Junior's last night.

I heard about this a couple of months ago but forgot to type it up. Junior went from being a "keyholder" to being an official "manager" and promptly put in her two weeks' notice. Apparently the hatred of the place that caused her to leave the first time manifested. Not that I blame her, considering I kept hearing how CL got more and more crazy.

Anyway, Junior's last night was a Friday. The other managers had all taken off -- which seems like poor scheduling to me, because wouldn't she just have to come back the next day to turn in her keys? Anyway. Junior invited all of her friends to come in for her last night, and started drinking as soon as she got there. By the time CL left, Junior was already half-drunk. But she left. To go make out with a guy in the parking lot for a couple of hours. And then she drove away, leaving a totally wasted women in charge of the restaurant.

Apparently the dinner rush went fairly smoothly, because it wasn't too busy. But at the end of the night ... all hell broke loose. Mistress J wasn't working that night, but had come in an hour and a half before close with Mister Slave. They'd even left the kids at home to have a dinner to themselves. Things were fine at first, but she noticed that Junior was getting louder and louder, and definitely couldn't walk straight. And, naturally, she reeked of alcohol when she stumbled over to say hi to them.

*He's actually her boyfriend and they actually moved in together, but the woman is a dominatrix. What else can I call him but Mister Slave!

As MJ was finishing her dinner, Junior stumbled up again. "I need help! I need you to help me!" She hauled MJ back through the kitchen and in to the manager's office .... which was unlocked, with three of Junior's friends standing in it, and money fucking everywhere. Every desk, every shelf, the floor, money everywhere. Junior sat down and started idly stacking it up all over the place. Her friends swilled their drinks and talked loudly, refusing to leave.

MJ finally called Mister Slave on her cell and asked him to come remove the friends -- he's a stocky, sort of intimidating guy, who he managed to eject them from the restaurant and get the doors locked. Have I mentioned that Mantoy doesn't work there? So MJ spent the next two hours counting money over and over, trying to straighten out the deposits and the drawers, because Junior had basically dumped the contents of the safe across the office. Somehow, she got everything straightened out. All the money was dead-on with the reports, which is nothing short of a miracle. Junior sat and watched her do all this, interfering occasionally. MJ even put her own signature on the deposits. She did the checklists for the kitchen, and part of the inventory. She closed the place down in a neat and orderly fashion, including the cash and reports, even though she is not a manager of any sort.

But the real kicker came a few days later, the next time CL worked with her. CL pulled my friend in to the office and told her, "If there were any way I could hold you accountable for everything that happened Friday night, I would."

Chicken Little is still a bitch, and personal crap.

I went to talk to her about the possibility of getting my job back - yes, I know, insanity. But it would've nice to just pick up something familiar. Anyway, I'm not going to relay the entire conversation, but what she told me was that I'd never work there again as long as she was there. She also admitted she quit scheduling me until I quit. I'm not surprised she's still a bitch. I am surprised she was honest, though. I'm also pondering emailing a photo of her to corporate - the photo shows her out at a bar with employees.

I've had no luck yet finding a new job, possibly because I got exceedingly depressed and didn't apply for any for a week. Oops. And the "interview" I wrote about in my last post was the only one I got. Finally applied for twelve yesterday and eight so far today. I love corporations that own multiple restaurants and whose websites are smart enough to allow you to apply for multiple jobs at once. I'm less fond of ones that don't even freaking do online applications (I'm looking at you, Brinker).

Time for the personal, because my friends are probably tired of hearing it and I can't afford therapy. It's a bunch of whining, I just need to get it out.


Been having a hard time lately though. I was sort of doing okay until the entire world went and got into relationships. One of my best friends got engaged, and another one is in love, and another one moved in her with boyfriend, and another one has met some guys she likes ... and the guy I'm in love with hasn't spoken to me in more than a month. Before all that, I missed him, and I was sad, but I was holding on. I was sort of moving on. I'd had a couple of sexual encounters, at least (threesomes with married couples are fun). I felt like I was making progress. Then everyone around me got all googly-eyed and I realized I was insanely jealous, because the people they love? Love them back. Mine doesn't. He doesn't even care enough to answer a text.


And I can just about hear all my readers saying things along the lines of he doesn't deserve me, I'm awesome and he should have realized it, it's not my fault, I'll find someone else, etc. etc. Thank you. I know. But it doesn't change the fact that this is only the second time I've been in love ... and I fucking hope it's the last, because fucking hell. This is awful. I dream about him almost every night. I'm reminded of him constantly by silly things. Going to the town I used to live in, or the town my old restaurant is in, sends my blood pressure through the roof because he lives halfway between them. I hadn't really thought about it before because I was never over there, I was always at work fifty miles south or at home -- but if I were to run in to him I think I'd totally freak. 


I know that this is all normal, that everybody goes through this sometimes. I don't think it's unique at all. It's just unique to me, because the slow and painful degrading of my first relationship was utterly different. I've never quite gone through this before, and I hate it, and I hate the fact that I can't seem to get over him.

The fate of my waitressing job.

CL just put out next week's schedule, and for the third week in a row, she gave me no shifts. This amuses me, because it's obvious she just wants me to leave. But she doesn't want to fire me because she really has no grounds. My availability is limited, but I have the required three shifts per week I'm available. I haven't screwed anything up or had complaints. I haven't had conflicts with coworkers. And this is at an-will state, so she doesn't really have to have a reason, but I think she's hesitant to fire me without an actual reason because I've been there so long and 99% of my coworkers like me, although I can't stand most of their asses, and god knows most of the regular customers love me. So I'm curious how long she'll drag it out.

That said, I'm incredibly glad she hasn't scheduled me. I fucking hate that place. After the calm, happy call center, the restaurant is hell to the n-th degree. At my full-time job, I sit and answer the phone. And sometimes it's nerve-wracking, because there's no break between the calls sometimes and it gets a little overwhelming. Sometimes it's frustrating, because the 163-year-old man on the other end of the line doesn't understand "press the power button on your receiver". And sometimes I get pissed off, when a customer calls in saying that another agent promised them the world and I have to tell them there's no record of that and they can't get whatever they were promised.

But you know what? When that happens, I have a support system. When somebody is getting no signal from their satellite dish, and my normal steps don't fix it, I send them to the tech department and I don't have to think about it anymore. I get paid either way. When somebody is angry because they were told they didn't have to pay their entire bill to get their services restored, I apologize and explain our iron-clad business policies to them. I have a list of options for them, and if none suit them, and they're really angry, well, that's what supervisors are for. I get paid either way. I don't have to worry I'll have spent the last hour doing everything I can to please someone and end up with nothing for it. I don't have to be afraid I'll tell a customer no, I'm not able to do that, only to have a manager come along behind me and do that! If it's slow, I can do things between calls, like sudoku, reading, writing to-do lists, talking to the people next to me. I'm not required to look busy every moment of every shift. And they pay me a hell of a lot more than $4 per hour!

That's not to say that serving is all bad, and I do miss some of my coworkers and even some of the customers. And I know that a lot of my frustrations were due to the specific restaurant I was at. But fucking hell, I was just burnt out! And I didn't even realize the extent of my misery until I had something to compare it to.

So .... why am I not telling CL to stuff it up her Grand Canyon of a twat and running like hell? Well, I'm not quite back on my feet yet. Still scraping for money to cover some things, like gas to get to the new job. And while having no shifts is obviously not helping that, I like feeling like I have an option to get more money. I could pick up a shift or two if I really wanted to. But once I get to the point where I'm caught up on bills and maybe even have a little extra saved? The restaurant business can go fuck itself.

And what I'll regret most when that day comes is losing this blog!

Well, I'm in a bad mood.

So this would be a good time to write up that story, huh? I've found it's difficult to write my blog posts when I'm in a good mood -- because the good moods are never caused by work!

So last night was kind of a shitty night anyway. People were just impatient. Not too long after first cuts, I had a table of an elderly couple and their son on the patio. I thought they'd be a great table, they were smiling and happy and ordered big expensive drinks.

I delivered their food and asked if they needed anything else, having already brought them extra napkins and sauces in anticipation. They seemed thrilled with their food and said it was great, so I thought I could nip into the bathroom because my bladder was about to rupture.

Well, I came out a couple minutes later and Porn Star stopped me. "Your dude on the patio threw his ribs at me and said they were burnt, the kitchen's making him new ones."
"Shit. Okay, does he need new sides?"
"No, he kept his sides."

I went into the kitchen and was greeted with a glare from Lapdog. Apparently burnt ribs are my fault, rather than the cooks'. He asked if the guy still had his sides, and I said yes, and hustled out to the patio with new ribs.

Well, surprise surprise, the guy didn't actually have his sides. I apologized for the mis-communication and said I'd be right back. Naturally, I got to the kitchen and they didn't have any fucking fries cooked. They hadn't even dropped them. So I got his cole slaw, and I ran back out to the patio. I figured he'd be annoyed, but holy shit.

I placed the cole slaw on the table. "They're just cooking fresh fries for you, sir, they'll be ready s--"
"WHY THE HELL WOULDN'T THEY BE READY NOW!" he sprayed spit all over me as he yelled.
I was flabbergasted. "They're making fresh ones, I thought you'd prefer that."
I can't really articulate what all he said next. It was a blur of half-finished sentences about half-cooked fries, burnt ribs, bullshit, and I don't even know what else. At one point he scooted his chair back and started to stand up, making fists, like he was going to get in my face! He culminated the whole rant by yelling "Take the damn ribs!" and shoving the plate into my stomach so hard I really thought I'd have a bruise. Then he threw a ramekin of barbecue sauce onto the plate, splashing me with it. I was literally stunned motionless and speechless. Then he ripped the plate out of my hands, yelling "Put my goddamn ribs down!"

I didn't say another word. I just stomped away, ripping open the patio door, saying probably loud enough for them to hear, "I do NOT get paid enough for this!" By the time I reached the manager's office, I was in tears.
"Lapdog, you have to go talk to this angry old asshole on the patio."
He blinked at me.
"He's swearing at me, throwing things at me, spitting on me -- I'm not fucking dealing with him anymore."
Lapdog heaved a huge sigh and got up. I explained what happened as we went to the front of the house. As he went out to the table, I could see the old man's wife had gotten up and was rubbing his back, soothing him.

Lapdog came back several minutes later, bitching and moaning about having to comp so much food -- he took forty dollars off of their bill! What the fuck ever! But at that point I decided I wasn't going to let them know he'd upset me, so I delivered their bill professionally -- not making eye contact with the old asshole -- and when they were ready I cashed them out. I guess the old lady felt bad because she left me ten bucks, which is ten bucks more than I was expecting!

I can let a lot of things roll right off my back; I have a pretty thick skin. But that old bastard just crossed the line. Swearing doesn't offend me on its own, but combined with spitting, throwing things, jamming plates into my abdomen, and acting as if you're going to physically confront me? Fuck that. Fuck it hard. And fuck Lapdog too for bowing and scraping to someone who talked to his employee that way!

Wait .. I … but …. what?

Tonight was hell. Hell. My section was like a goddamn daycare. Children everywhere. Cranky customers bitching about things that weren't my fault. Not even worth writing about except for the fact that all of them were piled on me at once. I was ready to cry. I'd agreed to close for my Work Wife, but after dealing with rude assholes all night I just wanted to walk out the side door and never come back.

Then I felt like I got a lucky break: a couple in their late twenties with a smaller but polite child. They made eye contact, they said please and thank you. They ordered drinks and an appetizer, and answered all my questions. After taking their order I went back to the kitchen and said, “Finally! A table that doesn't suck!”

You see where this is going, right?

The 'nice' people got their food as I was taking an order at a rather more obnoxious, large table full of small children. I got a drink refill for someone, entered the big table's simple order, and went over to the nice people.

“How is you dinner so far?”
The man, who had both elbows on his table and was stabbing at his food, glowered up at me. “I need to see the manager.”
I smiled and said right away, having no idea what could be wrong. I guessed maybe there was something about the food that had pissed him off so much he didn't want to tell me, so I didn't particularly worry when I sent PSM to the table.

Five minutes later, PSM came back. “He's upset because he says you rolled your eyes in disgust at him.”
I think my mouth literally fell open. “I did not!”
“Well, he says you did.” PSM shrugged. “Maybe you didn't realize it, you did it just now.”
“But I knew I was doing it! And there was no reason I would have, they didn't do anything to irritate me or anything!”

PSM said not to worry too much about it, but I was so stressed out from the whole night's ridiculous idiocy that after he walked away I started to crack. Someone asked if I was okay and I burst into tears and a tirade about how much people piss me off. I ran through everything I could think of – was my contact lens bothering me? No. Did I look up to think when they asked me a question? No, they didn't ask me any questions. Did they say or do anything to irritate me that I might have rolled my eyes at? No. I was out of ideas.

But after I calmed down, I made a round of my tables, and then went to the 'nice' people. I had carefully planned what I was going to say; I know better than to deny something like that. I also waited until Kelly was at the next table and would hear the whole thing, which I was glad of later.
“Sir, my manager said you saw me roll my eyes at you and I just wanted to let you know it wasn't intentional.”
“Whatever.” the guy snapped and threw his fork down. “I don't even want to talk about it.”
“Well, I apologize.” I started to back up. “It wasn't directed at you.”
“You know what, I saw you do it twice, so--” he started flipping his hand at me to go away, so I did. A few minutes later, I saw PSM at the table again, with the guy clearly bitching about something new.

Turns out, the guy was complaining again because I apologized. According to him it was rude and “nervy”. Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck complains about an apology? Oh, wait – somebody who works in the restaurant business and knows exactly what to say to get free shit.

Prime assholery.

This last week, the restaurant has just been awash in fuckfaces. And it's not just me, all my coworkers are saying the same thing. It's just instance after instance of stupid shit. Mine have mostly been in the form of shitty attitudes and equally shitty tips, but some of my coworkers have had some hilarious bullshit. Here are just a few examples.

AA, for instance, had a table that was giving their kid sips of their sangrias. She didn't say anything to them about that, figuring it was their choice. At the end of the meal they asked her for to-go cups, and she smilingly agreed and said she'd bring them full fresh sodas to-go.

“No!” The woman snapped. “We just want the cups!”
AA thought that was strange, so she covertly watched them …. and sure enough, the woman poured their sangrias into the to-go cups! AA went to get Lapdog right away, and he promptly confiscated the cups and told them that was illegal. Naturally, AA got stiffed.


The next day AA approached a new table and said. “What would you like to drink?”
“What's that supposed to mean?” They snapped at her.


Another server, K, was having a super friendly chat with her table. They'd been bonding over kids; the table had ordered a lot of stuff and had a big tab. She thought for sure she was going to get a big fat tip.

“Where did you get that hair clip? It's adorable!” her customer asked.
K touched her metallic flower clip. “Oh, I got it at Wal-Mart!”
The woman's face darkened and she began to scowl. ”Wal-Mart? You shop at Wal-Mart?”
Taken aback, K just sort of nodded.
“I can't believe you support that evil corporation! I can't believe you give them your money!” The woman slapped her credit card down and shoved it at K with a glare. No tip.


Barbie was serving a table of normal-seeming folks, but when they left, she discovered that instead of a tip, they had left her a note on a beverage napkin. It read: “THE 'MUSIC' WAS TOO LOUD ALSO THE 'MUSIC' IS NOT MUSIC BUT ANNOYING NOISE”.
If you're so bothered by Top 40 music, why the fuck would you go to a ChilirobinTGIlbackabee's kind of place?


Meanwhile, I went to greet what appeared to be a table of five. I was confused at first as to why one person was standing, without a chair to sit on. Thinking the hostesses were just being idiots, I quickly said I'd go get one.

“Oh, no,” the smarmy-looking father said. “We're not eating. We're just waiting here until another table opens.”
I tried, but I don't think I really managed to control my sarcasm. “So … you're just hanging out? Until another table opens?”
“Yes, we'll have five waters. With lemon.”
I looked at the lobby, where people are supposed to wait for a table. Then I looked back at them. Then I walked away because I didn't think I could control myself.

I told Lapdog not to advertise at the Asshole Convention next year.

Look, the bitch is back!

Last entry's stick-up-the-ass bitch was back tonight, thankfully not in my section. But, because I'm a team player – and because if the managers are prepared for whining bastards like that they're less likely to blow up when the inevitable complaint comes – as soon as I spotted her, I went to CL.

“Remember the lady I had last night, who I forgot her appetizer and then she complained about everything else and was freaking out?”
“Uh-huh.” CL didn't seem to really be paying attention.
“Well, she's in seat one at table 12. Just wanted to let you know because I'm sure she'll find something else to freak about.”
At that CL's head swiveled around and she started paying attention. She even thanked me.

And boy, was I right. I later heard Tiffany in a high state of stress, giving CL the laundry list of things the woman was complaining about. CL was very calm about it, but the way CL had been acting all night, I bet if I hadn't warned her it would've been a totally different scene.

Yeah, I'm cool like that.

One nutty bitch spoils the bunch.

My schedule's been screwed up lately (thank you LAPDOG), so I worked a Wednesday this week. I. Fucking. Hate. Wednesdays. The shift always starts out with some kind of fucked up chaos, no matter what. Today's wasn't anything specific, and by six I had tables only in my own section again. And honestly they were treating me fairly well, $10 and $12 tips for the most part.

But of course, one person always has to be different.

My last table of the night was a woman who looked like she had a stick up her ass, and her son. They ordered boneless wings as an appetizer. The kid ordered a rack of ribs with extra fries instead of cole slaw, and the mother ordered a chicken tender and rib basket with ranch instead of honey mustard.

Unfortunately, they were one of three tables I was sat at one time, which is how I ended up making a mistake. The people next to them also had an appetizer, and I got my brain wires crossed and thought I'd rung in the uptight bitch's appetizer.

I saw the Bug taking their food to the table, saw the woman give her an earful, and then Bug walked back to the kitchen. I met her halfway and asked what was wrong.

“She didn't get her appetizer before her meal, she said he did not get double fries, and she says this,” Bug shook the basket at me, “isn't enough.”

“Oh, fuck.” I rushed out to the table. “Ma'am, I'm so sorry I forgot to ring in your appetizer, that was entirely my fault. I'm going to get the manager involved to fix the rest, right away. Do you still want the boneless wings?”

“Well of course.” she snarled. I wanted to punch her. I fucking apologized, alright? It's not the end of the world. Especially since the kid did have his double fries, and she got the standard meal portion. “And don't you have some silverware!”

I stomped to the host stand for two silverware, wondering why the hell the hosts were seating people without the stuff, then went in search of Lapdog. I started by telling him I'd forgotten the appetizer and had already apologized, and apparently that made him go deaf with rage because he just couldn't understand what I was saying about the rest of it.

Once I finally explained to him that the woman was complaining about her son's portion of fries, and her overall portion of food, he asked if I was sure she'd ordered the smaller meal. I told him – twice – that I'd repeated the order to her, and he finally started talking to the cooks and expo, so I thought the situation would be resolved fairly quickly.

As I was delivering drinks to another table, Lapdog passed me with the woman's food – which he'd doubled the portion of despite it being normal to begin with – and immediately came back looking even more pissed. I rushed back to the kitchen to find him scooping fries out of the basket and hollering. I hadn't mentioned that she was supposed to have ranch instead of honey mustard, because stupid me, I was dealing with my other tables and maybe thought that might be info the expo would've given him while they were discussing the order. So now the bitch was flipping out because some vile, disgusting, terrible honey mustard touched her plate, and Lapdog was even more pissed at me. I told him the information was on the original ticket and he started snarling about how he didn't have it, nobody uses the special order tickets in situations like this, he's tired of putting out fires, yada yada yada.

Then Chicken Little chose to come out of the office for the first time all night, and she started flipping her lid! She was pacing up and down the kitchen, yelling “I just don't get it! Why are we having these kinds of problems with ten servers on! Maybe we need to have 15! I'll do it! I'll tell my boss my staff can't do their jobs! Maybe then we'll get things done!”

I opened my mouth, closed it, and waited until she had thundered out of the kitchen before saying loudly enough for Lapdog to hear, “It doesn't matter how many servers we have on, people are still going to forget things sometimes.”

Thank god they cut the floor, and I was first off, because I was so fucking frazzled and irritated I don't think I could've handled anything else.

What were you expecting, a blowjob?

I went into work tonight full of hope and the expectation that I might have some good customers and make some money. And one of my earliest tables seemed like a good prospect: two nice-looking guys my age, smiling and polite. One had a beer, another a soda. They both ordered steaks, one with some modifications, the other regular. Their food came out in good time, I checked immediately to see if their steaks were cooked correctly. They were never out of drinks; I dropped their check promptly and took their payment immediately. We didn't talk much, as they were pretty engrossed in their conversation, but it was textbook smooth dining experience. They were in and out in about 30 minutes, during the dinner rush.

When I picked up their credit slip, I saw I'd been gifted a 10% tip and a note that said “service wasn't great, sorry.”

Fuck you.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Yeah, kind of like this.

Tonight was ridiculously slow, and once again we had ten goddamn servers on the floor. Even better, it was prom night for one of the local schools. One memorable girl was wearing a leopard-print, silver-sequin-edged top skimpier than Princess Leia's. My mother would never have let me out of the house like that even if I were slutty enough.

Luckily for me, I didn't have to wait on them. Instead I had nice mix of families and couples. Except for two of them. Two women came in and had a grand old time chatting over wine and salads and desserts. After two hours they left ….and left me $4 on $38 for my time. Inconsiderate wenches.

But the ones who really pissed me off were a couple who seemed so nice. They were the nicest people I waited on all night, actually. He asked for a drink recommendation; she took about five minutes to decide on a mojito, and kept laughing and apologizing. They ended up switching drinks, which was kind of funny. Their food came out in good time; the only 'problem' was that either they didn't ask for mustard when their food was dropped off or somebody forgot it, because while I was ringing in another order the lady came over and asked for mustard. She was very pleasant about it, and I know they hadn't been waiting long – their food was delivered as I took another order, I took two plates to another table, and was entering the order when she came over.

They gulped down the rest of their food and asked for the bill, then sat for a few more minutes. I didn't bug them because they had money carefully folded up and tucked under the edge of an appetizer plate; I just kept passing by and smiling in case they needed anything. When they left, I was very displeased to find $38.50 left on the table. Their bill was $38.38. Fuck you, dickheads. You had to wait maybe three minutes for your fucking mustard, which you asked somebody else for, and that warrants a 12 cent 'tip'? I hope you get a one cent raise the next time you're up for a review, you cheapasses.

Big pimpin' in a small town.

The last two weeks have been very slow. I think it's because of tax time, and I'm hoping we'll bounce back up soon. We still have the same number of servers on the floor as always, which I understand needing to start out with. But Lapdog in particular has a phobia of cutting the floor. So I ran a four table section for three and a half utterly dead hours today. To make it even more joyful, one of those tables got incorporated into a big top – which another server had, because two of her tables were used as well. She gave me one of hers when it got sat later, but then her boyfriend and his parents came in and sat in one of my tables because hers was full, but wanted her to wait on them. So I basically had a three table section until Lapdog finally cut at almost nine o'clock.

The one table I had at my six-seater booth gave me reason to hope. Seven people, and they were all talking and laughing and seemed happy. Things were a bit of a mess trying to get their appetizer order; Mom tried to order the appetizers, but didn't really know what she was talking about. She ordered a total of four items, three of which fit into our appetizer sampler. Several of the kids (teenagers) who were calling out items had their flyer about the sampler open, so I tried to figure out if they were ordering the sampler or individual items. But Mom just did not understand what I was saying. Finally she said, “Just those three” but she'd ordered four. It got to the point where everyone else was talking at once trying to explain, and Dad was holding his head in exasperation. Then the oldest daughter finally asked me to come back, and when I did she ordered and Mom kept her mouth shut. That kind of thing just drives me nuts. It's bad enough when people want to order for everyone, but when they don't know what they're ordering it's just terrible.

Anyway, things went smoothly after that. They needed a lot of drink refills, but I thought I'd be compensated because their overall manner was just so happy and nice. Dad apologized for Mom's retarded moment, but I laughed it off. Then he told me that two guys who work for him were there, and he wanted to pay for both of their meals at well. I fucking hate it when people do that, because it's just a whole grey area over who's going to tip the other server, or in this case the other two servers.

My table finished before the other two, so I gathered up the other tickets and took them to the baller who was about to shell out $229 at my stupid little corporate restaurant. He said he would tip the other servers as well, and also said “and if they leave more, good for them!” I really thought I was going to do well on this table.

When they finally left, I retrieved the three separate books. For my coworkers, $7 each on tickets of $57 and $49. For me …. $11 on $123. Seriously, you jackass? I wait on you and your loud family hand and foot, I laugh and talk and joke with you, I orchestrate this pain in the ass display of your 'generosity', and you give me less than ten fucking percent? Why don't you take your promotion to K9 unit captain and shove it up your ass.

Still alive and kicking!

But also still without my primary computer. Bugger.

My first night back at work after my trip, I started the night out with a great tip - $9 on $40 from two very low-maintenance customers. The next was $6 on $30. The next was ... 10 fucking cents on $56. Still don't know what I did to piss them off.

Hopefully I'll have my machine up and running again soon and will be back to regular posting!

That's not a flag.

My last table tonight should actually have gone to my closing coworker. I had taken two tables, then she got one; then while I was in the bathroom, a three came in. She greeted them and got their drinks, then sat another table (two middle-aged regulars) and informed me she was taking the second table! I tried to point out that they should be mine, but both tables could hear me so I gave up.

And it's no wonder she didn't want the table of three. They were late teens/early twenties, two girls and a guy. The guy looks slobby and had big bushy hair. Both the girls were in oversized hoodies and stocking caps. Yeah, they were gangsta. The real bitch at the table also had a hoop piercing in the center of her bottom lip. That's never a good sign -- in my book it's an official Bad Omen.

They took forever to decide what they wanted; when they finally ordered, the guy ordered a beer. Well, I got their food in, but I forgot the beer. I was sitting at a table on the other side of the bar, where I could see them and monitor their drink levels and still see in to the kitchen for their food. When it came out I took it to them right away, got them the two things they asked for, and then got the beer Lip Piercing reminded me I forgot about. I apologized, and the guy said "it's okay." Lip Piercing stared at me as if I were dog shit, including staring obviously at my gut. I mentally shrugged, asked how things were, and started cleaning my section -- which was on the other side of a waist-height rail from them, so I was always in eyesight and earshot.

When they were done, I got their boxes and gave them a check with three subtotals. Lip Piercing still wouldn't speak, but I just figured she was a bitch. (The guy, who was the only one I'd made any mistakes on his order, said please and thank you every time he spoke to me. the entire meal.) For the next five minutes they carefully added everything up, whispering to each other and giving me furtive glances. When Lip Piercing finally spoke to me on one of my trips by, I was completely unsurprised when she said, "Um, it took you until we got our food to get his beer!" and thrust the ticket at me. My gut feeling was that they didn't have enough money to pay for their bill. As politely as I could, I said I'd get the manager. So I took the three dollar beer off an returned the ticket.

For another ten minutes, I casually walked by checking other things every two minutes. They continued dissecting the bill, whispering and talking. The guy finally got his card out and had it sitting in front of him, but Lip Piercing had a death grip on the bill. On my four trip by the table, nothing had changed; I made eye contact with Lip Piercing, who stared at me blankly. Then as I continued by, she raised the bill up in the air -- now holding a credit card too -- and waved it slowly back and forth over her head, sneering at me!

I about lost it. It had been a slow night, and I knew that I wasn't going to make as much as I needed. I was already aggravated, and this little bitch was making me want to grip her by her lip ring and drag her out of the restaurant. I may be a fat waitress, but I am not beneath the contempt of some grunge-wannabe snotsack. But somehow I swallowed my bile, and didn't snap at her, "Put it on the edge of the table, I'm not a fucking mind reader." Instead I just took the two cards -- the guy said thank you -- and ran them -- and the guy said thank you again.

They sat there another ten minutes or so, and after they left I was unsurprised to see that the guy left me 10% -- which I deserved for forgetting his beer -- on his $12 ticket, and Lip Piercing, who paid for $30 of the bill, left me ... uh, zero. She also took her receipt, which has the district manager's direct phone number and email address. I'm hoping she's just a receipt-keeper, rather than someone who's going to write to the DM and get me in trouble for forgetting a beer!

I made $45 on a seven hour closing shift. Fucking slow nights.

Oh man, that's some crap.

To understand how that title sounds, you need to watch this hilarious video.



Tonight had the potential to be a great night. I had a four table section with two booths; a lot of my friends were working; and Lapdog was in a great mood. Of course, everything went to hell. The kitchen was dragging behind, and Rehab was fucking up constantly. She was also screaming non-stop. At one point she screamed, "Fuck you all! I'm fucking done!" and stomped away untying her apron!

Where my night really went downhill, though, was when my two tables got pushed together for an eight top. To anyone out there in a book club: Friday night in a restaurant is not the appropriate place to meet. The bitches sat there, taking up half my section, for three fucking hours. They tipped me a grand total of $10. And the best part was that they all had separate tickets, and they paid one ... by one ... by one .. by one. Except for one loud-mouthed bitch, who just kept talking and talking through all of this. She kept her ticket right by her drink for the next hour and a half as they chatted away, merrily wasting my time and costing me money. Finally, at 9:30, they all got up and filed out. Want to guess who didn't leave any money for her ticket?

Fucking bitches.

I ended up leaving with a whole $30 tonight for seven hours of work. Fucking hell. I think I lost money somewhere, but have no idea when or how. I left the restaurant in tears.

Flaming assholes.

I swear to god there must be a freaking convention of fuck-faces in town, because we've been over-run all damn weekend. My section was full of jackasses Thursday night; Bulldog was just the worst of them. Friday was full of fun people too, although I can't really remember them specifically -- just lots of bad attitudes and less than 10% tips. One especially nice one was $3 on $57. Oh, and $4 on $78. Fuck you people.

Tonight it started all over again. The whole night sucked. Everyone was running around like crazy, shit was going wrong, customers were being dicks. I particularly enjoyed waiting on a coworker from my old restaurant, who left me $3 on $55. Bitch. Now I remember why I didn't like her back then.

Then there was the table of two who told me their appetizer tasted "weird" and when I asked how just told me it "didn't taste like the avocado dip we've had before." Uh, maybe that's because we don't have an avocado dip, we have a spinach dip. Dumbasses. Then they ordered a couple more beers, and when I delivered them (maybe four minutes later), the man heaved a big sigh and said, "Fine, I guess we'll take them, we just told your manager we didn't want them!" Well excuse the hell out of me for bringing what you ordered! I hadn't even had a chance to talk to PSM as he'd been snagged by another tables of complainers in the fifteen seconds since he left my table. PSM took the appetizer and the beers off their ticket; I didn't even look at what they tipped me, just jammed the cash in my pocket because I was pretty sure it'd just piss me off.

My most douchebaggy customers were also my first -- a big table. They weren't too high maintenance, but when they did need something, they were just plain rude. It started when the first woman showed up and told the hosts, "We'll have 10 for a birthday party. I'm going to go sit at our table." and proceeded to walk into the bar area and plop herself down at a random table. Right. When the time came to order dinner, a mullet-bearing older woman informed me she'd have the grilled cheese off the children's menu, and I wasn't to charge her for her soda because "it's included." The same woman made a lovely joke when someone ordered guacamole -- "ya'll know where gwack-ah-mole-ay comes from right? a cow's butt!" Charming.

That sort of crap continued throughout the meal. As some of them finished, I was talking to the impatient beer people; I then turned around to greet a new table, and yet another bitchy woman at the big table yelled, "HEY! Wait a minute!" Then she reached out like she was going to grab me. At that I was already standing at the other table, looking over my shoulder, but she didn't take the hint. "Can we get our tickets!"
"Sure, just a minute." I then turned back to my new table, who were all staring at the other woman in shock. That table was really cool, actually. Thank goodness for that.

I brought the ten of them their four separate tickets, and told each individual ticket-taker that I would be their cashier. Imagine my surprise when I returned to the table and found two of them with credit cards at the ready, and two of them gone. Grilled cheese bitch and "can we get our tickets" bitch had both planted themselves in the middle of the lobby and were thrusting money at the rather confused hosts. They told them they needed to pay their server, and Ticket Bitch's husband said, "Well, I'm not walking back to our table!" and sat down on the bench to freaking pout. Seriously? You're like 80, not 5!

Again, I didn't even look at my tip from any of them, I knew I'd just want to chase them outside with a steak knife.

But the Flaming Asshole Of The Day Award goes to someone not even in my section. A table of two was seated in the new girl's section -- it was her first shift working her own section, and she did pretty well! But she couldn't do anything about the wait in the lobby, the wait for their food, or the fact that the cooks sent out an improperly cooked steak. She's a nice girl, who has served before, and according to PSM she handled everything correctly.

But she still got a two dollar tip on a $40 tab. Shitty, but what pushes it over the edge is the little asterisk by the tip, and a note at the bottom of the ticket: "*AND YOU'RE LUCKY TO EVEN GET THAT."

Flaming asshole.

A tale of two "dogs".

My tables last night were all full of the crazy. Just bad attitudes and weird requests at every table, and topped off, naturally, with bad tips. But one bulldog-faced bitch of a woman stands heads and swinging jowls above the rest.

At first, I thought I was just getting another table of cranky old people (who had apparently sprung a mass break-out from the home). He was a scrawny quiet old man who I think was blind in one eye, and she looked like the lovechild of Jabba the Hut and a bulldog. In glasses and a flowery shirt. This mental image wasn't helped by her barking voice and general rudeness, either.

They ordered two glasses of wine; someone else delivered them while I was taking an order. As I turned around with a stack of menus in my hand, Bulldog snarled at me, "I need another wine! This glass is dirty!" I picked up the offending glass, not seeing where it was dirty, and assured her I'd get her a new glass right away. "It's dirty!" she repeated, and again I said I'd get her another glass.

When I came back, she didn't even give me a chance to ask if they were ready to order before beginning to do so. She ordered for her husband (riblets) and acted offended when I asked him directly which type of sauce he wanted. Then she jabbed a square, garishly painted nail at a picture in the menu and grunted "I'll have that."

My server intuition niggled at me; I just had a feeling she was going to send it back. So I repeated her order very carefully to check that she wanted the steak and garlic shrimp, which she confirmed. She then said she wanted her steak cooked medium, and asked if she could get onion rings. When I said it was a dollar to substitute onion rings, she got all huffy and sourly informed me she'd choke down the vegetables. I was already ready to tell her to choke on her vegetables at that point.

Five minutes later, I'm again just barely leaving another table when she hollers at me, "can we get another glass of wine!" Her glass was empty; her husband's was half-full; and since she had used singular words, I foolishly assumed she actually meant another glass. Of course, when I took it to them the husband asked, quite bitchily, "what happened to mine?" I apologized and said I misunderstood, and would be right back. "Well! I said can we get another glass!" was Bulldog's huffed response. Whatever.

Well, we were absolutely slammed, and the bartenders were buried, so it took a couple of minutes for said wine to be poured. Not more than five -- and remember, he still had wine left! -- but that wasn't acceptable. As I watched one bartender pour the wine, I saw another contending with a familiar bulldog-faced bitch who had wandered to bar to personally bitch at the bartenders! You'd think the fact that she had to shove her way through a full lobby, and then through a layer of people all the way around the bar, might have clued her in as to the fact they hey, cuntbag, we're busy! But noooo. I don't know exactly what she said to the Lawyer and Chrissy, but they were both really offended.

Two minutes later, as I was entering an order for a five top, I saw Pixy standing at my table, being berated by Bulldog. Then she came back -- surprise! -- carrying the beautifully prepared steak and shrimp.

"Alright, what's the bitch's problem?"
"I didn't even get to set this down or anything before she started yelling! 'What's that, I didn't order that, I don't want that!'"
"Oh for Christ's sake. What did she say she ordered?"
"Plain grilled shrimp, an appetizer of onion rings, and a salad with Italian."
I literally stood there and stared for five seconds before I started laughing. Then I took the plate back to the kitchen. "Rehab, we're up a steak because this crazy bitch said she didn't order it." I ordered the new, completely different order and then went to tell Lapdog -- making sure to tell him that I repeated her order and she was just crazy. He said he'd take her salad out when it was ready, so I got a refill for another crazy table and then stopped and braved the dog.

"We'll have your dinner ready shortly, ma'am." I said with my best smile, but absolutely without apologizing. "How are your riblets, sir?"
He just nodded at me with his mouth full, then spit out a little square bone. Classy. Bulldog, however, naturally had something to say. "Tell your chef that those aren't riblets!"
Oh jesus, here we go. I smiled the best I could. "They aren't?"
"We're from Nebraska and we know meat! Those are featherbones!"
"Oh. Would you like something else?"
"We know meat! We're from Nebraska! Those aren't riblets!"
"Well, they're what we call riblets." I said as cheerfully as I could. "Would you like something else?"
"He wanted something he didn't have to chew around! He has false teeth!" She continued. Lapdog walked up with the salad, so she re-directed her energy to him. "We're from Nebraska! Those aren't riblets!"
I walked away at that point, but heard him say "well, we've called them riblets for 15 years."

Next time I saw Lapdog in the kitchen, I grinned at him and he laughed and said "she's a real ray of sunshine, isn't she!" Then he said he'd deliver her food himself, which I was very grateful for. I was also not entirely surprised when a few minutes later he came stomped back to the kitchen, carrying the grilled shrimp and looking pissed.

"She decide she wants chicken now?" I joked.
"Apparently I need to re-train my staff," he snapped, "because she wanted cold shrimp and sauce."
"What?"
"Yeah, that's what she said, that I need to retrain my staff." He was really irritated, but I knew it was at Bulldog -- he doesn't like it when people say things like that. All I could do at that point was laugh. Lapdog took her a plate of shrimp on ice, like shrimp cocktail, and a side of cocktail sauce, and apparently Bulldog deemed that acceptable -- although I later overheard her bitching more, saying, "who serves shrimp on ice!"

When I offered them dessert, she snapped that they'd "had enough here." She looked over the ticket carefully, grumbling to her husband the whole time and looking even more sour. I'm sure she thought her food would be on the house because of all her griping, but for once Lapdog didn't buy everything just to shut the customer up!

I wasn't surprised to get no tip off the bitch. Actually, they left five cents less than the total bill, and if they hadn't already been out the door when I got to the table I would have stopped them and demanded they pay their five cents, the bitches.

My favorite V-Day bitch.

Pretty much sums up the whole night.
(My house Internet is out and god only knows when it'll get fixed. I can do limited stuff from my phone, but won't be able to answer comments yet. Bloody Comcast.)

Night of the bullshit complainers.

People were really flipping out over stupid shit tonight -- and in some cases they were just plain lying.


The first dumbass complaint was against a fellow server, Crystal. Some of her friends were at one of her tables, and one of them was on the phone with Crystal's boyfriend. He handed the phone to Crystal, who said "Hi, I'm really busy, tell the kids I love them!" or some such and handed it back to her friend. But this bitch-ass cunt woman at the next table told CL that Crystal stood in the middle of the dining room, talking on a cell phone, for 15 minutes! Right, because nobody else would've noticed that? The topper, though, was when Crystal heard the snotty bitch tell one of her crotchspawn, "I got Daddy free food!" Oh yeah -- and CL believed the woman at first! Dumbass.


Around the same time, I answered the eternally ringing phone.
"How long is the wait for a table of nine?" asked the woman on the other end. She had one of those sickly sweet, overly polite voices that you just know means she's actually a total bitch.
"Well, we do have a wait right now, I think you'd be waiting about twenty minutes."
"Do you do call-ahead seating?"
I hate that question. "No ma'am, we don't do call-ahead seating or reservations. I can take your name and let the hosts know, and we'll do what we can. But if we have another rush or another large table comes in, they'll be on the list first."
"So can you put us on the list?"
Sigh. "I can give your name to the hosts, but we don't take call-aheads so I can't promise."
"Okay, well we live about ten minutes away. So we'll be there soon."
"Alright, if you'll give me your name I'll talk to the hosts and we'll do what we can."
"It's Sandra. We'll be there in ten minutes, will that be okay?"
I was getting the feeling she was willfully not hearing me. "We'll probably still have a wait then, but that's fine."
"Okay, we'll be there in ten minutes!"
I meant to tell CL about the phone call, because I just had a feeling that woman was going to be trouble. Oh, how right I was -- unfortunately I got so busy I didn't have time to talk to her. About thirty minutes later she comes out of the manager's office irritated.
"Who answered the phone and told a party of nine we'd put them on the list?"
"I did not tell her that!" I went through the entire thing, and luckily CL believed me. She said the woman was yelling and saying they were going to our competition because we "pissed her off". Then CL said that at the end of the call, she'd told the woman she'd find out who told her she was on the list, and the woman immediately backed down: "Oh no, no, I don't want anyone to get in trouble!"
Right, because nothing puts a damper on your lying little scheme like the truth coming out! Later I found out that her husband had come in and gotten in the host's face, swearing and yelling, because they were "supposed to be on the list"! And twenty minutes is too long to wait at seven o'clock on a Saturday night!


Then, during bingo tonight, we had two different tables pitching a fucking fit about the "noise". Because god forbid people go to a restaurant to have fun! If you want quiet go to a fucking library. One of the tables complaining was about ten feet from the bingo podium; but of course, when we offered to move them to the other side of the restaurant, they declined. Guess they only wanted something free! The other complainers were on the far side of the restaurant from the bingo podium -- with the bar, two rows of tables, and a glass partition between me and them. They complained the entire fucking time, demanding it be turned down -- but then people wouldn't have been able to hear the numbers, and would have been able to hear the cooks yelling. So we didn't turn it down. Actually both of them "inspired" me to turn the music up just a little louder in  between rounds. Ha! After bingo, they started bitching about the regular in-house music. Their server asked me how to turn it down -- so I cranked it up several notches above normal first. Fuck 'em. No surprise, they sat in their corner talking until ten minutes after close.


Wannabe had a super fun table during bingo too. Their entire order was ready except for the french fries with one item, so the kitchen sent everything out except the fries. Whoever delivered the meals told them the fries would be out shortly; three minutes later Wannabe came out with said french fries and was greeted with a whole lot of swearing about "this is bullshit" and "this food is fucking gross". Wannabe got CL, of course, who was treated to the same thing:
"This food looks like shit! And we're not going to eat some of it while waiting for more! That's stupid! Every damn time we come here things suck! We always have to get everything re-done!"
I guess CL had had enough at that point, because she point-blank asked him, "Then why do you keep coming back?"
The guy stuttered and stammered, then lamely said, "Well, it's always good the second time."
"And we buy it." CL said flatly.
The guy actually fucking smirked and said, "Exactly."
What a fucking tool! Then he got angry and accused CL of "causing a scene" when she stacked up their plates and they clanged together -- because he demanded she replace all four meals because of the fries they waited for! So he asked Wannabe for CL's boss's number. CL took it to him and told him she's the GM, this is her name, this is her boss's name, go ahead and contact him.

Why are people such lying douches?

Oh look, a moron.

ETA: I knew you guys would like that one! Brian posted another comment, on the original post instead of here where it would be seen: "Yeah, because all the words I typed are completely untrue. The truth sucks, doesn't it waitresses of the world. Get a job at a restaurant that pays a decent wage if you have to work a restaurant job. Or, maybe, go to college and get a degree, and stop being a dumb, whore waitress. "

I received the following comment on my blog entry about not believing in tipping:

"I, for one, believe that any job that doesn't have a set pay standard high enough for you to live without having to put on a fake smile and kiss ass to get your income is not a job worth having. Ya know, if waitresses unionized and insisted... on fair wages like back of the house employees get then it might be alright for some people to not have to tip. I believe that the cost of the meal is what i should pay. I don't tip the dishwasher for doing his job. I don't tip the manager for doing his job. I don't tip the cook for doing his job. Why? Because they get paid to do their jobs. I don't get a tip for the work I do, I just get a pay check. So, fuck YOU waitresses of the world. Either stand up for yourselves and organize, or get different fucking jobs that don't make you rely on asskissing to pay your damn bills."


Fuck you, "Brian". Everyone's job involves a certain amount of smiling and asskissing, even if it's to your boss or a coworker. You, for one, are just a cheap and selfish dick.

Bite me, assholes.

I was in no mood for peoples' bullshit yesterday. When I woke up my first thought was "fuck this day" -- I was just pissed off from the word go, for no particular reason. Naturally, my customers did nothing to help this. To be fair, most of them were garden variety jerks. By that I mean the kind of people who answer "how are you?" with "Water. Just water." and when you offer them soup or salad ask "is it free?" I don't even remember most of my tables last night, because they fell in to that category. Four particular ones stick out though.

One of them was my first table of the night. It was a couple in their forties, along with their daughter and her husband. They weren't rude; they answered my questions; they acknowledged my presence at the table .... except the mother. When I asked if they were ready to order, she immediately stated, "chicken salad with dressing on the side. So I was talking to your aunt the other day, and ...." Nevermind that I needed to get the rest of her table's order too, clearly it was more important to start her conversation right the fuck now. Oh, and did I mention that she didn't even bother to look at me while saying this? Yeah, she was the kind of bitch. The entire meal was like that. When she wanted more water (with lemon, of course!), she held her glass up in the air without looking at me, while talking non-stop. Her husband and the kids were very polite and friendly; I think if any of them had paid, I might have gotten a decent tip. But, of course, as soon as I approached with their check she thrust a credit card at me. I don't think she looked at me once; and "chicken salad with dressing on the side" were the only words she spoke directly to me. I'm sure the fact that she was hardly aware I existed explains the $4 tip on a $50 ticket.

Then I had a table of semi-regulars. The wife is always sort of bitchy; the husband is very mellow; this time they had their two grandchildren with them. When I asked what they wanted to drink, the wife immediately started going in circles with the kids -- "what would you like to drink? would you like this? well what about this? well what are you having for dinner? would you like this? or that? what to drink? oh you want this to eat? are you sure? are you sure you don't want this?"

After easily a minute and a half of being ignored by her, I was a little more direct than usual. "Maybe I can get your drinks while you're deciding on the dinner part." She blinked owlishly at me but finally asked for water (of course). I got their waters; they finally ordered. One of the kids got something off the children's menu; the other ordered off the regular menu. The adults got our motherfucking despised "share two" discount meal. Fucking fabulous. Then they started whipping out the coupons. Most places don't let you use multiple discounts, but of course my restaurant is so afraid of losing customers that they'll let them. And they had a small gift card as well. So these fuckers ended up getting food for four people .... for 39 fucking cents. And I got a $4 tip. The guy made a big deal out of handing it to me too. Oooooh, four dollars, that's .5% of my rent! Thanks! Seriously, you fuckers? You got all your food for 39 goddamn cents, and you can't tip decently? FUCK YOU!

Still, I was really trying to not let my bad mood overwhelm me; I tried to shrug off these first two tables, and think that later tables would make up for it. They didn't, but I tried to think it.

Where I started to get really, really irate was with a table of two. We had a wait that night for a couple of hours, but things were going smoothly. For once, the kitchen wasn't fucking up left and right. People weren't camping out. Cheap-ass tips aside, it was a fine night. Then I saw HotPants get flagged down by one of my tables--never a good sign. So I scurried up with the water pitcher to refill the drinks next door, and listen in.

"That table over there has been dirty for 25 minutes!" My customer jabbed at a table in another server's section, several tables away and behind him. "Why can't somebody clean it? You have a serious problem in this restaurant!"

The table had been dirty for a while; I had taken a few items off it at a time, slowly clearing it off, because it was a new server's section and she was overwhelmed. A fifth table probably would have set her over the edge. But, um, who the fuck worries about something like that? If you're already sitting down, if you've already ordered your damn food, why would you even notice? The guy was perfectly polite to me, but HotPants told me later that he was really getting in his face about it, bitching about the lobby being too full and how ridiculous it was that we were so busy. What? HP had to walk away and come back because he was getting really pissed off' and the guy kept giving nasty looks to everyone who walked by. Except me, strangely; but I was still irritated by his busy-body attitude.

Not too long after they left, I got a table of two middle-aged folks. They were polite, seemed normal, and I anticipated no problems. The man ordered a pasta dish that I think is quite tasty; it has fettucine, garlic alfredo sauce, and then the meatballs have a mild marinara on them. The woman ordered one of our hideous new diet dishes. The menu clearly states that it is a diet item; it clearly states it has foul whole-wheat pasta, a bunch of veggies, and plain shrimp. But she didn't look displeased when I delivered their food, even though it's really a very small portion and I'd be pissed off if a restaurant brought it to me.

When I checked back on them, he said his meal was good. She said hers was "interesting". I asked if it was "good interesting or bad interesting"; she just repeated it was interesting, but she smiled. I asked if she'd order it again, and she immediately said no. I offered her a new meal, either the same or something different. Twice I asked what else she would like, and she just kept shaking her head and telling me it was okay. After confirming one more time that I couldn't get anything else for them, I went to my other tables.

A few minutes later, I saw that both their plates were half-full and pushed to the side. "Time for some boxes?" I asked with a smile. Oh, Christ on a unicycle.
"No." The woman snapped. "Everything was horrible. We couldn't even eat it. This," she flicked the edge of her plate," is entirely unacceptable for eleven dollars! And his was so disgusting he couldn't even eat it! Alfredo and marinara together, that's just ... who ... We are very disappointed in (restaurant)."

I ran for HotPants, I wasn't talking to those bitches any more! He spent seriously the next ten minutes kneeling by the table listening to them fucking rant and rave. Predictably, he bought their food and they stormed out without leaving a tip. I wanted to follow them, throwing things. RTFM! Read the fucking menu! If it says it has alfredo and marinara, and you don't like that, then don't fucking order it! If you're not on a diet, and you don't want to eat diet food, don't fucking order it! But that's just plain stupidity. What makes me think they weren't stupid, just assholes, is that they assured me everything was fine .... and then suddenly it wasn't. Hmm, could it be that they just decided they were full and wanted their food for free? Or that they just wanted to feel important by having someone be forced to listen to them? Those kinds of people make me want to go on an eye-gouging rampage.

The night ended on the same kind of note. The grizzled, camo-wearing, scowling "gentleman" at my last table was wearing .....