I’ve been waiting tables for the last six years now.
As a freshman in college it seemed like a great idea; good money, low hours, and plenty of time to pursue my other interests (pussy and alcohol). But, as time went by it started to drive me insane.
You see, I’m one of those people who hold themselves in the highest esteem, and I will not brook any sort of disrespect or condescension directed toward me. The thing is, though, people treat waiters like shit. An average shift consists of people complaining constantly; bitching and moaning about portion size, whining about the fact that they don’t get free refills on Orange juice, and yelling at me because they think that being charged extra for grilled onions is unfair. In short, waiting tables is about idiots taking out their frustrations regarding their own unfulfilling lives on a person whom they assume is their inferior.
But, I am a petty man. If you cross me once I will hold a grudge until the end of my days, waiting for the chance to fuck you over so bad you’ll wish our paths had never crossed. As a waiter, well that opportunity presents itself almost immediately. I mean, jeez, what type of moron thinks that being mean to someone who has unmonitored access to your food is a good idea?
I have done some awful things to peoples food, the type of stuff that will turn your stomach and make you never even consider eating something you haven’t prepared yourself. And, here they are.
Spitting in Food
Oh man, I’ve done this more times than I can count. My favorite victim was the meter maid who worked the area by my house. This fat bitch had given me a ticket for being parked too far from the curb only hours before, then had the bad judgment to eat at the same place I was working. It was the first time in my life I was glad to be sick. A nice big lung oyster found it’s way into her salad; one of those big green chunky ones. It almost made me sick watching her eat it. In fact, it was so big I thought she might notice, luckily the fat bitch put so much ranch on her salad you couldn’t see the lettuce, much less the extra love I included in it.
Fighting for equality
This one was a trip, mainly because it was the first time in my life I encountered racism. I mean, I’m a big white dude, from a middle class family, so I never thought it would be an issue. Well, when a table of young black men decided to shout, “Hey, white boy, more coffee over here” followed by a chorus of snapping fingers, I knew something needed to be done. “Flavored or regular?”, I asked, smilingly with that vacant hatred waiters are so good at.
“Flavored, and make sure it’s hot this time.”
Well, it was flavored all right, booger flavored. It’s amazing how fast a big green piece of nose gold will dissolve into a hot cup of joe. I’m like a modern day Rosa Parks, only young, white and vindictive.
Decaf? Not likely
Old women are the worst. They don’t tip and have no problem complaining to your boss if they think you fucked something up. Plus they always want decaf coffee and never believe you when you say that what you’ve given them is, in fact, decaf. So, I just give them regular. It’s funny because they get all cranked up and wild and have no idea why. I suppose that one day one of them will have a heart condition and the caffeine will kill them. But, really, who cares? First off, if a cup of something can kill you then you probably shouldn’t order it. I mean, mistakes happen. Also, if your grasp on life is so tenuous that a little bit of energy is going to make your heart explode, well, maybe it’s time to give up anyway, right?
The Golden Shower
In every restaurant bathroom there is a sign saying you must wash your hands in warm water before returning to work. Urine counts as warm water, right? We had a regular at one place I worked, you might know him, he was a big shot in the town where I live, in fact, he was mayor at the time. Well, Mr Moneybags didn’t tip. So, every time he came in I’d conveniently need to use the restroom. I’d piss on my hands and shake them into his salad, then onto his steak, and finally into his drink. My only regret is that I didn’t have some sort of communicable disease to pass on to him.
Most waiters know what this means. When you’re working and need to fart really bad all you do is start at one end of the restaurant and, while slowly releasing your flatulence, walk a path that takes you through the middle of the place. It’s like chemical warfare at it’s best. Everyone is looking around, trying to pinpoint the awful stench. Little do they know I’m lurking around the corner, laughing my ass off and watching as my poo gas adds its own unique flavor to every dish. Essence of ass, as it were.
The Salty Dog
I’ve only done this once, but that’s only because I’ve only had one customer who deserved it badly enough. I was working at a restaurant, making milk shakes for all the fat people who feel it’s necessary to wash down a bacon cheeseburger with a mouthful of ice cream. One day a fellow asked for a vanilla malt, which is made of vanilla ice cream, vanilla syrup, milk, and malt. Well, homeboy sent his back, saying that it didn’t taste right. Whatever, that stuff happens, I gladly went and made another. He sent that one back too. And then a third. After taking a sip of the fourth he asked me, “What’s wrong with you, don’t you know how to make a vanilla malt? It’s the easiest thing in the world. Are you an idiot or something?”
Wrong move buddy. It turned out he didn’t know what malt was, which was the odd taste, he actually only wanted a plain vanilla shake. So I made him one. But, before I poured it into his glass I went into the bathroom, put my nuts in the glass, and gave it a 360 degree turn, rimming the glass against my taint. Oh, yeah, I was about seven hours into a nine-hour shift and hadn’t showered before work. I filled the glass with the shake and presented it to him, sans straw. He took a big gulp, from the rim of the glass, declared it acceptable, and asked for a straw. I conveniently forgot to bring him one and proceeded to watch him finish the entire thing. Delicious!
There’s a moral to this: tip well and be nice to your waiter/waitress. Most of us are only doing it because we have other interests and the job provides the opportunity to scrape by and dedicate your time to more important things.
And, as far a tipping goes, always tip at least two dollars per person or double the tax, whichever is more. If you frequent a restaurant, we WILL remember, and your service and food quality will be reflected in the way you treat us.