Its been awhile

I discovered that there are very few things to continue to write about. You can only bitch so much.

Of course, tonight, I discover something that I neglected to bitch about previously.

When I'm cleaning your table, do NOT try to stack your plates on the plates I have in my hands. I have things very precariously perched, and your dumb ass will just end up wearing what's left of your food.

While I'm at it, do not attempt to take your food out of my hands, or off the tray I'm carrying. I don't need your help. I get paid to serve you. YOU pay me to serve you. So let me do my fucking job.

That Crazy Canadian Chick

A very close friend of mine started up with her own blog recently, and I'm happy to share her page with you here =)

Pfffffft . . .

Read up, she's awesome... =)

___________

Edit:  She now has a new blog, with a different address.  Post updated to reflect.

Old Balls

I am 33. My birthday is in 3 weeks. In restaurant years I'm fucking Methuselah. Whore and GNAD teamed up on me.

I thought Whore was being nice, "you know, since we're best friends and all . . ." I'll pause here, to tell you that I was *hoping* to offer to play wingman for a night, and get me laid.

She finished with, ". . . I think we should take out a life insurance policy in your name, and name me the beneficiary. you're old, you're going to die soon."

When I told her about my initial thought about how she was to finish that statement, she said "I would love to take you out to meet women, but it's 4pm on a saturday. Everyone at the nursing home is already asleep."

Oh, she also offered to buy me a Rascal for my birthday.

So as of now, I'm taking suggestions. Revenge ideas. The Whore shall not live this down. Leave them in the comments, and we'll see how it goes.

Lack of updates

Have been working straight double shifts lately, so there's not been much of an inclination to write anything new. I'll try to catch up here soon, but the earliest I can say is next week. Sorry for the dry spell guys.

Gramma, Rubbers, and You

New introduction!

Biff-- Musclebound pretty boy, who spends all his time playing video games and masturbating to animal porn.

Another conversation had a few nights ago:

Biff: You remember that old game, don't break the ice?

Me: I remember that old game, don't break the rubber. I used to play it at my gramma's house.

Me: . . .

Me: Well, not AT my gramma's house . . .

Biff: I used to play that game at your gramma's house.

Me: Sweet Jesus, Biff

Biff: Nah, I'm just kidding. I never used a rubber with your gramma.

Nuggets

Nugget, Definition: A person with no arms or legs.

Conversation that occured yesterday: (Slight author's liberties taken, due to fuzzy memory)

GNAD: I just can't get laid.

Whore: You could always try a nugget.

Me: Yeah, a nugget is probably your best bet. They can't run away.

GNAD: Yup, and if you flip them on their stomach, you don't have to hear them scream at you either.

We're all going to hell.

Mickey

There are times, when we do something that makes me unbelievably proud to work in the restaurant business. Last night, we helped raise almost $1000 for http://www.marchforbabies.org/. Cooks and servers volunteered to come in on their day off, to help make sure everything went smoothly. What's most important, for me at least, is that the servers did so knowing that all tips would go to the charity. Things were smooth, everyone had a wonderful time, and I got to go home knowing that I actually did something useful.

Too many babies are born prematurely every year, and March For Babies is dedicated to providing expectant mothers with the care needed to make sure they carry their children to full term. It was an absolutely amazing experience to work with them, and I look forward to the opportunity to do it again in the future.

Are You Fucking Serious?

I saw some dumbass with one too many chromosomes standing the bathroom hallway today, leaning into our mirror, and popping his zits. WHAT THE FUCK? At a restaurant? Who the hell does that? It's not like it's hidden, anyone could see him.

And while I'm at it:

I don't mind cleaning up after babies, and small children. That's fine.

But I have to ask the question when I see shit all over the floor, liquid all over the table.. "Do you people eat like this at home?"

I'm sure some of them do, but I'm also sure that the majority is thinking "Oh someone else is cleaning it up, I'ma be a slob." I mean, cleaning up your shit is my job, but it just amazes me how disgusting some people can be.

We need a 12-Step program for this:

"Hello, my name is Quynlan, and I work in a restruant that panders to the lowest common denominator of the human race."

I think I'm going to go cut my wrists with one of our steak knives now. Gsus Krist.

Ladies and Gentlemen

The Whore has entered the building. In the relatively near future, you wonderful readers out there will start getting submissions from not just me, but the World Famous Whore™ as well.

I can't wait, I know you can't. I am quite certain if anyone can offset my general dislike for the populace, then it's her.

Freakshow Bingo

I've oft considered creating bingo cards for work. I'll call it Freakshow bingo.

It would look something like this:

Work is like a midway freakshow. You see the strangest fucking things. Sometimes you swear that the parents at your table are related. Sometimes you know that guy who just said hello to you is wearing more makeup than your entire female staff, and he just thinks you're adorable.

It's enough to drive a server insane, and we will frequently retreat to the alley to joke about them, cry about them, or lament to the Great Organizing Principle of the Universe, "WHY ME!?"

So, I think Freakshow Bingo is the perfect way for us to keep our sanity, and have a little bit of fun at your expense.

Funny shit I've heard at work.

"It just makes me want to squirt some in my mouth," intentionally taken out of context.

"But..you're a... sugar coated ball of bitch...," in regards to a co-worker, whom from hence forth I shall refer to as Sugar.

Guy at a table: "I feel like such a whore"

Me: *pulls out his wallet*

"Quynlan, I want you to fill this coffee pot, take it to your table, and swing it at maximum velocity at that bitch's head. Make sure you spill the scalding coffee all over the rest of the table too." -- My boss, when having to deal with an extremely difficult table.

Rules of Conduct

Things you should know about eating in a restruant:

1) Servers are not responsible for your fucked up food. Bottom line. Don't take it out on me. I'll do my best to fix it for you, that's my job. But don't be a fucking douche.

2) Call me by my name. I wear a fucking name tag for a reason. Seriously. You call me by my name, and I'm going to be a whole lot nicer to you.

3) This is very important. If you are at a table in which I am not your server, then do not flag me down from across the fucking restruant. Especially when I've got a handful of dirty plates, and all you want is a spoon. Your server will be along shortly. HE is the one you're paying to be your bitch. Not me.

4) Server revenge. It happens. I've never actually done it, but I know of people who have. It *does* happen. And it happens to those of you who resort to personal insults. Take your entitled ass somewhere else. Maybe to the ER. With dysentery.

5) Coming in at 5 minutes to close, is the best way to guarantee your food is going to suck. The cooks are in a hurry to get out, and they aren't going to take care of your order the way they normally do. 90% of the problems I have with food happen in the last 30 minutes before we close. Also, if you DO come in, and I hang out for an extra hour taking care of you, then you need to tip me a hell of a lot more. That's time I'm losing with my kids, and if you sling me one of those $2.00 tips then I'm going to remember who you are, and next time we're going to make sure your dining experience is horrible.

(As an aside, I don't have kids. It was just an example. But many, if not the majority of us do.)

6) Do not snap your fingers at me. I have large knives, and kitchen shears at my disposal.

Bottom line is, as I've said, as has been reiterated through the ages in word of mouth, print, song, and movies:

Do not fuck with the people who handle your food, and you'll have a good experience.

Tips, and You

Very simple. If you can't afford to drop at least a 15% tip when you go out to eat, then stay the fuck home. I don't like you. I don't want you here. You're eating up real estate in my life, and you're fucking up my world perspective. Yes, I know that in 1930, a quarter was a decent tip, and that you think you're being exceptionally magnanimous by leaving me $2.00 on a $60.00 check. Thank you so much! You're now my favorite person!

We only make $2.13/hr. That's what your tip is for, and a 15% is the bare minimum you should leave. 20% is generally more than enough to keep us happy, and we'll make sure next time you come in, that you have everything you need/want/could ever ask for. If you do insist on leaving that shitty tip though . . .

Eat a dick. That's all I have to say. Eat a big fat cheesy dick. I hope that some big burly bondage bitch named Helga ties you up, fills your ass with transmission fluid, and then proceeds to masturbate you with a cheese grater. That will effectively take you out of the gene pool. The last thing we need is you teaching your kids, that we're sub-standard people, working a sub-standard job. Most of all though, I just want you to feel pain.

On occasion, we get the really great people who offset the fucking neck-beard mouth-breathers I mentioned above. These are the ones who have worked in the service industry, or in a lot of cases they are just the ones who work a middle class job, and have to work for everything they have. I know that it doesn't *look* difficult to you, but our job is stressful. Mostly because of cock-knock assholes like you.

So that's it. Stay home. If you don't, I'll have Helga waiting for you with a funnel.

Webster's Definition of Hell

The Alley n.

1. The place where we go, when we leave your table, to get your drinks, and your salads. (Yes, I know all about comma abuse.)

2. The place where we go, as a refuge, to bitch about you. exp. "This guy at my table, just yelled at me. For no reason. I'm sorry you had a bad day, but I'm trying to work. I don't come down to the bus station and slap the dick out of your mouth when you're working, do I buddy?"

3. The place where we go, to make fun of you. exp. "There is a woman out there with an ass the size of Hef's libido, trying to squeeze herself into a booth. Do you think we should go get some crisco to grease her up?"

You see it all in this business. Everything from a family of four, in which you are certain the parents share a few chromosomes at least, to the 60 year old fat slob, with a little asian girl in tow.

See, I work in a restruant that caters to the lower-middle class. Not that it's a bad job, all things considered, I love my job. I do have to deal with a lot of fucktards though. You know, the kind that are so fucked up, that even Jerry Springer rejected them. And when you encounter these random douche-nozzles, you have to have a place to go laugh about them. For me, and the 30-odd malcontents I work with, it's the Alley.

It's like a safe haven.

A port in the storm.

Sometimes it bears a striking resemblence to Adultfriendfinder.com

But all things considered, it's pretty much the coolest place on earth.

So remember that next time you bitch that your coffee is cold. Yes, I know you're 85 years old, and that you've scalded all the nerves out of your mouth by drinking boiling water, and battery acid, or sheep sperm, or whatever else the fuck it was you drank on the farm in 1925. I don't give a fuck. That coffee is 190 degrees, and all it's going to do is piss me off when you bitch about it being cold. I know it's not cold, cause I just burned the fuck out of my hand trying to hurry and get it for you.

We are a strange band of merry men, unified under one simple creedo:

Do not fuck with the people who handle your food.

Me and Mrs. Pepsi

D-Bags, and Jackasses.

So, if you call ahead, and request a private seating for 25-30 people, showing up with seven is not appropriate. You've just completely fucked a server out of any real money by doing that. We so appreciate it. We love it. Now we can buy that new life we've always wanted.

It probably cost us more in gas to drive to work, than what we made off you. We've rearranged the schedule, and come in an hour and a half early just to take care of you.

Which reminds me, if you say you're going to be here at 10:00am, then be here at 10:00am. Not 10:20. I know 20 minutes doesn't seem like a lot, but it's common fucking courtesy. Also, if you want the room at 10:00am, but don't want to be served until noon, then let us know that ahead of time. This will free that server up to take other tables.

Guaranteed, you do this shit to me, and I will stick my cock in your mashed potatoes. And that burns. It just goes to show how much I hate you.

Fucking jackass.

Here I sit, on my day off.

And I have the desire to tell all those people out in the world what really goes at a restruant when your server leaves your table, and heads to the back. How we make fun of our guests. If you're easily offended, you can pretty much just leave now.

The Frequent Aborters Club.

So this girl I work with, who I shall call "Whore", (Love you Whore!) carries around a pen from a womans clinic. She calls it her abortion pen. When asked how she got it, our friend The Great North American Douche says, "Oh she's part of The Frequent Aborters Club. Get five done, and you get a free pen."

A little break to tell you about Whore. She is the most inappropriate, and offensive female I have ever met. I say that in a good way. These are virtues to be nurtured. I love her for it, and hope to have her man-butt-babies one day.

Shortly thereafter she lost her pen. When I inquired as to where the pen went, and why she couldn't get another one, she said "Oh it wore out."

I don't think she was talking about the pen.