was a pile of hay somewhere with her name on it. "Okay," I responded. I just need you to sign the slip." She shook her tail to swat at a fly that wasn't there and said "I really need to go." A friend of hers explained that I needed her to sign again before she galloped off but she protested "why, why, why?" I had had it. I went up to her long face and said:

Did I ruin your night? Did I just ruin your night? Did you just sit through an hour and a half show with an amazing performer, have a wonderful time and then I made a simple error on your credit card that I fixed and now you're going to let that ruin your whole evening? Don't let this ruin your night. Just sign the receipt and everything will be fine.

Her four friends backed me up by saying:

"Yeah, it's okay Seabiscuit."
"Relax, Black Beauty."
"What's the big deal, Secretariat?"
"Take a chill pill, you horse faced bitch of a whore. I hate going out with you. You're such a pain in my ass. Tell your jockey to ride your ass home and then eat a carrot and a sugar cube and shut the hell up." (I may have paraphrased a bit...)

Horse face eked out a half smile because I had made her realize what a petty fucking bitch she was being and if she continued to act like she had a riding crop up her ass, then she would look like an even bigger horsey bitch. She smiled, and said, "No, you didn't ruin my night." I smiled back (except mine was fake) and lied that I was glad that her night wasn't ruined. I jabbed the spur of my cowboy boot into her side and she shook her head and trotted off towards the exit. As her friends followed behind her, they each gave me a look of apology with a glint of gratitude for putting up with their friend Flicka.

Do me a favor and click "like" so this can be shared. It's just a simple click. Are you lazier than I am?



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Horror/Whore Stories

I don't do this very often, but I am actually promoting someone else for a freakin' change. Hopefully karma will come around and someone will promote me too. Honestly, what does a bitchy waiter have to do to get some promotion other than the the self kind?

FoodServiceWarehouse.com is having a contest and they are offering a $100 gift card from Amazon. Their prize is much better than my broke down shitty ass $25 gift card I gave away for my contest. (Thanks, FoodServiceWarehouse.com for making me look like a cheap bitch, but I will promote you anyway because I am cool like that.) You can go here for all the details. Basically, they are looking for horror stories that happened in your restaurant. And just to clarify, it's horror stories not whore stories so don't be writing some cute little vignette about that chick with the cold sore who gives blow jobs out by the dumpster for $10. Well, actually, that is a horror story in itself, so do whatever you want. It's not my contest...

If you send a story in (and you totally should, but good luck because you know my poor ass is already composing something) you might want to mention that you heard about it from The Bitchy Waiter. That way, they'll know that I really tried to help them out a bit and maybe they will throw me some appreciation in the form of a gift card to TequilaIsUs.com. (I can't believe you clicked that...)

So there you have it. Someone else is having a contest. I may be having another of my own soon. I am thinking of a photo contest asking people to send in pictures that happen at work; the more daring the picture the better. Like a picture of that annoying fat ass who shows up one minute before closing. Or a picture of the mess left at table 17 by the ugly baby with the dent in his head when he "ate" crackers. You get the idea? But that's another contest.

Thanks,
BW



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

A Comment on Comments

Last year I wrote a blog post regarding Cracker Barrel. It was a positive , upbeat, praise-my-waitress kind of post so who in the world would take issue with it? I'll tell you who: my arch nemesis (other than Reichen), Anonymous. Observe:

first off, you're an idiot. i work at Cracker Barrel and the stars DO NOT signify how many years you've been employed and you are a LIAR because you have NEVER seen 7 stars ANYWHERE. The highest you can achieve is FOUR!!! and that is based on your level of numbers you produce per hour for the store you work in!!! Don't talk about stuff you don't know about.

Ouch, Anonymous, why so harsh? i must commend Anonymous on her spelling and punctuation while her use of capitals needs some polishing. i stand corrected. The stars DO NOT represent the number of years the waitress has worked there!!! i guess i did not actually see a waitress with seven stars then. Maybe i dreamed it in the most perfect dream ever where i was sitting on a pile of biscuits next to a maple syrup waterfall while a waitress made of bacon fed me cheesy hash browns with a fork made of BUTTER!!! Thank you for the clarification, Anonymous, but here's my beef. Why the hell are you so upset about it? Chill the hell out, lady. i understand the level of pride you must have for the Barrel of Cracker for i too would be bursting at the seams with pride if i got to wear one of those brown polyester apron with the yellow embroidered STARS!!! i truly am a liar, liar pants on fire, hang it on a wire, liar asshole face. i totally deserve the scolding from you. How dare i misrepresent what the STARS mean at CRACKER BARREL!! i will no longer talk about stuff i don't know, i promise. (That is another lie, by the way).

Good luck, Anonymous and thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to clarify the whole star ISSUE. Many a sleepless night has passed with me in bed pondering if the blog post i wrote over a year ago was accurate or not. i sure do appreciate YOUR comment. Thank you. i mean, THANK YOU!!!



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Say Cheese, Asshole

I have a new job which is keeping me quite busy for a few weeks. With no time to write today, I decided to post this old story from the first day at my last job. Yes, I said I have a new job, but never you fear. I am keeping both of my other jobs too. I will now have three jobs because I am desperate to prove I am not a lazy ass. In time, I will give some details about the new job. In the meantime, please enjoy this post about this asshole who made me hate him on my first day of work. -BW


My first day at my new job went off without a hitch with the exception of one huge asshole who sat at table 24. Do they follow me? Am I an asshole magnet? My fellow co-workers were shocked that this guy treated me the way he did. "We never get people like that. I am so sorry you had to deal with him." Poor me, destined to deal with assholes no matter where I work. I may as well be a fucking proctologist.

So this place I work at now is pretty nice. Did I mention we have candles? Yeah, candles. Most of the folks that come in for the shows are prepared to drop a pretty penny for the cover charge and the two-drink minimum. But this guy was different. He plopped his fat ass at his seat. I gave him the shpiel about how he had to have two drinks while there and how helpful it would be to tell me both of them now so as not to interrupt him during the performance. "Do you gots Bud Light?" Being new to the job and seeing that he had a list of beers in front of him, I paused and told him I wasn't sure. I looked at the list and said, "No, sorry just Amstel Light and Sam Adams Light." He informed me that he would have an Amstel Light.

"Alright, sir. And would you like that for your second drink as well?"

"I dunno." Long pause as he stared at me. "I'll tell you what I do want though. Get the biggest glass you have. Fill it with ice. Then fill it with water. Then put a lemon in it. I want two of those right now." I make my way to another table and he calls me again. "Do you have any food?" I suppose he doesn't understand the purpose of the menu sitting in front of him.

"Yes sir, we do. I have hummus and pita chips, spinach artichoke dip-"

"No, no no. Food. Real food."

"That is food sir. We do consume that."

"Meat. Do you have any food that is meat?"

I was staring to hate this guy. "Then no sir, we don't have any food."

"What kind of food do you have then?"

I have now crossed the line from starting to hate this guy to actually hating this guy. I reiterated our food options and he finally agreed on the cheese plate and then berated me for not knowing the price without looking at the menu. He almost choked when I told him how expensive it was, but he ordered it. The table next to him told me "good luck" as I went to ring in his order. He yelled out to me he also wanted a shot of Jack Daniels. When I brought out his beer, shot and two waters (which he never touched) he told me he needed a Coke chaser and he was not paying for it because where he comes from you just automatically get a Coke chaser with a shot of Jack and he was not paying for it and he would not be paying for it. Got it, ass. Fine.

Halfway through the show he leaves his seat to come to the bar and complain that he is dissatisfied with his cheese plate. He was not paying for a plate of crackers with one piece of cheese. He would not be paying for it. Got it, fine. Meanwhile the other server went to retrieve said cheese plate and showed him several pieces of cheese that were still on it proving that it did have more than one piece as he claimed. "Well, I don't like swiss!" (It was edam.) "And I don't know what those other cheeses are!" (They were gouda and brie.) I guess he just didn't recognize his old stalwart cheeses of American, cheddar and Whiz.

We took the cheese plate of his bill. After the show, he walked around the room talking to some of his friends and ignoring me as I waited to accept payment. About fifteen minutes later I hear the other server calling after him as he walked toward the door. "Sir, are you going to pay your check??" Asshole laughed. "Oh my Lord. I totally forgot about it. I'm sorry. How much do I owe you? Hardy har har."

I ran his credit card and you know what the asshole did? On a $49 check, he left me ten bucks; a totally surprising 20% tip. I swear to God, I just don't get people.



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

That Famous Guy Left a Big Tip

Does anyone know who Sean Parker is without Googling him first? The name is familiar and you know you have heard it, but you're not quite sure why you know it. My first thought was that he is Spiderman's alter ego, but that's Peter Parker. And then I thought he was that actor from the American Pie movies, but that's Sean William Scott. Who the fuck is Sean Parker? Oh, yeah, he's the guy who had something to do with Facebook and Justin Timberlake played him in Social Network. Well, he's rich because he tipped a waitress $5,000 on a $6,000 check last week.

According to the Internet (so you know it's true) he partied at West Hollywood’s Beverly Club with friends Clark Kent, Diana Prince, Bruce Wayne and Tara Reid. The bar tab was $6,000 because Diana and Tara were doing body shots off of each other and they went through 21 bottles of Belvedere Vodka and a case of Red Bull. The one time I was at the Beverly, I don't recall it being that expensive. It was real nice though. It had a pool and a complimentary basket of chips and was surrounded by palm trees. It is possible I am thinking of a different Beverly though, so don't quote me. I stayed at the Beverly Garland Holiday Inn once so that might be what I am thinking. So this Sean guy has money flowing out of his butt like an ATM and he wanted to be generous, right? Or was it that the cocktail waitress had really big boobies and he was trying to impress her? Hmmm, I wonder which one it was:


Waitress: Is there anything else I can get you tonight?
Sean: Do you know who I am?
Waitress: Um, no I'm afraid I don't, but would you like anything else tonight?
Sean: You're pretty.
Waitress: Thank you very much. But seriously, do you need anything?
Sean: You have great tits. You sure you don't know who I am?
Waitress: Okay, I give up. Who are you?
Sean: Ever hear of Napster?
Waitress: Yeah, why?
Sean: I invented that.
Waitress: Oh my God, you did? That's amazing. I have one of them. My cat loves it.
Sean: I'm sorry, what? Your cat has one?
Waitress: Aren't you talking about the combination sleeping hammock/scratching post/cat nip dispenser thingy they sell at K-Mart?
Sean: No, Napster was an online music sharing site that I created.
Waitress: Oh, I always get those confused. That's cool, but I heard that you were just an early employee of Napster and that it was actually developed by Sean and John Fanning and you tried to take credit for it...
Sean: Never mind. I was the president of Facebook. Justin Timberlake played me in the movie The Social Network. Pretty cool, right?
Waitress: Yeah, I don't use Facebook. Is there anything else you need because I am wrapping it up here. Your check is $6.000, so if I could just get a credit card or something...
Sean: Sure, babe, yeah. Here, just put it on my black American Express card and put a $5,000 tip on there for yourself, alright? Did I mention you have pretty boobies?
Waitress: Oh, thanks. I'm a model.
Sean: So just put that $5,000 tip on there, alright?
Waitress: I will, thanks.

(two minutes pass)

Waitress: Here's your card Mr. Parker. And thanks for the tip, that's really sweet of you.
Sean: Yeah, well, I'm rich. I was president of Facebook.
Waitress: So you said.
Sean: And there's plenty more where that came from...if you know what I mean. Nice tits, man, I mean, seriously.
Waitress: Yeah, thanks nerd. Good night.

So I suspect that Sean Parker was flashing his money around and trying to impress everyone. Since no one knows who the fuck he is by looking at him, his only choice is to constantly remind people that he is important. Meanwhile, the waitress is at the bank depositing her money and planning on another boob job. I wish Sean Parker would sit in my station. I could use a $5,000 tip, that's for sure. My tits may not be as nice as the waitress's but at least I would know who Sean Parker was if he sat in my station.

Bitchy Waiter: Hey, you're that guy that Justin Timberlake played in that movie, right?
Sean: Yes! Yes, I am! I'm Sean Parker!
Bitchy Waiter: Cool! Can I have $5,000 now please?





Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Louise's Story (Frat Boys and Margaritas)

My friend "Louise" told me a story about how she got a shitty tip at her Mexican restaurant job. The bill was $93 and she got four bucks and eventually five more making it a solid 10%. This is my version of her story:

It was long tough night at Big Brother Bubba's Burrito Bar Buffet and Mexican Style Olde Timey Cantina where Louise had been punching the clock for five years. Bubba's was a nice neighborhood Mexican restaurant with good food, good service and a good staff. One of Louise's co-workers had called in sick and there was no one to cover for her, so Louise had the whole restaurant to herself. It was a tall order, but for a Tuesday night, it would be okay. The tips that night were average. Despite stellar service, for Louise knew no other way to serve, she was getting 12-15% at every table. "What the hell?" she thought. "Is rent due today? Did the stock market crash? Why is no one giving me the 20% I am earning?" She shrugged it off and headed to her next table.

It was a four-top; three frat boys and a young woman with blond hair and dark roots and she was wearing a t-shirt that said "Men are like snow storms: you never know when they're coming, how many inches you'll get or how long they'll last." She was a real class act. Each of the frat boys were wearing their caps backward because they thought it looked cool when really it just looked stupid as fuck. They sucked down a few margaritas and asked for more free chips and salsa too many times, but Louise served them with a smile because she is a real pro. When she set their bill down, the check came to a total of $93.00. She saw that they were having difficulty dividing the bill; some had cash and some had credit cards and all of them were drunk bitches with no recollection of simple math skills or the ability to use the calculator app on their phones. They finally handed her a a pile of cash and one credit card.

"Here's sixty dollars in cash and put the rest on this credit card," the wannabe blond slurred out.

Louise touched on her own nose in the hope that it would signal to the girl that she should wipe the salt off of her face. The girl didn't pick up the hint and Louise went on her way. Moments later, after the group had stumbled out, Louise saw that that the credit card slip had a four dollar tip scrawled onto it. "Four freakin' dollars? Four? Are you kiddin' me? After all those chips, they're gonna give me four feakin' dollars on a $93 bill?? Uh uh." She headed to the sidewalk to find the dumb fucks and ask them if there was some non-existent problem with the service.

On the street, she saw two of the frat boys smoking cigarettes, leaning on each other because they were both a little drunk and the shorter one had always admired the taller one's calf muscles yet he only seemed to notice them when he had been drinking and he thought this was a good time to tell him how attractive his legs looked, no homo.

"Hey!" Louise said. "Four dollars? Are your feakin' kiddin' me? Are you kiddin' me here?"

Shorter Frat Boy quickly pulled away from his friend and thrust his hands into his pockets. "What, we weren't doing anything, I didn't even notice his sinewy calf muscles and I have never been attracted to a man in my entire life, what?" There was an awkward silence. "I mean, what was that you were saying, miss?"

"On a $93 check, you're gonna leave me four bucks? Why? Why?"

Taller Frat Boy, who had moved away from his friend by at least six inches, said, "Our friend was supposed to leave more of a tip on the credit card. She didn't?"

"No, she didn't. She left me four dollars."

"I'm sorry. She's a real cheap skank. I hate her." Taller Frat Boy reached into his pocket and dug around for more cash. He couldn't help but notice that Shorter Frat Boy was eyeing him as he did it. Shorter Frat Boy's line of vision moved from his friend's crotch and then to his eyes, catching him staring back at him. Shorter Frat Boy said abruptly in a lower than usual voice, "Dude, I fuckin' love football, don't you?"

"Look, this is all I have, five more dollars, take it." He handed the money to Louise and ignored his friend who seemed to be adjusting his crotch.

"Great, so now we've made it a 10% tip, thanks so much," she said, the sarcasm dripping in much the same way that Shorter Frat Boy's penis was dripping with pre-cum.

Neither Louise nor the Frat Boys noticed that a few feet away was someone with their flip cam recording the scene because the young videographer felt that it could lead to an altercation that would be fun to send to Facebook later.

"10% is a crappy tip, just so you know. You think it's easy working at Big Brother Bubba's Burrito Bar Buffet and Mexican Style Olde Timey Cantina? Well, it isn't. I depend on tips because in New york State, my wage is $5.oo an hour and all of it goes to taxes, so my check is never more than twenty bucks. Next time you go out to dinner, you best make sure you have enough money to leave a freakin' tip, alright? Or just stay out of my restaurant."

The girl with the camera made sure the sign to Bubba's was in the background.

Taller Frat Boy began to say something but before he could, Louise continued. "Save your breath, save your apologies and save me the misfortune of ever having to wait on you again. Go away and don't come back, alright? Fucking douche bags. You make my balls ache and I don't even have any!!"

At this point, Shorter Frat Boy said, "I know what you mean about balls aching. I feel like mine are-"

Louise interrupted him. "And you need to get laid. I've been watching you stare at your friend all freakin' night. Get a room already, Jesus. Yeah," she said to Taller Frat Boy. "Your friend here has the hots for you. Do yourself a favor and let him go down on ya already. Jeez, it's so freakin' obvious." Louise spun on her heels and went back to work.

Girl With the Camera continued filming and saw Shorter Frat Boy melt into a pool of tears and then turn and run down the street screaming, 'I love women. I love football. I am a heterosexual male!" Taller Frat Boy then threw up for the camera and the girl knew she had something good to put on the Internet.

Ten minutes later, the video was posted on YouTube, Facebook, Google+ and MySpace and had over a 1,000 views. Everyone wanted to see it. By the next day it had over 25,000 views and by the end of the week it had been featured on D-Listed, Perez Hilton and Broke Straight Boys. The two frat boys were infamous and so was Louise. For the next three months, Big Brother Bubba's Burrito Bar Buffet and Mexican Style Olde Timey Cantina was packed with people wanting to sit in Louise's station. Everyone was eager to meet the woman who had made a frat boy cry and they all wanted to leave her big fat tips. It all turned out perfectly. Well, except for the two frat boys. Taller One eventually married the wannabe blond cheap skank bitch and Shorter One joined a pray-the gay-away clinic that was owned by Michele Bachmann's totally not gay husband, Marcus.

But for Louise, it tuned out great.



Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.