Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Chantix Update and Why I Don't Talk to You

Okay, so I stopped taking the Chantix. I tried. I promise you, I really tried. But that shit just wasn't for me. It turned me in to some kind of Stepford resturant worker, who was prone to emotional outbursts, cried if someone was uppitty with me and sobbed at ASPCA commericals (Sarah Mclachlan, as much as I love her music, will from now on, will only remind me of sad puppies). Actually, that probally had nothing to do with the Chantix. I sob like a little bitch at those commericals anyway. But people that think they are better than servers/bartenders just piss me off and can go fuck themselves, so I was damned if I was going to take any type of drug that let assholes like that get to me. The real dealbreaker for me was when my parents straight up told me to flush that shit, I knew I had too. Also when the #1 staff homosexual tells you that you need to quit it, you listen. Because who knows better that you are just not acting like your fabulous bitchy self than the staff homosexual? So Chantix didn't work for me. I really do want to quit, if anyone out there knows of some voodoo cure for nicotine addiction that doesn't change your entire personality and turn you into a batshit crazy wingnut, I'm all fucking ears. Seriously.
But on to other things. Now that I can think for myself and have restored some sense of mental clarity, I gotta something to bitch about (It's so good to be back to myself). Tonight I was on the floor and I was first in, so early on, I got kinda slammed. No biggie there. I can handle my shit and I was on my game. In the middle of said slam, a two top (older businessmen, who explained they traveled alot and had been in town only a week) sat at table 33 and I started talking to them. Usually (okay, never) I'm not a big bullshitter with my tables, polite and professional, yes but not a whole lot of blahfuckingblah. Here's your food, eat it, pay your fucking check, tip me, come back again, get the fuck out. Everybodys happy.
But one of these guys looked just like Joe Kennedy (JFK's fucked-up dad) and had the accent to match. I've kinda obsessed with the who Camelot image of the Kennedys and how under it all they are all kinds of fucked up. That and the whole Kennedy curse shit too, I just find it interesting. I also love the fact that Jackie O was a chain smoker and not many people know that. And she was a pretty classy bitch, so it makes me feel like less of a lepper for my own one vice. So I mention how this guy looked and talked like Joe Kennedy and somehow the ball started rolling in me actually taking time out of refilling iced tea and fetching "nakkins", to get into an actual conversation. What the fuck was I thinking? I should have known better. Wasn't it Julia Roberts who said that she never kisses clients on the lips because it is just too personal. I get it now, Pretty Woman. I really do.
 I had a ton of other tables, but I spent a good deal of time talking to this particular table and we got into some pretty neat discussions that led to other deeper discussions. And, no, I wasn't annoying them by running my fucking mouth while they were eating (as some people do). They kept calling me back over every chance they got. And not to get them shit, either. But to continue our discussion. They were from up north and kept going on about how much they loved my accent and when I left they made it a point to tell me how great it had been talking to me. And I had actually enjoyed the conversation too because it's always good to let people know that servers aren't dumbasses who can't get a "real job" and can hold our own in intelligent convo with the motherfucking best of them.
Now, while I had an assload of other tables, everybody got great service, although I probally could had paid more attention had I not been so chatty with my new friends at 33. But whatever. Everyone took care of me come tip time even though I didn't find out were they were from or what the fuck they thought about anything.
Now me, who, as I mentioned, usually doesn't bullshit alot, was under the impression that this table enjoyed their experience and was greatful for someone besides each other to talk too. (They were in town on business, just the two of them and had been stuck together for a week). So imagine my surprise when every single one of my other tables left more (% wise) than these two chatty fuckfaces. What the fucking fuck?!?
Maybe I'm wrong but if it seems like you want to be my goddam Facebook Friend after I waited on your ass, I would think you would throw down a little extra since we are now all chummy and shit. Maybe I'm wrong. Wait, no "maybe", obviously I was completly fucking deadass wrong.
I've read some other biz bloggers who have said they did their own little experiments on this and that tables they weren't really friendly with, tipped better than those you got all human with (unless you fail to mention their adorable newborn, then you get a passive agressive little note along with your cc receipt).
So, this is why I'm not talking to anymore of my fucking tables beyond the duties that are expected of me. Fuck it. I can't win. And I'm personallu pissed off at those two fuckers.
I discussed my graduate studies with them-hint, hint motherfuckers, I'm a struggling student (they asked). Don't you remember, table 33, when we talked about the creepy Kennedy-Lincoln similarities? Did it mean nothing to you when I suggested all of those great antique stores my town is famous for? What about when we made fun of each others accents? We had some good laughs. I just don't understand. I thought we had something special. But, *sigh*, I see now, I meant nothing to you, table 33. I was just another waitress to you, wasn't I, table 33? Probally just one of hundreds you talk to as traveling business dickheads. Oh, table 33, how you broke my heart.
So, fuck you table 33. How dare you make me think that being interested in our conversation would be appreicated. I should have known better. My bad. Lesson learned. And I'm totally decining your Facebook request.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Cheesedick, Party of One

I had probally one of the biggest cheesedicks sit at my bar I've ever met tonight, and I just had to share. I'm sure my female barmaids can relate to the bullshit that was coming out of this douchebag's mouth.
First off, he has his hat on backwards and orders an iced tea. Already, you have annoyed me. Then he starts spewing some bullshit about how he is new in town and he owns his own roofing company or some shit. I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention because I could sense he was hitting on me and I just wasn't in the goddam mood. Then he says how it was sooooo fucking hard for him to find an apartment because he just had to have a place with a garage. And me, like a dumbass, took the bait.
So, pray tell, why do you need a fucking garage? Cheesedick: "Well, when you have a car like mine, you just don't leave it out". I figured he was talking about a stupid revved up pickup that told everybody just how small his penis is but he corrected me by putting it out there that his car cost $170,000. Thats not a typo. He told me he owned a car that cost $170,000. Oh, for fucks sake! But he was one step ahead of me and had his phone out with a picture of it. No sign of him anywhere near the alleged pussymagnet. Just the car.
Look, I don't know shit about cars but I do know what a picture downloaded from the fucking internet looks like.
Okay, douche, I'll play. I asked him why anyone would spend that kind of money on a car. To which he replied, "Well, when you have as much money as I do, you just have to find better toys to spend it on. I just have so goddam much money I just buy what ever I want when I want it, blahfuckingblahblahblah"
Oh, just shut the fuck up already. We both know you are completly full of shit.You are not Scrooge Mcduck swimming around in you gold coins.You're not even convincing at patholgically lying about it. And I have found that people that actually do have that kind of money, never talk or brag about. Also, and most importantly, I'm not going to fuck you, so just shut the fuck up about how hard it is having so goddam much cash, pay for your shit and get out of my goddam face because I'm not some 19 year-old college freshman that is impressed or can't see through your dumbassed, hole-filled ramblings.
I mentioned to him that I had just went outside to the parking lot for a smokebreak (yep, back on the sauce) and didn't see any car that remotely looked like the stockphoto he probally shows ten girls a night in hope that it might get him some hot naive poon. But, you don't just don't drive a car like that around according to him. You have to actually go to his apartment (by the way, if your so fucking loaded, why the hell are you living in an apartment anyway, you lying sack of shit?) to see it, hehehe, wink,wink. Are you fucking kidding me? Do I look like I have some kind of mental disability to you that would actually make me agree to go to your fucking place to "see" you fucking imaginary car? If some bitch is dumb enough to do that, she gets what she deserves, because I'm sure she would be disappointed in more ways than not seeing a car he doesn't actually own.
Dude, just shut the fuck up already.Actually you should have shut up about twenty minutes ago, because now I have told the entire staff the line of bullshit you've been slinging and we are all laughing at your dumbass and will laugh at you everytime you step foot in this place.
And, most important, I don't care what you (at least say) you drive or how much money (you say) you have. Even if it was true, I don't give a flying fuck. I'll rather give up the goodies to a guy with a good heart and struggling just like I am before I would let some self centered  rich guy asshole so much as cop a feel any fucking day of the week.
I just want you to go home, so I can go home. In my Ford Escort. Which I love. And look, I even have a photo of it on my phone, with me in front of it!! Because I actually own it, you lying, fake car downloading dick.
And what did this supreme dickhead, who according to him, has money practically falling out of his asshole leave me? Three bucks. But I guess he must have a huge car payment or something. What a fucking douchebag.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Chantix and Chocolate Cake

Okay, so I started my Chantix and have been on it for a week. And, let's just say, my nicotine receptors are pissed the fuck off and are just not having any of this shit. Chantix has turned me into a crazy bitch. A zoned out, mean, constantly sobbing crazy bitch. First of all, I'm in a contast fucking fog. I don't even have the mental clarity to make fun of the dumbassess that come into the restuarant. And that just isn't me. Also, I'm usually the quickest bartenter in the place but now I'm moving at a pace of a goddam Golden Girl (no disrespect). Worst of all, it makes me MEAN. And I don't just mean bitchy, but mean. And there is a huge difference. Bitchy is just an additude. Mean is hateful. And I am not hateful.I would never want to truely hurt someones feelings and the people I love, I would die for. And when I talk shit about people, it's usually behind their backs (um, it's called manners).
 Two nights ago I came home and my mom told me to go look at the fridge. She had found an old picture of an ex-boyfriend and me and hung it on the fridge because she though it was a very pretty picture of me. I broke up with this guy almost five fucking years ago and, on a side note, a few months ago her and I were looking at some pictures of him and it didn't bother me and we laughed about how ugly all of my ex's were. So I guess she thought I would just laugh about it (and it was a good pic of me). I didn't. I flipped the fuck out! I mean completely flipped the fucked out. I started crying and then started yelling and screaming like a fucking madwoman at my mom. Then I proceeded to say things that I knew would hurt her feelings. But my mom, being the badasss that she is, basically told me to never disrespect her like that, shut the fuck up, and stop taking that Chantix shit before they put my ass in a padded cell because it was making me batshit crazy. Then she gave me a hug and told me she loved me. Then I went home and cried some more because of the nasty things I said to her. I just don't know what the fuck came over me. It's like the fucking devil himself jumped into my ass and started playing his fiddle. And I don't even live in Georgia.
Not really sure what to do at this point. I did some research and there are dozens of pages dedicated to how this is an awful drug and will probally turn me into Cybil. But then of course there are those that said its worked great for them.But I have a huge distrust of pharmicudical companys and doctors with their  kickbacks, so I don't know. I'm going to give it one more week and if I'm still acting monkey bananas apeshit crazy, I'm done. If the regulars that took up my collection to pay for the shit, get pissed, well, fuck 'em. They can either have my regular, lovely smoking self behind the bar or deal with a wingnut who can't make their tasty beverages because she's in a fucking straighjacket.
On a lighter note, eariler this week before this shit started fucking with my head, one of my co-workers got the "Jesus table" from my earlier post. She follows this blog and when the first thing out of this guys mouth was if we had chocolate cake because last time it was his birthday and didn't get any. ..blahblahblah, she knew exactly who she was dealing with. Okay, first of all, what the fuck is this guys deal with our goddam chocolate cake? It's not made in house.It's not even that good. I wanted to just slip this fucker a note that said "Piggly Wiggly bakery, look into it". It's like when he askes himself What Would Jesus Do, the answer is "Jesus would go to that one place and annoy the fuck out of the waitstaff about the chocolate cake". Is there a fucking Chantix pill for chocolate? Is he already on it, thus making him a crazy fuck?
He made her go check before they even ordered. What a dickface.
She then told me the pulled that "We tip good" shit. Oh for fucks sake! Are you goddam kidding me? I HATE it when people pull that shit. "I tip good" to me is the equal of saying, "I'm not racist." Which pretty much means you don't and you are. 
First of all, its just goddam awkward. We both know that how much money I'm going to make depends on what you feel the need to leave me. We both know it, let's not discuss it. Don't tell me dickhead, just fucking show me. I mean, what the fuck is a server/bartender supposed to say to that shit? Well, as a bartender I can let you know your assurance to me that "I'll be taken care of" is NOT going to get you a stronger drink. At least until I have solid proof in the form of a credit card receipt that you are not totally full of shit (as most of you are). And as a server, agian, what the fuck? "Well sir, I guess I'll just have to take your order and bring your food. You know, like it's my goddam job to do anyway, you clueless dumbass fuckchop!"
Anyway, as further proof that this Jesus table was a bunch of dumbasses, he wasted his fucking breath. From what I understand there were 8 of them and they were getting grat'ed. So yes, asshole, you will tip good. Because it says on the goddam menu that you will. Unfortuanlly they ran her ass off to Biblical  proportions. But he did get to stuff his holy-rolling fat bloated face with our fantastic storebought chocolate cake. And Jesus wept.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

She Works Hard for the Money, So You Better Not Fuck with Her!

I know it's been a while since I last posted, but frankly I'm so burnt out with the whole service industry, any time I get away from it I haven't wanted to think about it or acknowlege it as a part of my basic survival. But a bitch has gots to pay the bills and you gotta do what you gotta do. So off I go to make the motherfucking donuts. But sometimes just pulling up in that parking lot, brings out the worst in me like some kind of bitch magic. I have my good days, really I do, but this job would be a whole lot better if our "guests" were not such complete pains in my ass.
The other night I lost my shit because some dickwad sat at the bar with his dickwad friends, started a tab with us, then said dickwad friends proceeded to move to like three different tables. Of course they wanted to transfer their shit. (And by the way fuck you for transfering your check. Where I work the bar doesn't get tipped out by the wait staff. Crazy I know, but what the fuck can I do about it? Also double fuck you assholes that just move to the bar, sit at any goddam table to your liking, and not bother telling anybody about it. We all know you do it because you don't want to tip twice, you cheap fuck. You. Fucking. Suck).
Anywho, everybody wanted their shit seperate, and couples were sitting at different tables, so a needless mindfuck ensued. The other bartender was the floor manager and spent God knows how long trying to figure that shit out, leaving me behind the bar by myself dealing fucktards complaining because their fucking wine tasted funny and that I needed to open a whole new bottle just for their fucking asses (the wine was from a new bottle and tasted fine, by the way).
 Then asshole #1 plopped his ass at the bar and when I asked him if I could get him anything, he replied "How about a winning lottery ticket? HaHa.". Oh. Fuck. No. Not that "aren't I so goddam funny" line. Not today, buddy. I then proceeded to lose my shit and told him, NOT in a funny, joking, cute way that if I had a winning lotto ticket I would not be here dealing with his dumbass and his checkspliting bullshit. I think he got the point.
Everyday I see myself losing it more and more. I start taking my Chantix this weekend. I've been informed that it can cause sucidial thoughts. I'm more worried that it will cause homicidal thoughts. Because God knows some of these fuckers are prime targets for a cap in the ass for some of the shit they pull.
One of the servers, who is a really sweet girl (I once was too, I remind her) had a table that instead of writing the actual tip down, put 10% on the tip line. But he had such horrible handwriting that it looked like $10.90. I told her she would be a dumbass not to put that in as the tip. And she did. That dick may call and complain but it did look like $10.90 to everyone that saw it, although we all knew he only meant to leave ten percent (the check was only for like 30 bucks). And if he can't do simple fucking math, and has the handwriting of a three year old, he deserves to have to go the the trouble to get it changed.
That makes me remember a couple months ago when some cheap fucking bitch took it upon herself to scratch out the 20% grat we give for parties over 8 and just write in whatever the fuck she felt like writing, added that shit up and got the fuck out of there as fast as her cheap fugly heels could take her before anyone could call her out on her utter and total asshatness. It wasn't my table but management said the server just had to deal because we can only go by the total she signed on. Well fuck that noise!! So what if the the next person just decides scratch out the check total and sign to only a buck for his whole fucking meal. Would management eat that shit with a fork and knive? What the fuck do you think? But its just her money that got fucked with so fuck it (and fuck her), right? She was pretty calm about the whole thing but I'm pretty sure (who am I kidding, I know) I'd flipped the fuck out and hunted that cunt down. This server is obviously a bigger person than me, but, I mean, WTF?
Then Tuesday night, I waited on the cast of the goddam Jersey Shore. I decided to make a game out of it and see if they would leave me what I expected them too (a shitty tip) or if maybe I misjudge people and they would surprise me. So if I lose, I still win and vice versa. Well they left me a shitty tip as expected. So at least my instincts are still intact. But they sucked to wait on and Pauly D kept slamming down drinks like he was a goddam camel going through menopause. And the whole fucking table smelled like they had douched with a mixture of BO and Dakkar Noir. Then finished themsevles off with a whole bottle of White Rain hairspray. So I guess I really lost anyway. *sigh*
Look, I know I'm coming off as a whiney twat. Even I can see that. But this is my blog, so I need to vent a little sometimes (that's why I started it in the first place). I know I like what I do. Really I do. Deep deep down. I need to stop bitching or get another job, right? But I'm in grad school right now, I like my coworkers (everyone knows people in the biz are the funniest motherfuckers on earth. If it wasn't for our #1 staff homosexual and his ongoing commentary on assholes we deal with, I wouldn't make it though a lot of shifts.) and, well fuck it, I'll admit it. I fucking LOVE sleeping to noon everyday. I just wish, no, I fucking PRAY, people would act like they have some fucking home training when they eat at a place that doesn't have a drive thru window and a dollar menu. I just pray this Chantix shit doesn't fuck with my head too much and you see me on the news with the headline "Restuarant Worker Takes Out Unsuspecting Dipshit Diners". But if my jury was made up of servers, bartenders and other biz peeps, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't serve a day.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

The Good, the Bad, and the Fuck Your "Generous Tip"

One of the great/awful things about working in the biz is that you come across some of the biggest assholes you could ever imagine. You also come across some truely remarkable human beings. Tonight was one of those nights.
First the good. I have been making an attempt to stop smoking. I suppose if I succeed I'll have to change the name of this blog to "I need a Xanax break", but I guess that would work too. Anyway, I went to the doc and got a script for Chantix. I've tried to quit before, and it just wasn't happening. So this was my last resort. Now, being a bartender/server, guess who doesn't have insurance? This girl, that's who. And that shit cost about $300. All I can say is this shit better work, because I have been planning on picking up extra shifts to pay for it.
I have a bar regular who can be a pain in my ass sometimes (and he knows it, I tell him daily. We have that kind of special bar regular/bartender relationship. But I know I'm his favorite, so it's okay) But really when it comes down to it, he has a good heart and would pretty much do anything for anybody. So I put up with him and he puts up with me and, well, we get along just fine and have had some great/meaningful/heartfelt conversations with him and trust him with some of my secrets and he has never judged me. He knows how much I really want (okay, need) to quit smoking, so I was telling him how I took the first step with getting the Chantix but it would be awhile before I could actually pick it up because it just wasn't in my budget. I wasn't poormouthing. I completly planned on getting it as soon as I could, but he actually threw a 20 down and went around getting donations from other people he knew that happened to be there tonight. He raised me over $100 and promised me he would have the rest of it within a week.
Well, let's just say that my cynical little heart just melted. This isn't a creeper trying to hit on me. He is someone who actually cares about my health and wanted to help. It really meant a lot to me and it showed me that not all people are all talk and bullshit and no action.And that people you come across in this life, care about you more than you ever would have imagined. And that makes me smile. So, I know you will never read this, but thanks Joe. It really did mean a lot to me that you cared that much. And you're drink will never be empty or underpoured on my watch.
Okay, now to the bad. And these people fucking pissed me the fuck off and can suck a dick (this happened before the other thing did. Maybe if it hadn't I would have not been as pissed. But probally not).
Anyway, couple comes in with a baby. Sits it on the table. Whatever. I get their drinks. Take their order. The whole time they are snapping pics with their phones of the kid. I can tell they just want me to ooohhh and ahhh all over this baby. Just by the way they were looking at me, I new they wanted me to comment on what a sweetheart he was, how adorable, how precious. What the fuck ever. I have nothing agianst kids or babies. Maybe one day I'll have one. Who knows?In the past I've waited on kids that were so well behaved and sweet that my uterus ached.But I just was not in the fucking mood today. I'm not fucking Olan Mills taking pictures of your vagina dropping. I'm not going to go on and on about how fucking great it is that you as a couple have reproduced and decided to plop you fucking kid down on my table. You ordered you food. You got it. Your drinks never went empty and I was never at one time rude or short with you. I just didn't mention your fucking baby. It's not like he's ordering anything anyway and he's asleep so why the fuck do I need to acknowledge him? You have a baby. Big. Fucking. Deal.
Anyway so they finish eating and I ask them if there is anything else I can get them. No, they say, just the check. That would imply they didn't want dessert or anything right? I would think so, but apparently I was dead fucking wrong.
So they and the most precious child ever to be given birth too (how dare I not see that) leave. I go to pick up the credit card slip and ......fuck. They are some of those fuckers that like to leave passive agressive little notes on the slip. FUCK YOU. I would rather you just have the balls to go to the manager and complain than be little note writing pussies. You know I have to turn that shit in and you know the manager is going to see it and, well, it's just a dick move.
Basically the note said that I didn't offer them dessert (you fuckers said you were ready for the goddam check!) , didn't bring them bread plates (I totally fucking did), and that I didn't really conversate with them. Well, fuck me! What do you want me to do, sit down and fucking eat with your asses. You really didn't speak to me much more than to give your order, so its not like I was avoiding having any type of conversation with you. I was doing my job and waiting on other tables that obviously doesn't have issues of not getting self-entitled attention.You got everything you needed from me. Maybe you just hate each other so much as a couple that you need to bullshit with your server to have a nice meal. Maybe Superbaby didn't feel like talking to your asses either. Maybe your just passive agressive fuckfaces.
Personally, I think the reason they were so pissed off is because I didn't one time mention their baby and they felt that maybe, perhaps, they weren't fantastically special people for fucking and having a kid but simply normal people that happened to get knocked up. I know that's what really pissed them off. I could just tell by the way they kept snapping pictures of his ass everytime I walked by.
So they leave this long ass note (front and back) about how I need to be more personable. WTF? Most people I know when they go out just want to talk to the person they came out to eat with. Maybe I'm just crazy like that. I'm your server. Not a goddam clown to entertain your asses. I wasn't rude but I sure as hell didn't intend on bouncing a ball on my nose like a fucking seal to make your experience more enjoyable.I also have other shit I need to do. And I'm sure as hell not going to droll all over your crotchdropping, because frankly, I see babies everygoddam day and they all pretty much look the same. Oh and the kicker: They left me a four buck tip on $60, circled it and wrote "Generous tip." Fuck you. I hope your kid grows up to be a faboulous gay man that you disown because you just seem like the type of assholes that would do some shit like that. I then hope he writes a tell all book about how you are both assholes and makes millions of dollars and has a happy wonderful life far, far away from you dickwads.
Oh and by the way, I threw your slip away and told my manager I lost it (you didn't actually think I was going to let my ass get chewed out because of you, did you?). Also you can keep your "generous tip" and shove it up your passive agressive asses.
But I digress. Once again, thanks Joe. You made my night.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Ha Fucking Ha

For some reason every single one of my "guests" (that's what my manager would have me refer to them) last night thought they were one of the goddam Kings of Comedy. If you've been in the biz, I know you know what I'm talking about. Those dumbass cliche jokes every server/bartender has heard a million times. You ask them how they want the check. "Oh, we don't want it!", "You just keep it", ect., ect,. Very fucking funny asshole, now just tell me how the hell do you want me to spilt this motherfucking check up so you can get your unorginal, unhalirious ass out of here. Or the dipshits who say stupid shit like, "I don't have any money, guess I better wash some dishes". I actually hope you are kidding because we have a dishwasher for that shit and I will call the cops on your ass. I should actually call the cops anyway for you making me stand here one more second than I should, listening to you laugh at your own jokes and basically raping my ears with your annoying ass chuckle.
And then there is the dickheads that all but lick their fucking plates clean and when you go to clear it they say, "Oh, we just HATED it!", or "That was just terrible!" Oh, for fuck's sake, just hand me your goddam plate, piggy. I don't have time for this shit. And if you think you're even getting a courtesy laugh from me, fuck you. I'm taking the plate you just inhaled a chocolate cake off of and walking away, just so you look like the gluttonous asshole you have proved yourself to be.
Just shut the fuck up, pay your bill and leave. I don't need your stupid, unwitty ass comments that you would have no be no less than mentaly retarded not to realize I hear dumb shit just like it every day. You are not funny and I can only hope your dining companions see what a cheesedick you are.
We've heard every single "joke" there is, it wasn't amusing when anyone else said it. I can assure you, you saying it will not be an exception.
But nothing, and I mean nothing, will make me roll my eyes out of my head more than when I'm tending bar and I ask some drunk ass if he wants another one (Why I even bother, I don't know). They then proceed to say, "Twist my arm!" Okay, first off, fuck you. I'm not touching you for fear of catching your obvious dumbassness. And I highly doubt anyone has ever had to twist your arm or even imply there is still more booze in the county to get your ass to have another drink. Here's your fucking drink. Leave me alone, drink it and shut the fuck up.
Here's a tip. If you are one of those douchebags that makes these kind of "jokes", NO ONE thinks you are funny. If they happen to laugh, trust me, it's not because you have in any way amused them. They are just working for their tip. And shame on you for making someone work that hard for a tip. And if you have friends that pull shit like that when you go out with them, I totally recommend cutting them out of your life and defriending them on Facebook. Block the fucker too, they are that much of a douchebag.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

The Complete Fucking Over of Man's Best Friend

Okay, this doesn't really have anything to do with the restaurant biz. But I'm still pretty fucking pissed off about it, so I need to vent. On the way home from work tonight I stopped at a gas station off the highway to get cigs and saw a beagle running back and forth across the road.
I may not like people all that much but I just so happen to be a huge animal lover, so I got out of my car and basically chased this dog into a residental area. I lost track of him and pray he's okay. I then decided to drive around some more to see if I could find him, and I'm hoping he went back home. So I then get back on the highway and see that someone had hit a dog (he looked kinda like a cattle dog, so I know it wasn't the beagle). He was pretty much splattered in the middle of the road and cars were just whipping by him. Someone just hit him and left him there. That shit doesn't fly with me. I was fucking pissed the fuck off. What kind of heartless fuck just hits a dog and leaves him there to be flattened by more cars on a busy highway? A fucking no good dickhead asshole, that's who.I understand that sometimes dogs or cats run out in front of you and sometimes you run over them. It's an accident and accidents happen. I get that. But to just leave him there?!? That is just some fucked up bullshit. Get out of your goddam car. Pull it out of the road. Check for a collar. Goddam it do something, don't just leave it there and go on your fucking merry goddam way like you didn't just kill something!
So I pulled over, almost getting hit myself and dragged him over to the grass and covered him up with a trash bag. That's really all I could do, I was by myself and he was too heavy for me to pick up. One of my male friends (with a huge heart for animals too) is going to stop and get him after he gets off of work and bury him. This dog was probally someone's beloved pet and it was the very least I could do just to get him out of the way of oncoming traffic. I wish I could have done more. This was a living creature and deserved more than to become uncared about roadkill.
But the thing that really pisses me off is that cars kept driving by and watching me do this (I'm a tiny gal and it was nighttime) and not one fucking person stopped to help. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU. Shame, shame, shame on you fuckers. All of you are heartless fucks and I hope someone hits your asses with a semi and leaves you to rot in the middle of the road. *

*Sorry for the rant, but I love dogs and I am really fucking pissed and outraged.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Aren't You Clever, Asshole.

Hey, cheesedick fucktard that wants a drink. How very keen are you observations on life to notice that at the very end of the bar, no one seems to be waiting for a drink. And look, there's even a bartender down there making drinks. You wonder why no one else is down there ordering drinks. Don't they see there is no line? Oh well, you figure, you are just sooooo fucking much smarter than all of the rest of these dumbasses waiting for the other bartender in the middle of the bar to get your drink. You just walk your ass down here and start shouting out drinks to you little drunken heart's content. It's like the pretty little gal working down there is your own personal drinkslingin' fairy princess, God put her solely on Earth so you don't don't have to wait one extra fucking second for your precious draft beer.... Oh happy motherfucking day!!!
Actually, NO FUCKER! That's the "service bar", you dipshit. But you wouldn't know that because obviously you have never worked in the service industry a day in your life. And it is possible that you could be mentaly retarded not to notice that she is pulling tickets, making drinks and not making eye contact with anyone at the bar. The service bar is where a bartender is stationed to make drinks for the server's tables. And you standing there trying to get a drink from me is 1, interfering with me making the assload of tickets I need to get for the servers, 2, getting all up in the fucking way of said servers from picking up their drinks and mostly 3, pissing me the fuck off.
Don't walk your ass down to the service bar and try to order a drink, you clueless fuck. That's what the other 20 feet of bar is for. I hate you. Oh, and also, you are sooooo getting shortpoured for pulling that shit.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

You're a crazy fucking bitch, darlin'.

The other night a certified monkey bananas apeshit crazy bitch sat at my bar. Thought I'd share. So crazy bitch (CB) sat her ass at my bar right around five-ish, not long after we opened. First thing out of her mouth is how she just walked out of the place down the street because they fucked up her steak. Just got up, and walked the fuck out. Didn't pay or even bother to tell them why. So of course, I'm thinking, "Fuccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkk, this is going to be good, good times "
Okay, backstory. I'm from the South. I'm sorry. I can't help it. I was born there. If you take away the racism, homophobia and politcal dumbassness, it's really not that bad. Anyway, I have a habit of calling people "hon," "sweetie", "darlin'", shit like that. I really don't even realize I'm doing it half the time. Mostly I just do it because I can't (or don't want to) remember people's name for shit. And let's admit it, guys dig that shit and it helps my tips.
So I give the guy sitting two seats down from her a beer and ask if he needs anything else, sweetie. He didn't seem to have a problem with it. Then I ask CB, "What can I get you, hon?" CB then proceeds to lose her shit. Telling me how unprofessional it is. How her and her dad are from up North (I'm guessing her mom is a native of Planet Crazyasfuck), and they DO NOT do that shit up there. Then CB goes on to tell me how if a server calls her dad "honey" more than one time, well, no tip for that rude, horrible bitch. It took all I had not to tell her that her dad sounded like a supreme asshole but he probally homeschooled her himself and it would have just pissed her off more. I then tried to explain to her that I'm southern and it's kinda a southern thing. Also, I'M A FUCKING BARTENDER! You're not at a goddam bank, or in a courthouse or any place like that and I'm not wearing a suit in case you have not noticed. I'm wearing a (tasteful) shirt that shows off my tits. So lighten the fuck up. I can assure you, you are not an any way a "hon" to me. I'll be at the service bar telling the servers what a fucked up bitch you are.
Finally this twat's food comes out. Thank God. We actually got her steak cooked right and she didn't walk out. Unfortunaly, I really wish we had because she would not stop running her fucking gob.
She starts telling me how she is a teacher for a mostly African-American school. And how basically all of her students were facinated with with white people's hair and skin. And how when she had a sunburn, "they" all assumed she had a skin infection. And how they thought all white people were related. And a bunch of other crazy shit about "those" people (funny, I thought only redneck southern people said stupid shit like that. But whatever.)
At this point I didn't know who was crazier, her or me, for actually allowing myself to have a converstion with this silly twat, so I just walked away. Then she went on to talk to anyone sitting around who might make the mistake of making eyecontact with her. Point is, bitch was just flat-out weird. She still wouldn't let the whole "hon" thing go either.
Okay, I can understand if your server is creepy, overly flirtly or something and keeps calling you stuff like that. I might get annoyed to. But I don't do it in a creepy way, I can assure you. It just kinda comes out. Unless you've come in before and left me a shitty tip or pissed me off. You don't get the pleasure of me calling you anything but an asshole. But I have never had someone get all pissy about it. And I try not to call someone's boyfriend that if his girlfriend is sitting right there. I'd probally be more likely to call her "hon". And I don't really do it when I'm on the floor, just when I'm slinging drinks.
But all of this explaining is pointless. Bitch was just plain out weird. That trumps Southern and I was happy to see her crazy ass walk out the door.
On a related note, later that same night one of my everyfuckingday regulars told me he thought I cussed too much. I then replied that I thought he drank too fucking much. End of conversation. Me: FTW.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

An Open Letter to Table 34

Dear Assholes that sat at table 34 Tuesday night,
First of all, Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Now since that has been taken care of, let's start at the begining, shall we? Okay, well first off your incomplete table sat your asshole asses at my table. Fine, whatever. Two of you sat down while your third walked his happy ass over to the bar and proceded to mingle as if he was at a fucking cocktail party for the next twenty minutes. I got the two bitches that were sitting down a drink. At which point cocktail partys girl (or I think it was his girl, she looked a lot older than him-but who the hell knows) informed me he would be having a screwdriver.
On a related note, that just annoys the hell out of me anyway. Just say a vodka OJ. Ditto with other dickheads that order a CapeCod (vodka and cran)  or a Cubra Libe (rum and coke, yes, asshole, we know you've seen the movie Cocktail. I know what the fuck it is). But I digress. Anyway I got their drinks, but I'll be goddam if I was walking my ass through the bar crowd to had deliver his precious drink to him. I sat it at the table and if it got watered down, well, fuck him. Anyway, like I said, after about twenty minutes of bullshiting with the drunken regulars he sat his ass down. Okay, finally we can get this show on the road and get you guys the fuck out of here, because I got about 45 more episodes of the show I'm addicted to on Netflix and I really need to get home to it. Little did I know the fuck me in the ass fun was just beginning.
They then informed me they were waiting for a fourth friend, who was notoriously famous for being late. Fuckfuckfuck. Are you kidding me? Why the fuck didn't you asshats just wait at the bar? No, that would be showing some consideration and that's just not how you roll, isn't it? Oh, and you won't be ordering until your notoriously famous late dipshit friend get here. Good times for me.
So after about more thirty minutes your asshole friend shows up. At this point I understand his problem with arriving on time. He needs about half an hour to emmerse himself in some type of God awful cologne. I'm thinking Stetson. Yep, defintely Stetson. It was so fucking strong walking up to him made me think I was at Gilley's from Urban Cowboy and I was pretty sure he was going to start calling me Sissy and ask where the mechanical bull was. It was so bad that the table behind them asked to move. I don't blame them. My eyes were starting to water too.
After about fifteen more minutes of catching up with each other and yet even more bullshiting, you decided to order. Thank God. Maybe you might get the fuck out of here before I start collecting social security.
You wanted wine. Fine. Here's your fucking wine. More fucking blahfuckingblahing. I get you food order. Which was like pulling teeth because you haven't stopped running your fucking cocksuckers long enoungh to look at the menu.
What are the sides? What kind of dressings do you have? Hey, dickwads, that thing that has been sitting in front of you for over an hour. It's called a menu. All the information you need is on it.
Okay, orders in. Salads out, which you then eat at a glacial pace. Oh looky here!!! It's your goddam food. Eat it . No, can't do that. That would mean you would have to shut the fuck up for more than five seconds. More wine. Fuck me. I'm never getting out of here. (Did I mention this is my last table?)
So after what seems like an enternity, seats one, two and three finish. I take their plates. Stetson man, who has at this point has stunk up the entire place has maybe three grains of rice left on this plate. I go to take it. He flips the fuck out. NO!!! I'm not done!!! Oh, for fuck's sake, their is nothing left of the plate! Fine, whatever, keep the motherfucking thing, take it home with you. I don't fucking care at this point.
Anyone want dessert? Of course you fuckers do. And coffee? You bet your sweet ass!
Around this point is when I had to sneak into my special stash of Xanax and take one because, wouldn't you know it, our owner, who is notorious himself for talking to tables about random bullshit decides its time to walk over and get into a politcal debate. FML. I'm just going to take a little nap in the dishroom and someone wake me when this shit is over.
Now at the point your bill is over $200, so at least I might make a little money. And that is what I'm here for, also I think the Xanax is kicking in, so go to the bar, eat a few olives and just tell myself its almost over.
Stetson man puts his credit card on the table, so I just hall my little ass over their and pick it up (while the owner is still running his fucking gob) and run it. Thank you, have a great night, yadda,yadda, yadda.
You are still making no move to leave, so after I see you sign the slip, I creep over and get it so I can run my check out.
Ten percent. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Nope. Ten percent for waiting for you asshole party to show up, nearly get knocked out by your stank and run my ass off. Ten fucking percent. Stetson douche paid, and I'm just hoping that your friends have no idea how much you fucked me. But who knows, maybe they might put up with you being late all the time because you pick up the tab. So you guys can eat a dick, too.
Again, let me say fuck you.
But their is some justice that will be had out of this whole ordeal. I'm usually the bartender. Tonight I just happened to be on the floor and was wearing my white oxford and khakis. I also had my hair pulled back, little make-up and my glasses on. Also no cleavage enhancing shirt that I usually wear when I'm behind the bar.
Stetson guy sits at the bar on the weekends (when I'm always behind the bar). By himself, I might add, because who has time for a notorious late fuck on the weekend? And he didn't recognize me.That I'm sure of. But I will remember that asshole. I NEVER forget the face of someone that fucks me over. And, Stetson man, you can bet you ass that you will now become the most short poured fucker this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

Hugs and Kisses,
The bartender/server who will be charging you eight bucks for tonic water

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Brandy, you're a fine girl

Not a lot of drama has been going on at the job. Which basically means no one has been pissing me off too much lately. So I thought I would take a minute to write about someone who shaped who I am as a bar bitch. Like I said, I got thrown into this whole bar thing and didn't know a Bud Light from a Jack Daniel. I was just out of Jesus College and the only time I had ever really been drunk was the time I drank too much AfterShock (anyone remember that shit?) when one of my friends stole some from her mom. At the time, I worked at a place that had a pretty solid happy hour crowd. The girl that trained me was named Brandy. First of all, I have never met a "Brandy" that wasn't cool as shit (except for my whore cousin, but I think she spells her with an "i" with  a heart over it. But whatever.) Let me give you a basic visual of Brandy. She had curly hair, green eyes that always was mascared perfectly, and probally the most perfect set of teeth I've ever seen on a person. Oh, and she was about six feet tall. To this day, she is the best bartender I have ever seen step behind a bar. She owned that shit. If she was slinging drinks, goddammit, YOU were going to have a good time, YOU were not going to start any shit, and YOU were going to tip the fuck out of her because she was just that good. She was in a word, a badass.
And she was going to be training me to do something I knew nothing about. And I was scared shitless.
When I first started bartended, we used mini-bottles (guess which redneck state I'm from). And if you didn't know your shit, well, you had to answer to her and that was not something you ever wanted to do. And as much as I bitch and moan, I know I'm a kick ass bartender. I was trained by the 007 of them.
To see her behind the bar was really a spellbinding experience.She knew everyone's drink by heart and had it in front of them before they even sat down. And she made damn sure the rest of us did too. Even today, I can't remember people's name for shit. But If I've servered you more than twice, I will know what your drink for the rest of your life. It's one of the few things I pride myself on. Brandy trained me to make sure a drink was refreshed the second it was done, if they asked for it or not. I remember asking her one time, "What if they don't want another drink?" to which she replied, "Sit that shit in front of them, they will fucking drink it." And they did. She introduced herself to every single new person that sat at that bar, shaked their hands, gave them that smile and instantly that person became a loyal regular. It was amazing to watch.
Also, no one, and I mean, no one, fucked with her. You know that chick that started Coyote Ugly that is supposed to be so tough. Bitch had nothing on Brandy.If a guy big enough to win a Tough Man contest was getting a little rowdy, she would tell him to shut the fuck up. And he would, indeed, shut the fuck up. There was no fighting or bullshit on her watch. Someone once told me that she one time jumped over the bar and put a guy in a headlock because he was starting shit. I don't doubt it one bit. This was a girl that had a set of lips tatooed on her ass (no lie, I've seen it). "If you got a problem, kiss my ass."
And come closing time, she always did last call. She was ready to go out herself, and she would be goddamed if these people were going to hold her up. People didn't dick around, and they got the fuck out. She just had that kind of presence.
And I'm pretty sure, everyone was in some type of love with her. She could talk to anybody and she did something few people in life are capable of. She made people that came to her bar feel special. And if you behaved yourself, she would take such good care of you, that going to another bar would be like cheating on your wife. But don't get me wrong, she was always in control. She had a look in her eyes that said, "Fuck with me or my bartenders or the staff and I will fucking break your ass." And now, if anyone tries to fuck with me, my inner Brandy comes out and let's just say, very few people fuck with me. I'll always have her to thank for that.
And bitch made (well deserved) bank. I remember hearing a rumor one time that they wanted her to become a manager. To which she basically said "fuck that, I ain't takin' a pay cut". Bartending was in her blood and she was the best. She taught me a lot but the best thing about Brandy was, when work was done, work stayed at work. We were going out, going to have the time of our lives and you would probally have a pretty good story the next day.This is the girl that egged my Bible college ass to enter an amature night strip contest. To which I can proudly to this day say I won.
Okay, so now here's the kicker. I haven't seen Brandy in years, but through the grapevine I heard she was having a baby. Of course, I knew she would make a great mom. Even in all her badassness, she had some sort of maternal quality about her. And I have found that the a lot of people who were the wildest, something changes in them when they have kids and they are great parents. A former roommate of mine (another Brandy actually) would pull some shit that would literally make me jaw drop. But she always kept shit real, and had a "take me or leave me type" of attitude that I respect. She's now a PTA, minivan driving supermom to two great kids.
So I keep up with Brandy on Facebook and it is obvious that kid is her world. It makes me smile to hear the girl who would make Sorority bitches cry when she snatched their drinks out of their hands a 2 AM talk about taking her little girl to the park and planning her first birthday party. It also makes me smile for my future. Those old times I had with Brandy were good ole' days for me. And I know they were good days for her too, but I know as much fun as we had then, these are her best days. I hope to one day be as lucky.
Brandy is still bartending. It's in her blood, although I doubt she would have had any problems with any career she tried. Motherhood may have softed her up a bit, but I know she still has that look in her eye that says, "Fuck with me or my kid and I will fucking break your ass." Sometimes at closing time, I imagine her in her bar doing last call and telling everyone to get the fuck out of the bar. She has a kid to get home to and she'll be goddam if these people are going to hold her up. And you can bet your ass that they don't dick around.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

A Quick Little Observation

If you have ever, at any point in your life, said to a bartender or server who is really, really busy to "Smile", Congratulations! You are officially a douchebag.

The Irregulars

I have worked at about every kind of food/bar place there is. I got my first job at McDonalds in high school ( I also had a mouth full of braces and headgear....so yeah, high school was fun times for me) and have since done everything to dive bars, college bars, casual and fine dining and even a comedy club (not as much fun as you would think). I take that back, I have yet to work at a strip club. But, hey, tick-tock.
Anyway my point is, that at every single place I have ever worked, there are regulars. Those people that everyone of the staff knows because they come in so damn much. Bar regulars are a particular brand within themselves. Some of them come in every fucking day. Every. Fucking. Day.
Over the years, I've had some regulars that I really did like. Why did I like them? Because they were nice, respectful great tippers and hooked me up. That was the only reason I liked them. I knew I would make money off of them. I really didn't care what they were blabbing about and I didn't want to hang out with them.I certainly didn't want their asses to be there my entire shift, as some would tend to do. Maybe this sounds harsh, but anyone who has had to stand behind a bar for countless hours on end understands. Unless you give me a reason otherwise, I have to be nice to you to some degree. But every damn day, the regulars are here. I've been in relationships with people I didn't want to see every damn day. And if you are a shitty-tipping regular, I will give you your drink as is required of me, but I'll be damned if I'm going to waste a second of my breath talking to your cheap ass. And I've had my fair share of this type of regular too and you would be surprised how many of them don't even notice that I would rather clean the nasty beer cooler than acknowledge them. Not to mention that some of them think because they are a regular, they deserve some kind of special treatment and I'm supposed to bend over backwards to appease there self-entitled asses. And God fucking forbid someone should be sitting on "their" stool. Have you ever seen a grown man pout like a four year old and stare someone down, willing them to move, because, don't you know, HE is a fucking regular and YOU are in HIS seat! I have. Lots of times.
I remember once getting off a night shift around 11 and coming back in the next day around 4 to see the same two regulars sitting in the same goddam chairs they were in the night before when I left. I just remember thinking to myself, "You have to be fucking kidding me". Did you fuckers even go home? Surely you did, because at some point we closed, but here you are again by some kind of drunken draft beer magic. Here's an application. Fill it out and just get a fucking job here. You clock in more hours than I do.
Look, I've glad you like my place of employment. Happy you found your own personal little "Cheers". But I can assure you, we may know your name, but we probally have a different one we refer to you by. The Wack Pack, The Watermelon Fucker (he told us that he once had sex with a watermelon. So what else could we have called him?), Coors Regular Guy and Lush Housewife Lady are just a few of the nicer ones I've heard over the years.  And if you are cheap, rude or we don't like you, some of those names can be really, really nasty. And you come to this place everyday. The place that has a nasty, deserving nickname for your ass.
There's nothing wrong with having a staple bar that you and your work buddies come to a couple days a week. I get that. I just couldn't imagine going to the same bar by myself every single day, ordering the same drink every single day, and talking about the same old bullshit every single day. There just seems to me like there are too many other things in life to do. I suppose I should feel some type of pity for the regular. Maybe they are lonely and have no friends, or family (although I know for a fact, some of them have wives and kids at home, which kinda does make it a little sad). But everyday? Get a hobby, join a book club. Stop by the red dot store and drink at home everyonce in a while. Fucking something. It's just not healthy, normal behavior for your ass to be glued to one of my bar stools every day. And don't say you come just to see me. As I've already stated, seeing you this often is annoying and if you can't understand that, than I guess you really are a lonely drunk. Perhaps your time would be better spent at an AA meeting everyday.
Even I know this post is coming off a little mean and bitter (my current bar has some of the worst regulars I have ever encountered in my entire life). I know a lot of bartenders that depend on there regulars for making a lot of their money. It's mainly just the ones that are ALWAYS there that I just don't understand. Or the ones that are cheap and I cringe when I see them walk in the door. Or the creepy ones that stare at my tits and make sexual comments that even I find offensive (and, believe me,  it takes a lot to offend my ass). But as long as there are bars, and I have to work in them, I've come to accept the fact that there will be regulars. And some of them will be there waiting for me every fucking day. Just do me a favor, okay. If I must look at you every shift, at least throw me a decent tip and don't be a asshole. Is that too much to ask?

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Your Boyfriend is a Cheap Fuck!

Yes, sometimes I go on dates. Not a lot recently, but last year I swallowed the last of my dignity and joined Match.com. That's another story altogether. Anyway, when I do go on a date, I always offer to pay my half of dinner just because I'm an independant bitch and all. (Of course, if he agrees, there is no second date just because I'm Southern and I guess that kinda stuff is (in)breed in me and all). But I digress. The point is, my ass will always, always, always sneak and see what he tiped. Because that says a lot about a person. You ain't gotta be rich, just don't be cheap. Also if he is a prick to the server, no goodies for him.
There is a cute little girl that comes into the place I work. Early 20's, really sweet and from what I hear, is actually a decent tipper when she is by herself. But her boyfriend. That is a whole other story. First of all he's about 20 years older than her. Not that I have a problem with that (I ain't sayin' she's a golddigger, she actually seems to care about this douche). But this fucker is cheap. 10% if you're lucky. So by association, I guess that means she sucks too. And the thing is, we all know this guy has money. He drives this huge ass truck that probally cost much more than the penile implant it is trying to compensate for. They come in a few times a month and when we see them walk in, all the servers run to the hostesses, The Anoriexic Toddler or Asperger's Annie (more about them in later posts) and begs to not have them seated in their sections.
It almost makes me embarrassed for this poor girl. But not really. Bitch, have to you not one time ever noticed that he leaves shit for tips and that we are all beyond the point to being nice to him anymore? I guess its hard to see anything over the huge ass rock you pressured his ass into buying you. Do you not realize that we all talk shit about you? But then again why should you care. It's not like you have to work or anything to take care of yourself or anything.
About six or seven months ago, they were on a "break" or some shit. I don't know the whole story. But I saw her out and she was all, "blah, blah, blah, I miss him, I love him, blahfucking blah." I still regret not being drunk enough to tell her that he is a cheap fuck and everyone hates his ass. I mean, what are Facebook Friends for, right? But I kept my mouth shut because everyone knows if you talk shit about someone's ex and then they get back together, you become that bitch that talked shit about her boyfriend. And, of course, she got back with him and began sporting the big ass rock (I guess that worked things out). They come in all the time and he still sucks. So I guess she still sucks too.
But I see it all the time. Couple comes in. Guy tips for shit and dumbass girl leaves hand and hand with him most likely to go home and contract a STD from his cheap ass. I feel no pity for these girls. Shame on you bitch! Buying you a nice steak dinner to get into your pants is an asshole thing to do if he fucks his server too.
Ladies, take a peek at the credit card receipt. He if gets offended, fuck him. How he treats the waitstaff (with his actions or his wallet) will tell you everything you will ever need to know about a person.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Sundays and God's Chosen.

I think there is a God. Why do I think this? Because my place of employment is CLOSED on Sunday. Sundays are mine to reflect on life and watch movies on Netflix. Therefore, I don't really have to worry about going in and dealing with the dreaded "church people". I used to be one of those "church people". When I was 18 and sweet and unjaded, I actually thought I might want to go into the ministy. Then I attended a Baptist college. I waited tables during school and the day I graduated, I was thrown behind the bar. Not because I knew a single thing about drinking or drinkers, but because I big boobs and was a cute blonde my fate was pretty much sealed. Actually by the time I graduated, I was pretty much over the Christain thing anyway. I saw a lot of shady shit go down at that particular Christain college and didn't like what I saw. People in the resturant biz are way cooler, the most unjudgemental people you will ever meet in your life and doesn't mention that you can't wear white to your wedding if you are not "pure", whatever the hell that means.
 The Christain crowd is pretty much the most hyprocritcal bunch of fuckers you will ever meet in your life (not all of them, but enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth). Oh, and they tip for shit. But we all knew that.
I still do have to deal with them from time to time. A few nights ago, I was on a floor shift when a group came in with their Pastor. First things out of their mouths: Two people here have birthdays this week. What do we get for free? Me: Happy Birthday, what do you want to drink? Church people: Well what do you do for birthdays? Sing? Me: I just told you Happy Birthday, that's about it. And I would rather give myself a papspear with a set of rusty car keys than sing to your overgrown asses. Grow the fuck up.
I finally offered them a free dessert just to shut them the fuck up. But we happened to out of chocolate cake that night. Pastorman then proceded to lose his religion. And his shit. He pouted like a four year old that we didn't have his favorite dessert and made me go to the back to make sure. Yes, fucker, I am sure. He was pretty pissed that the thing he wanted FOR FREE was not avaliable for him to stuff his fat, bloated face with. How about I bring you a piece of bread and maybe Jesus could turn it into chocolate cake for you? Or maybe you could just grow the fuck up. Whatever is easiest. They were not amused.
Anyway, I grat'ed them (speaking of God, I thank Him for auto grats). But they sat and sat and sat like they were waiting for the return of Jesus himself. I finally stopped refilling their coffees and went out back for a smoke, hoping they could smell it on me when I returned. Then they left and I had a beer.
But fortunally, I don't have to deal with this particular breed of asshole too often. Praise Jesus. To my fellow peeps who are out in the trenches on this most holy of day, my prayers go out to you.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Bitches be pissin' me off

To the self-entitled stuck-up cunt fugly bitches that sat in my section tonight,
It really was a pleasure to wait on you stepford wife whores tonight but was it really necesarry to act like you are so much better than me, a lowly waitress working her way through grad school? I know how exciting it was to celebrate you birthday by coming into my place of work and drinking cosmos (just like the Sex and the City girls!!!) but acting like your shit doesn't stink and completely ignoring me when I ask if there is anything else I can get you is just rude and classless. But the icing on the fuck you cake was when I had to gall to compilment your purse and ask where you got it at. "Don't even ask." was your reply. Infering that I could never afford such a luxury item. Bitch, the only reason I asked is because I saw one just like it at TJ Maxx you label-whore twat. But really opening your gifts really was a pleasure to see. Your bitch friends got you underwear from Victoria's Secret. How fun!!! It was it really appropriate to showcase them in the middle of a upscale steak house. We all know your husband is fucking everyone in this town (yes bitch, we know him) so perhaps you can wear it for him while you blow him and he thinks about his girlfriend that he ass fucked earlier that day. Imagine my complete surprise when your goddam debit card got declined (and no bitch, there is nothing wrong with the computer.), . You stupid bitch. You don't even have friends that like you enough to buy you dinner on your birthday, not that they are any less annoying than you. So you had to pay with cash. And yes i do admit by this point you bitches had gotton the best on me and i was on the verge of tears, I brought you back the wrong change. When you then got all pissy and told me to 'Get my shit together" was when you came closer than you can ever imagine to getting the absolute fuck knocked out of you. Seriously bitch, you really are lucky that I had already removed all of the silver wear from you table because i have never wanted to stab someone with a butterknife in the forehead more at that moment. You were an insufferable bitch (all of you) and the only happiness I found tonight was in knowing that you fat lawyer husbands were fucking around on you during you fun little girls night out

This is the shit I deal with

I've been a bartender a long time and I am good at it. But people that sit at my bar everyday, you are starting to seriously piss me the fuck off.
First of all why the fuck are you sitting at my bar before I even walk in the door. How the fuck did you even get in? I haven't even clocked in yet and there you are sitting there looking at me with your glassy eyes wanting a fucking draft beer. You really need a fucking life.
Also, if you come in please stop fucking talking to whoever the hell your with or get off your goddam phone and order already. I really do not have all day to wait for you. I will most likey walk off and if I do dont get all pissy because I'm not back the minute you are ready to order. Dude, you are rude.
Do not sit your ass at my bar and order a sweet tea. You are a pain in my ass.Do you see a tea urn sitting on the goddam bar? No, I have to walk my ass back to the kicthen and get it for you because you suck. Order a Newcastle or something. And also, don't bring your fucking kid with you to my bar. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you really that much of a drunk? Get yourself and your kid out of my bar before I call child services.And to my precious bar regualrs: we are not friends. I really don't even like most of you. I don't give a shit about what you have to say. Don't think for one minute because you are a regular that you can leave a shitty tip. I wouldn't even show my face in a place that I left a shitty tip in, much less go there every goddam day. And why the hell are you here every fucking day anyway. Do you really not have that much to do? I don't want to look at you every fucking shift and no, we cannot be friends on Facebook.The thought of you makes me want to drown myself in the bathtub everyday before work.Speaking of which, when it is time to close, GETTHEFUCKOUT. Actually get out before then. I don't want to hang out with you. No, it's not "cool". I just have to tell you that or my manager will bitch at me. Unlike you, I have a life and I would like to go home. Also, stop staring at my tits. It's creepy.
And ladies, if I ask for your friends ID and not yours, please do not bring attention to it. It's pretty clear that you haven't seen 20 in a while. Don't make things awkard for me.
And I swear to God in Heaven, if one more of you fucker tell me to "make it a good one", I'm going to throw my fruit tray at your ass. Why the fuck would I hook you up if I don't know you. Tip me well, and we will see about the next one. Until then if you want a strong drink order a fucking double. And do not, do fucking not, sit at my bar for a hour and then move to a table and assume I will transfer the tab. You are an asshole