(I really let loose on this one. At the time I really wasn't all this upset, but in writing about it I've spewed out weeks of frustration with customers. I hope it's amusing at least!)
Mother's Day was quite an interesting day for me. I'd gotten up at ten the morning before, after four hours of sleep, and had a brilliant day. When the clock struck midnight in New York City, I was crossing Times Square with three Brazilians, two of whom I'd just met. We wandered a bit, ate at McDonald's, ogled Morten Harket's ass on one of their cameras, and at about 2:30 headed down in to the subway. I had taken the E line in to Manhattan, but it was re-routed so I had to take the F back to the airport. Unsure of how much the stations would have changed, I asked a friendly transit worker what stop to get off at. She told me to get off at the very last stop. Easy! So I did, and .. uh ... was not the right one. Ghetto is probably a little too harsh of a term, but it wasn't a very welcoming place at night.
I located another Metro employee, who said I needed to get off one stop earlier. So I waited for the train to come back around, wondering what I was going to catch from the particles the guy with rotting feet was shaking off his socks. Then I walked up and down the length of the train, trying to figure out where the conductor's car was, before giving up and just sitting in the car with the most people. At this point, it was 4 a.m.! My plane left at six and I still had to take the lightrail from the subway station, so I was starting to panic.
I made it to the airport in time, and even had a few minutes to charge my phone at a handy mobile charging station, before climbing in to the puddlejumper that took me to Washington D.C.. I slept in few ten minutes increments on that plane, and then again on the plane home. Then I blearily hiked to the far lot where my car was--having kind of forgotten where I'd parked, and headed home. Except I took a detour up in to the mountains to get my dog from my dad's house, then came back down and showered and went to work at four. So by the time I got to work, I'd been awake for essentially 32 hours.
I did pretty damn good, though--I was still on such a high from my trip that the exhaustion hadn't hit me yet. I had a four table section, three large booths and one small one, and overall I got some great tips. The one exception was a bunch of glaring fucking assholes, though.
When they were there, I had a seven, a five, and a six, all in a row in back-to-back booths. The flaming assholes were the five in the middle, but they did a good impression of being nice people. They never told me anything was wrong; they never gave me any impression anything was amiss. And remember, I had tables on either side of them, I was constantly in the area, constantly making eye contact etc. So imagine my surprise when I picked up their ticket and found a nice long note. Spelling, punctuation etc. all as written:
"Reasons for no tip:
1) Sat for 10 mins without silverware + napkins ... with hotwings. What are we to wipe our hands with?
2) Had to finally ask other waitres for same
3) Had to wait 5 mins for water refill
4) once refill brought, no ice ... warm. Nice!
5) steaks ... no steak sauce offered. Had to ask other server
6) Tips are a privelege for good serve ... not a right."
Okay, you douchesack sucking asshat, let's look at this. You sat for 10 minutes without silverware with boneless wings? My fucking ass you did! Okay, I didn't notice you didn't have silverware--obviously the host didn't bring you any. But I didn't deliver your fucking wings, because I was taking an order two feet away from you. And you were eating said wings when I was done taking that order. That did not take ten minutes, and there's no "finally had to ask other 'waitres' for same" when I am clearly in your goddamn sight. Also, technically, those two reasons would be the same. You're just trying to make your pathetic fuckstick list look longer.
Now, it's entirely possible you waited five minutes for a water refill. What you're ignoring is again, I was in your sight that whole time, and more importantly your glass was never actually empty! And there was also ice in your glass when I refilled it with the water pitcher--pretty common practice at any restaurant, you ignorant numbnuts! Also, again, three and four would be the same "problem".
Let's review what happened with the steak sauce. I brought several plates out, with Brainless behind me. I set down the plates I was carrying and took two steps over to the bar to pick up the water pitcher since all you cheap bitches were sucking it down so fast. As I turned back around, Brainless (who had brought out the plate with the steak on it) asked you if you wanted steak sauce. Please tell me how that translates in to "no steak sauce offered. Had to ask other server".
And now, as for you grand conclusion? As it turns out, good service is a "privelege" not a right. And I will remember you, your poorly spoken wife, and your goofy looking socially inept pockmarked piebald idiot teenage children the next time you come in, so you might want to just turn back around and leave before some Orange Power degreaser finds its way in to your hot wing sauce.
(As much vitriol as I'm spewing now, I honestly didn't let it ruin my night. I'd just spent three nights in the presence of my favorite Norwegians, meeting awesome people and having the time of my life. I'm pretty sure I was happier that weekend than these fuckers will ever be in their lives!)