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


  1. Funny, I thought a screwdriver was vodka, OJ and Sprite.

  2. You fucking crack my ass up! I swear, I'd pay money to sit and listen to you tell these stories in person.