No, I do not agree, and fuck you very much.

I can't even imagine the hate comments I'm going to get over this post, because somebody is bound to see it as me criticizing America or disrespecting troops or something else that I am clearly not doing. Whatever. I feel better anyway!

One of my family members posted this on Facebook:

I'll be honest, it hurt my feelings. I'm still pretty upset at the relative who posted it, and the one who "liked" it. I thought about posting a long rant on Facebook in response, but let's be honest - nobody would read it. And maybe nobody will read it here, but I'm going to go ahead anyway.


Dear Meme Creator,

I really hate this graphic you've made.  It's sarcastic, it's rude, it's denigrating, it's belittling. It's completely hateful, and I'd truly like to know why.

What did anyone in a "minimum skills" job ever do to you? There's such vitriol here, it's so scathing and nasty that it feels personal, and I don't understand. Did an entire McDonald's staff line up to give you wedgies? Did all the hot waiters reject you? Did the cute girl at The Gap (Gap is still a thing, right?) laugh at your hair? Seriously, what did an entire huge group of people do to deserve such scorn?

Why do you assume that I have only "minimum skills" because of my job? You don't know me. You don't know what I'm good at or bad at - you only know how I chose to make my money. I'm a hell of a writer when I put my mind to it, but I don't want to make a career out of it. I'm mere credits away from a history degree, but again, it's a passion, not something I want to make a career. Mistress J used to be a phlebotomist. Lap Dog cooked for a world-famous chef. One of our best servers was a former sheriff's deputy. We all have talents - you not seeing them does not negate them.

And even if someone does have only basic skills - why should that person suffer and be poor? Someone has to bring you iced tea, flip your burgers, give you change at the gas station, restock shelves, take your bank deposits, and do a myriad of other things that keep the world running. Why do you feel those people aren't entitled to a comfortable life? So "Sally McBurgerFlipper" didn't finish high school or "Baconator" didn't have a talent for sports or "Slightly Cranky Waitress" never found a career she could sink her teeth in to. Should we starve to death? Then who will make your venti no foam skim sugar free vegan iced latte?

And the crux of this post .... Why use the military to drive home these points? My grandfather struggled to provide for his family of seven on a military salary - did you see something like that too, and did it embitter you toward the military? I could understand that. However ... nowhere in this graphic did you suggest that military members be paid more. Nowhere did you say it's a travesty that they risk their lives and sacrifice for such low pay. Nowhere did you incite people to push for military raises. Instead, you used the idea of military members' sacrifices as a cheap ploy to vent your views about us "lesser" humans.

And you know what? In doing so, you didn't even do your homework. You see, military pay rates are available online for the world to see. I checked, because once I suppressed my personal feelings about your statements, I was horrified at the idea that I, a mere waitress as a low-end restaurant, might be making more than someone who serves the in the U.S. Military. That really would be a travesty.

And initially, I thought you were right. If you look at the 2014 base pay rates, an Army E1 did indeed make $18k a year. An E5 with 8 years did make $35k. I couldn't believe what I was reading. And then I looked at it again and remembered something that you either didn't know or chose to ignore, so let me educate you: military base pay differs from a civilian's gross pay. All our living expenses come out of our gross pay - but military members get BAH and BAS. Those are allowances for housing and food. Said allowances are tax free. So, let's run some numbers.

Let's pretend that there's a hypothetical world where the national minimum wage was $15/hour. "Johnny Burger Flipper" would indeed make $31,200 a year. Using 2015 tax brackets, that means Johnny would, after taxes, take home $26,982 a year or $2,248 a month.

Now let's look at an enlisted E1's pay - and we'll assume that in this hypothetical world, economics aren't insanely complicated and so a minimum wage increase would have no impact on anybody else's wages.

So, that in mind .... There's the $18,278 in base pay, which is taxed, and so take home pay on that is $15,998 a year or $1333 a month.
Then there's BAS, which is $323.87 a month, tax free, so that's $1656.87 a month.
BAH is more complicated, because it's based on location and dependents. Let's use Mississippi, because it's the poorest state according to Google. No dependents. There's a military base in Biloxi, so we'll use a zip code from there to calculate a rate. That gives $897 a month (tax free), so total monthly pay is $2553.87.
That means this hypothetical E1's yearly, after-tax pay is $30,646.

An E1 is basic, entry-level ... the Army equivalent of "minimum skills." So the gap between unskilled "Johnny" and unskilled E1 is $3664 after taxes. Not huge. But "Johnny" in this scenario is unlikely to get a raise the following year, or if he did it would probably be a quarter or less ($34 a month). 2014's E1 becomes an E2 in 2015 and gets a pay bump of 172.55 a month after taxes.

(For the sake of completeness: using the same references, the E5 mentioned in the meme would have a take home pay of $44,861 yearly or $3738 a month.)

The point of me running all these numbers is NOT that I think military members are adequately paid for their time and sacrifice. 

The point is that a) I'm a big nerd and I enjoy this sort of thing, so it was actually kind of fun for me and b) your entire scathing, nasty meme is shored up by incomplete, and thus misleading, information.

Your attempt to use military pay rates to justify keeping other workers in dire economic straights is pathetic and insulting, because you're using the military and American pride as an emotional string - when your language makes it clear that you don't think military should be paid more. You just that "minimum skilled" people should be paid less. And guess what? They are. Drastically so. Even in hypothetical $15-an-hour-minimum-wage land, they would be paid less! So ... that pretty much takes the wind out of the sails of your argument, doesn't it?

Maybe, instead of spreading "info"graphics on the Internet to work out your rage and disgust with those of us are clearly so far below you .... you should think about what it is in you that makes you look down on the lower class, the working class, who are just trying to survive.
Maybe you should examine your attitude, and figure out why you think someone else deserves to live in constant economic stress and fear just because they're doing a job you think you're too good for.
Maybe you should analyze your life and your own achievements, before branding other people as failures because of how they pay their bills.

Signed,
A Self-Sufficient, Hard-Working "Failure"

Just a rant.

(Please feel free to ignore. I've just been fucking deluged lately with these things and I can't rant to anybody I know in person because they act like I'm suggesting we raise Hitler as a zombie and give him a nuclear weapon.)

Everywhere I look, someone around me is getting married, is pregnant, or just popped out a kid. Jesus Christ, I am fucking sick of it. I'm removing people from my Facebook feed who used to be good friends because all they fucking post now is about this shit.

If I see once more pregnant belly picture, I'm going to puke. And the next person who tries to show me an ultrasound is getting punched. Bitch, I don't want to see the inside of your uterus! That shit is creepy! Keep your parasite and your blurry alien picture away from me. And I'm sick of the pictures of your kids doing 'cute' things. I don't want to see your baby's birth-canal squished face every time you post something. Congratulations! You created a drooling, pants-shitting, screaming small person. You made a life! Big fucking deal! It's nothing to be proud of, all you did was get sweaty with somebody and biology did the rest.

And keep the pictures of engagements rings, wedding venues, cakes, and flowery bullshit verses about love and god and the sanctity of marriage out of my fucking face too. Good job, you're going to sign papers that mean when you can't stand that other person any longer, they get half of your shit. Yay! Let's all eat cake and do the chicken dance! I think marriage is stupid - it made sense in times and societies when women weren't allowed or permitted to care for themselves. Now? Seriously? What the hell is the point? When people tell me they're getting married, I have zero reaction. They might as well have said "It's Tuesday!" So then I have to try to fake happy because otherwise people get all goddamn butthurt that rainbows aren't shooting out my ass about it.

And yeah, I'm sure there are more than a few people out there who will read this and think I'm just bitter because I'm single and childless. I get the pitying look from smug married bitches - the same ones who a year later are bitching about his pot smoking or her tv habits. The same ones who have a higher chance of divorce than not. The same ones who later ask me if I want to sleep with them/their wives because they're in an open marriage now (No. No, I'm not kidding.) until wait, we're getting divorced now. And of course people in relationships who aren't married have the same problems - but at least they haven't made a spectacle of themselves and wasted a whole bunch of money throwing an expensive party to celebrate their luuuuuuuuuuv. At least if things go sour there, they don't have to pay two attorneys to separate their lives.

I also get the "you'll change your mind when you meet the right guy!" shit when I say I don't want kids. Right. Because the 'right guy' would make me want to put my body through nine months of hell during which I would be profoundly uncomfortable and sick, and then the pain of childbirth and accompanying destruction of my vagina, then the trashing my (quite nice) breasts with the milk nonsense, and then spending the rest of my life taking care of something else? I think fucking not. Hell no. The right guy would shudder when I asked if he wanted kids and say "Fuck that noise!" Every time yet another woman tells me she's knocked up, I have to fight my urge to say "I'm sorry" or "Why'd you let that happen?" or "There's a procedure for that" because people reallllllllly don't take kindly to that last one .... c'mon, I was joking. Learn to take a joke as easily as you obviously take a dick, preggo.

I always tell my mom that when she was making me she kept all the maternal instinct to herself - she's swimming in it to the point of having raised two sets of my cousins and having adopted two kids now. I have no tolerance for any of that shit. Zero. Zip. Nada. Other short words of negation. In fact, the whole concept kind of sickens me. The idea of a living thing in me, moving and kicking and stuff? Gaaaaaaah. It's goddamn disturbing, is what it is. It's like a chest burster, only instead of killing you, it expects you take care of it forever. If I want something that's going to depend on me for the rest of it's life, I'll get another dog.

I'm just "at that age" where everybody around is "settling down" or what-the-fuck-ever, and it's pissing me off. These are important, life-changing things. I get it. But for god's sake, talk about something else every once in a while! You don't see me forcing everyone around me to listen to Norwegian pop or lecturing them on Tudor England - because I know that what's completely absorbing to me is as boring and possibly as revolting as dry dog vomit to others. There's a world around you, and people around you, who maybe don't want to talk about your wedding invitations anymore. Who maybe would like to have a conversation with you that doesn't involve the words "mucus plug" or "placenta." Who maybe wants to gossip and talk about movies and clothes and dying grandmothers and broken hearts and for god's sake even the weather -- you know, life outside your uterus and/or wedding hall.

(Let the hate roll in, I'm sure.)

Addendum: Well, I'm glad I didn't get any of the "have dare you say such things about the babies!!!1!!!!1" comments like I expected. Most of you got the point, and saw more than the hyperbole and intentionally fucked up humor.

A couple of you ... well, you need to think about the definition of 'rant': "to utter in a bombastic declamatory fashion." A couple of you took the rant portion a little too seriously and didn't pay attention to the point portion. A couple of you need to apply some common sense - do you seriously think that I tell women who have been trying to get pregnant for months that "there's a procedure for that?" Honestly, who would do that?

(Okay, those words have passed my lips once - when Dallas got shitty with me about "You don't have kids? You don't want kids? Why don't you want kids? You better hope you don't get pregnant, what would you do then?" But she wasn't pregnant at the time, and I was talking about myself. Anyway.)

Of course there were kernels of truth. I do think marriage is pointless and ultrasound pictures are creepy as fuck. I do know some people who are going way the hell over the top with this crap and I'm tired of even trying to have a normal conversation with them. But a modicum of thought should tell you that this was not a 100% honest post. Come on now. If I were that unbalanced of an individual, I wouldn't have any friends to have triggered this post in the first place.

I do think it's telling of some very deeply ingrained societal perceptions that someone would believe I need an attitude adjustment because, as a female, I dare to not be all mushy about wedded bliss and bundles of joy. If a man wrote a post complaining about his buddies settling down and being pussy-whipped, what would the reaction be to that? Or what I wrote a post in the same tone, but complaining about people constantly thrusting their religious or political views on me? Nobody would comment then about what it "says about me."

Personally, I think what this post says about me is both delightful and mature - I understand everybody's interests and joys are different, and that friendships are about both parties sharing, not about one person spewing one thing like endless projectile vomit. I respect that and want to be around people who respect it as well.

I heart Frat Boy.

I wanted to hug Frat Boy the other day. I was in a bad mood from the start, although now I can't remember why. But people were just pissing me the fuck off. And it just got worse and worse. People had just taken extra stupid pills or something.

Now, I almost never pawn calls off on a supervisor. But one guy ... there was nothing I could do for him. He was throwing an absolutely motherfucking fit. And why? Well, a technician had been to his house and swapped out some equipment. The tech then took the old equipment with him. Well, the tech didn't enter the equipment into the system promptly, so our system automatically sent an empty box so the customer could return it. So the guy called; we apologized, made sure he would not incur any charges, and told him basically not to worry about it. This was all noted on the account by the department with final authority on these situations. So basically, there was no reason for this fuckface to be calling me.

But, being a fuckface, he was. And he was completely freaking out ... because when he got home that day, he had a "Sorry we missed you!" sticker from UPS, attempting to pick up the box. He wasn't home when UPS came; it in no way inconvenienced him. But this idiot was yelling at me about how incompetent our company is, why can't we get this right, etc. I assured him again that he would not be charged, as that's most peoples' concern. Oh, he didn't care about that. He just went on and on about how he was spending hours and hours of his time on the phone because "you're incompetent." After ten minutes of this, I was at my wit's end. I wanted to ask him what the fuck he'd like me to do. Instead I politely asked if he could hold for a moment.

"I won't wait long!" he snapped. I didn't even respond, just put him on hold and went to Frat Boy. "This guy won't stop yelling at me. There's nothing we can do, he's just pissed off UPS stopped at his house, but he won't get off the phone. Will you talk to him?"
"I can't do anything, but sure."
"I know, he's just an ass." I shrugged and went back to the phone. "Thank you for holding, sir. At this point I'd like to get you over to my supervisor."
"Why?"
"Because you don't seem to be satisfied with the information I can give you," I said kind of impatiently.
"Oh fine, I'll just explain this allllllll over again. You people are ridiculous."
I just transferred him .... and then sat in after call to listen to Frat Boy talk to him. I laughed my ass off when I heard "Thank you for holding, this is Frat Boy, how can I ....." and then in his most disgusted possible tone, "don't tell me what I'm going to do."

The guy hung up and Frat Boy just grinned at me. "The first thing he said was 'this is what you're going to do!' What a jackass."

But that was nothing compared to a call I got a couple of hours later. I don't know if this man was drunk, or stupid, or mentally challenged, but I couldn't understand any of his inarticulate screaming. About the only thing I could understand were the swear words. After several minutes of him ranting and not letting me speak, I was able to discern he was having a technical issue of some type -- "this goddamn fucking piece of garbage is broken!"
"I'm sorry you're having trouble sir, let's find out what's happening. Can I get your name please?" I said as calmly as possible.
The response I got was a roar of "LISTEN, BITCH!" and some more incoherent bitchery. Most days I'd have at least attempted to calm him down, but I was sooooo done. I waved at Frat Boy and once I caught his eye I said very loudly, "Sir, if you call me a BITCH one more time, I will hang up on you."

Oooooh, Frat Boy did not like that. His eyes bugged out, his jaw clenched, and he said, "You send him to me right now!"
I tried to tell the jackass I was going to transfer him, but he wasn't listening. I sent him over.
Frat Boy did his greeting, and then said, "I understand you're having problems. But the next time you call, you will be polite. You will be professional. And you will not yell or swear at my agents. If you do, I will lock your account and you will no longer by welcome as a customer. Do you understand me? Good." And he slammed the phone down!

Even better, Frat Boy kept checking the guy's account regularly to see a) if he called back and b) if there were any notes about him being rude. The guy did call, but apparently behaved himself ... that time. Frat Boy still has the account number and he's keeping an eye on him.

I was so grateful to have somebody sticking up for me that I almost cried.

Dis is booshi'.

I try not to make fun of how people talk ... too much. I am aware, after all, that not everybody has good educational systems where they grow up, and that different regions have different accents, etc. But when somebody's screaming at me and being an idiotic bitch, she's just made herself fair game.

I'm sure we're all aware how contracts work when you rent equipment from a cable or Internet company, or, you know, any company that hands you a piece of equipment that costs hundreds of dollars without making you pay for it. In that contract, it's going to tell you that if you don't return it, you're going to get a bill. Some even ask for a credit card to put on file, and if you don't return the equipment, they'll charge the card. Fairly standard. Now, I'm sure there are instances where people are unfairly charged. This is not one of those.

"Thank you for calling, my name is Lavender Gooms*, how can I help you?"

"Yeah I just got a letter saying you're going to charge a card for a hundred and fifty dollars, and you better not, the girl I talked to said the two fifty I paid was all I owed," this is where she got upset and started sounding hilarious, "and this card has nuttin' to do with dis so youse bedder not charge it cuz dis is booshi'."

I'm sorry, it just makes my brain hurt trying to type like this woman talked. I can't do it anymore. The weird part was how she'd speak in a perfectly coherent voice and pronounce things correctly, and then suddenly start sounding like that. Anyway, you'll mostly just have to imagine the flickering in and out of her speech, because it seriously makes me feel dumber just trying to type that way.

I already had no patience for this woman, because she'd already ranted at me. But instead I was polite and asked for her name, since her phone number wasn't pulling up an account. Once I found her account, I saw immediately what the problem was.

"I'm sorry for any confusion, Ms. Bitchypants," I started. "At the time you closed your account, the $250 you paid did cover the early termination fee you owed. The extra bill is for the equipment you didn't return, and that's why you received that letter."

"I don't care, she said all I owed was $250!"

Sigh. "As I said, that was right, at the time. However she would have advised you that you needed to return your receiver, and we did send out a box with a return shipping label on December 3rd. We also sent a reminder letter---"

"I didn't get it, that's not my fault. You're not going to charge that card, it's not mine, dis is booshi'."

"I'm sorry if you didn't receive the boxes, ma'am." Bullshit, we send the fuckers by UPS so when people try this shit we have a record. "I have an address of 1234 Go Fuck Yourself Lane, is that correct?"

"No it's not! I moved after I canceled my service! Ya'll should know that!"

I was starting to hope this would be an easy fix. Maybe I should just send her a new box and it'd be okay. Sadly, that wasn't the case. I updated her address, but we weren't going to be able to get the empty box to her and her get the receiver back to us before the date we'd charge her for it. I actually kind of took a bitchy joy in that, just because she was so fucking rude and bitchy updating her address. Besides, what kind of fucking moron moves and doesn't think that maybe they should send back this box with a company logo on it? And we sent out several letters before this one she finally called about, warning her this would happen, and they would have been forwarded by the post office.

"Okay ma'am, I've updated your address and sent out a new shipping box. You'll receive that within a week and can use the included return label to send it back to us." I debated whether to mention she'd get a bill for the shipping (hey, UPS charges us. We don't charge any more than what they charge us.) and decided to first see how she'd react to my next statement. "Unfortunately we won't get that in time to prevent the card from being charged, but once we receive the equipment we can process a refund."

"You'd better not! I'll make you pay! That card isn't mine and it has nothing to do with this, dis is booshi' and you know it booshi' and you'd better not because .... because you better not, I'll make you pay! I'll call the credit card company and report you! I'll make you pay!"

"I'm sorry, Ms.  Bitchypants, but the contract you signed does state that charges for equipment would be charged to the card you gave us."

"I didn't sign no contract! Dis is booshi'. You better not charge that card or I'm gonna sue you, dis is fuckin' booshi' and I don't care about any contract. That card isn't mine and he didn't sign it and you can't charge it! It's not my fault I didn't send the box back and you better not charge the card because dis is booshi' and you know it's booshi' and I'll sue you if you charge that card. She said all I had to pay was the $250 and dis is goddamn booshi'."

I'm not even kidding when I say she continued on, repeated variations of the same things, for five minutes. I'm lucky QA wasn't listening because I lost my temper a little bit. I'd been up all night crying because I'd been dumped the day before, and I got pissed and cut her off. "MA'AM! I would appreciate it if you would stop swearing at me. This has nothing to do with me, I have not spoken to you before, and I did not set up this account using someone else's credit card." No, I didn't toss in that could be construed as fraud. Go me. "You were given this information when you started your service, and when it was installed you signed a contract saying this card could be used for these kinds of charges. Now. I'm going to get you to the department that deals with contract disputes. Please hold."

Honestly, I'd probably have been perilously close to being fired if QA had heard that. I didn't even care. I hit the transfer button and got on the line to the people who deal with this shit. Any time someone says they're going to sue, we can immediately transfer to this department. Lucky me! I had to wait on hold for a few minutes before a very nice, pleasant-sounding woman answered.

"Hi there. I have Ms.  Bitchypants on the phone. She canceled her service, then didn't update her address so she didn't get the shipping boxes and never bothered to return her receiver. So she just got the letter saying we're charging her card for the equipment she didn't return, and she's upset because apparently the card isn't hers. So she says she's going to sue us."

The lady laughed. "Because it's all our fault, right?"

"Yep." I actually kind of smiled at that point.

"Go ahead and transfer and I'll take care of her." she sounded like she'd take some bitchy delight in it, too. I liked her.

*What can I say, I love the show Psych.

Suddenly obnoxious.

There are a couple of regulars, Julie and Lenny, who I've written about before. They've been coming in for ten years now, but lately their visits have been less frequent. The other day, I found out why: it seems that Julie told Chrissy that “they” (meaning she) didn't want to come in anymore because Cali Girl – who never even waits on them, being a bartender – laughs too loudly.

Politeness negated.

(I know, I'm a bad, bad blogger. Been taking a lot of days off to deal with this moving bullshit, though.)

I think we can all agree that there is an epidemic of rude fuckers who can't bother to say please and thank you anymore. So usually when somebody actually takes those few extra seconds to be polite, I'm thankful. Tonight, though, someone demonstrated how you can say the right words but still come off as a twat: by interrupting.

For example, I brought their food and set it down with my usual smile. “Is there anything else I ca--”
“Ranch please!” she chirped.
When I brought it back, I set it down and started to say “here you go.” I got halfway through the first word when she cut me off with her thank-you. Same thing with dessert, boxes, check, etc.

Now I've absolutely had ruder people. She's pretty low on the bitch scale. But I almost think it's worse when somebody is mouthing the polite words, implying they're aware of common courtesy, while interrupting and therefore ignoring its rules.

Control is key.

I've been lucky lately, and haven't had any truly horrendous children to contend with. I'm sure now that I've said that, my next shift will be nothing but screaming, puking monsters. Dammit.

Another server's table last night was a woman in Army fatigues, her three year old daughter, and grandma. They started out in a booth inside, but moved outside when the kid started screaming. I thought that was considerate of them – at that point nobody else was sitting on the patio. Of course, once you get one person out there, the patio stops being invisible and suddenly everyone wants to be there.

So it was about half an hour later that I approached the patio door with my arms completely full. It was one of those heavy loads that I knew I would be fine getting to the table, but if I got delayed for long it would start to hurt. But we were so slow, and there were no big tables in the way, so I figured I'd be fine. I'd forgotten the screamer on the patio.

Sure enough, I approached the patio door and the kid was sprawled on the ground just outside it, whimpering as if being tortured. Normally I'd just knock the door open with my hip and be on my way, but instead I had to stop and stand there. The table next to the door thought I needed help getting it open, and a woman in blue was getting up to help me.

“Oh, I'm okay. There just a little girl having a fit outside the door.” I said it in my most sympathetic tone of voice, not even showing my true irritation.
“She's been having a fit since they got here!” The woman watched as Army-mom berated her child, still blocking the doorway. Then she began re-arranging items on the patio. At first I couldn't figure out what she was doing. Then I figured out she was blocking it so her kid couldn't leave. There's a gap in the railing right where the door opens, I assume for fire safety purposes. So instead of, you know, controlling her child, Army mom began moving our large flowerpot to block the entrance. Then she moved our server cart.

That's what really pissed me off. That cart has condiments, napkins, water pitchers, etc. on it, and she just rolled it so it was halfway off the patio, wedged in the rocks, almost everything on it knocked over and in a mess. Oh, and it was partially blocking the door now too! So she could ignore her kid.

At that point the lady in blue let out a noise of disgust and started to ease the door open, hoping the woman would take a hint and move her goddamn kid. Eventually she did, and I gratefully dropped off the food in my arms before it splattered all over the floor. I'd been standing for at least a minute, probably almost two, while this woman let her child scream and re-arranged restaurant furniture.

I apologize if I gave you the impression that I give a flea fiddling flying rat's fucking ass.

(I'm quite suddenly moving two towns away, so my response to comments will be .. uh ... non-existent. Also if I don't post as much as usual that'll be why. )

We play bingo once a week at my restaurant, and I'm the bingo bitch. So it falls to me to enforce the rules, hand out materials, play music, try to keep the crowd entertained, etc. And it never fails, somebody's gotta bitch about something.

“You're going too fast!”
“You're going too slow!”
“It's too loud!”
“I can't hear you!”
“This music sucks!”
“I want a winning card!”
“I don't want to listen to this, I just want to eat!”
“Your drink specials aren't very good!”

The most common complaints are the noise and the length of time. What people don't seem to understand is that I don't fucking care. I'm not going to turn it down just because one crusty old fuck doesn't like ZZ Top. Oh, I might turn it down to appease them … but then I start turning it back up bit by bit until it's louder than it was before. Why? Because fuck them, that's why. Especially the assholes who wait until I step away to do something, then come up and start twiddling knobs on my amplifier (one fucker even turned it totally off). Joke's on them – the volume is controlled through my laptop. And anybody who touches that is getting their fingers broken.

Then there are the people who bitch because we do breaks in between each game. Sometimes they're longer than I intended – people like to talk to me when I start walking around. I'm not going to tell them to shut up because people think they're at a damn bingo parlor.

If they complain I'm calling numbers too slowly, you can bet your ass I'll call them slower or find a reason to take a mid-game break.

You think the game's taking too long? Okay, our next bingo pattern will be 4/5 of a blackout.

One night a group of regulars was sitting next to me and heckling me constantly, we had a nice back-and-forth going the whole night. Most of the crowd though it was funny (especially when I announced “people are dumb” over the mic accidentally ….), but several other people starting whining about them “interrupting” the game. I told my friends, and guess what got worse?

This week, I had just announced that we'd be taking a three song break before the next round, and was going through drink specials when a man approached me. We were way ahead of schedule, because people had won the first two games very quickly, so I figured it would be a noise complaint.
“I don't know if you're aware,” he said nastily, “but we have children and three songs is too long of a break!”
I gave him my sweetest smile. “Sorry! I'm supposed to keep the game going until around 11.”
“Well, it's too long! It needs to be shorter!”
I just smiled at him again and said “okay.” Then I got “distracted” and let two extra songs play before I went back to the game.

Because here's the thing: the volume and the pacing are part of my damn job. What these people don't understand is that I'm supposed to keep the music at a certain volume, otherwise everyone can hear everyone's else's conversations … not to mention the cooks yelling and slamming things around. I'm supposed to play upbeat, party-ish music to create atmosphere. I'm supposed to laugh and talk and joke with people.

Not to mention that we don't charge people to play the game – not a cent. We don't even require them to order anything, which I think is a mistake, but whatever. So I'm supposed to keep them in the place as long as I can, trying to get them to order more drinks, more appetizers, more dessert. We're a freaking business, and that's how we make money.

So when I'm already ahead of schedule and somebody wants me to go faster, or when the volume is perfect and somebody decides to bitch about it, I pretty much do the opposite. And I thoroughly enjoy it. Am I being a passive-aggressive little bitch with this behavior? Hell yes I am. But I take great joy in it, because it's basically the only time in that building that I can disregard a customer's request. See, I totally have management's backing on all of it! I even have the regional manager's approval. Someone once wrote a nasty email complaining that bingo starts too late and takes too long, and the regional manager pretty much wrote back, “Sorry, go somewhere else if you don't like it.”

I kind of wanted to hug him.

Don't shake your head at me, I'm not done.

Tonight was the night of the interrupting jerks. First table:

“Hi! How are y--”
“Well, your wine list isn't anything special, IS IT.”
Shortly after:
“We have chips and salsa--” I started.
“No.”
“-- on special for a dollar tonight.” I finished because fuck her, that's why.
Later:
“How is everythin--”
“Can't we get our bill.”

Next table:
“Hello, how are you? What can I get you to--”
“I'm waiting for two more people.”
“Okay, can I get you some tea or something while you're--”
“Water.”

All goddamn night. It's not like I was trying high-pressure sales tactics or something, most of the interruptions were during normal questions or just plain greetings. Did nobody learn manners growing up?

I always want to pull a "My Cousin Vinny" -- "Don't shake your head at me, I'm not done. Wait until you hear the whole thing."

I feel dumber just listening.

Many things about my job make me want to scream, but lately our music is getting on my nerves more and more. Between the front and back of house radios, I think I hear Katy Perry every five minutes. I know every word to that stupid Firework song, and that even more idiotic California Gurls song.

Every fifth song is Michael Jackson, which would be fine if it weren't Billy Jean most of the time.

There's some weird song about “I'd jump in front of a train for ya” that I know all the words to but don't know who sings it, despite it being stuck in my head non-stop.

But by far the worst is Ke$ha. Her songs makes me feel stupider just by hearing them, and they are on all the fucking time. I feel like I need to scrub my brain, because I know all the words to at least five of her songs. And I think the thing that pisses me off the most is that every one of her songs has one part that's really catchy and possibly cool, and then the rest of the song just sucks so hard! But I fall for it every time, bopping my head and getting into the song for a few seconds before I realize exactly which talentless skank I'm being forced to listen to yet again and I want to puke.

And that's not even addressing the fact that we're supposed to be a family restaurant, and I don't think a song about brushing your teeth with a bottle of Jack is exactly child-friendly.

I am not fucking Santa Claus.

An old lady at my table today was going on and on about the “atmosphere” in our restaurant. I'm assuming she was talking about the thin veneer of civility emanating from all the cookie-cutter-uniformed employees trying desperately not to hurl themselves out of a window just for some variety in our lives. “And you're part of that,” she said. “You're so happy and jolly!”

Oh, shut up. Like that's a compliment? I'm not Saint Fucking Nick. I might have a bowlful of jelly, but I am not jolly. Shut up and get out of here. Don't even bother to leave me the ten percent tip, k?

Pull your head out of your ass and maybe you'll hear me.

A mother and daughter sat down at one of my booths, with a third menu on the table with them. I took their drink order, and then politely asked, “Would you like some chips and salsa while you're waiting for your third person to arrive?”

The mother rolled her fucking eyes at me and responded, “NO, we're WAITING for someone ELSE.”

Fuck you, bitch. Excuse me for attempting to get some food in your bitchy face at a restaurant.

Thank you for telling me how to do my job.

I get so fucking sick of people acting like they know what I'm doing better than I do! Granted there are some people who come in to the restaurant knowing what they want; maybe they're regulars, and always get the same thing. But I get so tired of people just talking over me when I'm trying to get the details of their order. For instance, when someone orders a steak and immediately tells me they want a baked potato, then without even half a second for me to speak says, "aren't you going to ask how I want that cooked?" Well, maybe, if you'd shut up, you dumb bitch.

Today I was hosting and all freaking day people were demanding to sit at specific tables. One woman stomped in and said, "Chris's section is over here, right?" over her shoulder as she continued on her merry way. Too bad for her Chris wasn't working today! Then there were the fun people who when I took a second to see if a specific table was open -- you know, because it's my job to seat people in a rotating fashion -- act like I'm too dumb and say, "how about a booth over there?" No, how about a booth over there, now that I've taken three seconds to ensure it's clean?

And then you have the people who think their car needs to be part of their dining experience. One couple demanded to be sat at the booth by the window right in front of their truck -- the one next to it just wouldn't do. Of course, that guy also asked me and the other host if we were strippers as he walked out the door so he's clearly just special.

Okay, okay, I'll get the manager!

Two days in a row, at two different jobs, I had annoying people demanding to see the manager.

The first was probably the funniest -- at the haunted house, I jumped out and started screaming as usual. This 18ish girl stared at me and then demanded to see the manager! She's surrounded by bloody zombies, revving chainsaws, strobe lights, people screaming, and fake fog -- and she stops in the middle of it to ask to see the manager. Her friends were having a great time, and just followed her as I showed them to the exit. As we walked outside the haunt, one of them said "Why are we leaving?" "Because I want to see the manager, that's why!" I found out later that she was upset because the group behind hers was being too loud. In a haunted house.

The next day, my evening at work started off very slow. When I arrived, there was an older man and a dark-haired woman sitting at one of my booths, and rest were empty. After doing my usual section walkthrough, I started doing other things while keeping an eye on my section over the bar. Half an hour dragged by, no tables. I kept running other food, rolling silverware, talking to people .... and then someone came up and told me my booth had been sat and they'd been waiting a while. Dammit! I rushed right out and immediately knew what had happened -- the first table had left and the hostess had re-sat the table with an older man and a dark-haired woman! It had to have happened quickly, as the longest I'd been in the back was two or three minutes, and they looked like the same table to me.

I immediately headed to the table; the man saw me coming and while I was about ten feet away yelled "get me the manager!" Knew that was coming. "Okay sir, I'll get him for you. Can I get you something to drink too so you don't have to wait any longer?"
"I want to see the manager! We've been waiting!"
I immediately apologized, quickly told them how I'd been confused and it was my fault, and said I'd get the manager for them. The woman was still holding the drink menu; she looked up from it, opened her mouth, and --
"I want to see the manager!" the man repeated.
"I will get him for you, sir. Did you want to order first?" I looked at the woman while I said that, as I was pretty sure she was trying to order before he cut her off.
"I. Want. To. See. The. Manager."
"Okay sir, I'll get him right now." I took a step back from the table.
At that point the man pounded on the table and yelled "I WANT TO SEE THE MANAGER!"
I wanted to point out that I had JUST said I was getting the manager, but I just said "I'm getting him now" and walked away. I went right to the back, told Pot Smoking Manager an abbreviated version, we went back to the front ... and they'd left so quickly nobody even saw them go!

Obviously I should have been more observant and realized they were new customers right away; but they were waiting maybe five minutes based on when the hostess said she sat them. Not long enough to get that upset about! The man later e-mailed corporate and told them how I was rude and refused to get the manager for them -- luckily our new area manager is working out better than I thought. He basically shrugged and said people over-react and he understood I was trying to get their dinner started so they wouldn't wait anymore.

Two weeks wasn't enough time.

I thought two weeks off would be enough to alleviate the littlest of my aggravations. You know, the stupid stuff that only irritates me because people are so generally retarded. But I was wrong. I still want to slap people for the following:

"I need an iced tea." Really? Because I don't think 'need' means what you think it means.

"I'll take a salad." No, you'd like one. You're not taking anything, unless I bring it to you in the first place.

"Do you have a bathroom?" No.

"Is (random item) good?" How the fuck should I know? Do you like shrimp? Do you like spicy things? Do you like vegetables? Are you allergic to anything? Why don't you read the fucking menu item and make up your own mind?

"Would like you (some add-on, salad or whatever)?"
"Is it free?" Yes, because restaurants don't exist to make money!

Oddly "just water" isn't bugging me!

Another one I nearly smacked.

The more I think about this, the more irritated I am, and the more glad I am that I'm not working this week. Or next, probably. Long story.

Anyway, I made the mistake of taking a big table the other day. They'd called ahead and said there would be 17; only 14 showed up, which is a bad start. They were also late, even worse. Now, we have this new corporate rule that a table of eight has to be split, and originally I was going to have to split this table with a useless coworker.

When the people finally showed up, Useless Coworker had just been double-sat, so I ended up taking them by myself. Which seemed fine; they were mellow, not needy. I only had to get a couple of drink refills. They had separate tickets and the groups were scattered across the table, but I know how to deal with that. Everything was fine up until the very end when I passed out the tickets.

That was when I discovered I'd changed the the wrong amount for the kids' food -- fucking kids' night! While I was trying to fix that, I had two more books shoved in my face. So I fixed the prices, I ran the cards, I went out to the table .... where I discovered that two of the cards were swapped around. I really do not think I did it; I suspect they weren't paying attention and got them scrambled themselves. But they got all fucking pissy about it!

It took me a good five or six minutes to fix it, because of what our stupid computer system does when you void a credit card. Some of them were still eating when I went back to the kitchen; the guy who ended up being the biggest jackass still had half a beer. So basically they showed no signs of being in a hurry.

Well, when I came out with the fixed tickets and re-run cards, they were all standing up and inching toward the door! That in itself bugs me, because they were getting in everybody's way. But what really pissed me off was when one of the guys spotted me.

"Yay!" he starts clapping sarcastically. "There she is, she made it. Yay." Continuing to clap. I started to say something and he just repeated "Yay, there she is." clapping the entire time.

I actually had my hands in fists and was turning toward him before I caught myself.

Seriously, I DO have ears, bitch!

I have come so damn close to punching customers lately. A couple of days ago I had a crummy section -- what else is new -- and these two fortyish snotty women get sat at one of my booths. I knew they would be trouble the instant they pulled that "and weeeee are going to want separate checks!" while pointing exaggeratedly between themselves. Screw you, I speak English. I get that request about eighteen times a day. I think I can handle it.

Still, they were just your average ignorant women. I was annoyed they camped out at my booth, but they were fairly low maintenance so I tried to just ignore them. They got their food, they nibbled on individual lettuce leaves while bitching, I ignored them. Then as I was rushing by with my arms full of dishes, one flipped her hand at me. "Can I get more dressing?"

Several things happened at that point. I caught my breath (I was busy), I noticed she had the wrong size salad (wondering if I rang it in wrong or kitchen was wrong), and I was noting what salad dressing she had. So it took me a couple of seconds before I smiled and said, "Sure!"

I had not taken two steps when I heard the bitch speak. She used that "muttering behind someone's back" tone like you'd use when you don't want to say something to someone's face but also think they won't confront you if they do hear it. So I'm not five feet from the table and I hear "What, you had to think about that?" And her friend laughs.

I wheeled around and glared at her, and she pretended not to notice. I didn't even fake politeness after that. She can call and complain if she wants. Or she can shove it up her ass.

The snottiest woman in existence.

My next post was supposed to be about "stereotypes don't pay" but I've kind of forgotten the specifics of that. Moving right along .....

I'm used to snotty people and their bullcrap, but this woman took the cake. She strolled in with her nose in the air and her husband trailing behind her.

"Hi! Two for dinner?" asked our perky little hostess.

The woman rolled her eyes. "No, there will be five. And we need a booth, not a table!"

"Okay! Any children with you?"

Again with the eye rolling! "Um, no. He's ten. But he spends all his time with adults, so he's very mature for his age."

The hostess kept trying to be nice even though this woman was acting as if she smelled bad. As she took the two of them to their requested booth, she explained the only booth open was for four people, and asked them if they'd like a chair on the end.

"No!" the snotty bitch snarled. "He not a fat kid like some of these gross kids these days! He'll fit in the booth like a normal person!"

I really wish I'd been their server. I would have "accidentally" brushed my fat on the bitch at every opportunity.

Rehab's back.

When I started working at this place, I immediately got off to a bad start with Rehab. She's in her mid-thirties but looks ten years older because of her insane past. She always talked about how she was addicted to this or that as a teenager, how she gave herself a tattoo at fourteen so if she ended up dead her mother could identify her body, blah blah blah. It might be true; I don't know. She's just one of those people who seems to have had an experience with everything.

And she is driving me absolutely fucking crazy! She thinks having worked there for ten years on and off entitles her to treat everyone around her like slaves, and speak to us any way she wants. God help you if you don't do something when she tells you to -- because she will get right up in your face, yelling at full volume. The other day I refused to take fajitas to my table without tortillas -- because that just seems fucking stupid, it's like taking a burger without a bun -- and I thought her head was going to burst. She refused to speak to me for the rest of the night, in fact -- which I was okay with.

It's better when she's serving, instead of working as expo -- because as expo, she screams non-fucking-stop. "Hot food! (three second wait) I need runners! (two seconds) Come on guys! (two seconds) Hot food! HOT FOOD!" I swear she doesn't even breathe in between screams -- whether it's at the servers, or the cooks, or at/for the manager. All this screaming goes on while she stampedes up and down the length of the cook's window, literally shoving people out of her way and sticking her armpits in peoples' faces reaching for things with never an apology.

And when she messes something up? You might as well have accused her of murder, because she flips the fuck out. The one and only good thing about her is that the cooks don't ignore her -- probably because she starts fucking screaming at them in Spanish if they do!

Bastard lovechild.

One of the more annoying things about my restaurant is that we're a training store for new managers. We didn't have any of the bastards there for about a year, which was great--they're always all about the tiny little rules and regulations that nobody else gives a shit about. Plus their presence brings in other corporate people to see how their training is going.

This batch of them has mostly been okay--with one glaring exception. One of them is an arrogant douchebag who thinks he's hot shit. Every time I work with him, it's just a non-stop litany of nit-picky stuff. Only instead of stating things as a rule, he has to make some asshole joke. "Hey, how big are those earrings? Yeah? That's funny, because I thought the employee handbook said earrings have to be under a half inch long."

The last time I worked with him, I was almost ready to just walk out because I was so sick of it:
"This food isn't going to run itself!" (I couldn't bite my tongue--"And these peoples' orders aren't going to take themselves either!") He said this while standing there doing nothing, of course.
"That better an important text, better be Obama or something." (to one of the cooks)
"Smile guys!" (FUCK YOU!)
"Let's make sure we're getting people the right food, we want them to have a good experience!" (No fucking way! Really?)
"Aren't glasses supposed to be full to the top with ice?" (Not if they asked for light ice, why don't you fuck off already?)
"Am I wrong here, isn't there a charge for a side of guacamole?" (No, not in this case. Again, fuck off.)

And on and on and on. My favorite, though, was when he picked up an ice cube off the floor and yelled, "Every ice cube counts, guys!"

That's when I decided he must be the bastard lovechild of Chicken Little and Lapdog.

ETA: SkippyMom's comment reminded me that after he said that, I started throwing ice everywhere when his back was turned. Floors, counters, in the cooks' window, etc. Muahahaha!