Hello again everyone, and welcome back.  Today, I’m going to be talking about the plague of Obese people.

Obesity…let’s just put it like it is, grotesquely fat people, are along with the ghettofied trash in the most hateful people you’ll ever meet category.  They come into your restaurant, rolling around in their patented “Hovaround” technology and getting mad that they cant get a booth they can fit into.  They are breathing heavy from the strain of pushing the forward button on their chair.  They’re dripping sweat, they have flaps of skin upon flaps of skin.  They generally smell funny.  And they are without a doubt the crankiest people other than pregnant women or old people that you’ll ever have to deal with.

Ok, maybe I’m being a bit harsh.  Sometimes there’s one out of 50 that are in good spirits.  Usually not.  They are created in a world of McDonalds greasy food, and the most exercise they ever get is lifting the remote control to change from Montel to Oprah.  Then they get on their forklifts and come out to order a salad, 3 entrees, 2 desserts, and a diet coke or unsweet tea.  They are the type of people who ask you for 4 different kinds of dressings, and extra of each and every condiment to drown that salad and breadsticks they demanded you bring.  Since when does being fat mean you should get whatever you want?  It’s not our fault you decided to eat yourselves to the size of small elephants, so don’t take it out on us.

Take this example.  A few nights ago, I had a table of very very very large women.  Our booths in the game room are made to fit 4 normal sized adults.  These were 4 quadra-sized women.   They chose to NOT rent those little hourly Hovarounds from the mall, which while I respect the attempted exercise, maybe they should have.  They walked in, and went to one of my tables.  In our game room, we have only booths.  No chairs.  These women decided they were going to try to fit into a 4-top booth.  These women weighed easily 1500 pounds between them.  About 10 minutes later, these women had finally succeeded in stuffing themselves into the booth.  There wasn’t too much of the table left once they got in though, as their skin and gigantic breasts were laid across it.  This was a busy saturday night.  I’m telling you all of this because I need you to imagine the setting.   I’m going to name these women.  First, we have the great lardy ghetto white woman….we’ll call her Giganta.  Then we have the really ghetto black woman, with braids stringing off of her head and eyeballs bulging out of it…..we’ll call her Lardametria.  Third, we have another really ghetto black woman, this one with hair about 4 feet off the top of her head, looks like some weave had been wrapped around a few large tumblers, weave you could throw a tennis ball into like a carnival game.  We’ll call her Aquanetta.  Then we have the old one.  The oooooollllllllldddddd old old old white woman who has lived in the ghetto all of her life, hasn’t had a job since 90 years ago when she was maybe 20.  The one with the huge fatty tits that sag down nearly to the ground, that uses a cane to walk, and is like your mean third grade teacher that used to beat your hand with a ruler.  We’re going to call her Blubberella.

I approach the table with a smile on my face.  “Good evening, Ladies, welcome to _______!  How are ya’ll doin tonight?”  I was a little cheery, it happens sometimes.

Blubberella: “Why do ya’ll only got 2 menus on these tables?”  We only set two menus on the tables automatically, it’s just the way things are done.  We bring more per the number of guests there are.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I’ll be glad to bring you two more menus.  While I’m headed that way, can I go ahead and bring you all some drinks, maybe a long island or 4?”

Aquanetta: “Just go get the menus, we hongry.”

“Right away, ma’am.”  I walk to the service station and retrieve two more menus.  As I’m headed back to the table, I do a quick study.  There is sweat pouring off of these women who are huffing and puffing as they dig for their little cigarette cases.  “Bring us a couple ashtrays,” Lardametria hollered from across the room.   I turn back around to see if there are any ashtrays on the service station, there arent.  We’re going non-smoking next week, so we aren’t keeping them and don’t really care that people are pilfering them.  I have about 8.   I abandon the search figuring they’d rather have the menus…after all, they must be hungry as hell.

“Here are your menus, ladies.  It’s going to be just a ….”

“Where da hell is da ashtrays at?” Lardametria interrupted.  She’s not wasted any time lighting a cigarette.  I can’t say much about smokers, being one myself.  “How we pose to put these out widdout ashtrays?”

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am, it’ll be just a moment on the ashtrays, they’re a little scarce right now being that we’re going non-smoking soon.  I’ll be right back with them.”   I go on the hunt for a few minutes, and after searching the entire game room, I find one unused ashtray.  I end up taking another from the bowling alley.  I get back to the table with them, and I see that Lardametria has dumped out my sugar caddy on the table and proceeded to put her Newport out in said caddy.  “Ma’am, here are your ashtrays.  That is not an ashtray.”

“You was takin to long, what was i pose to do?” she asked.

“wait?  Anyway, what would you ladies like to drink to start with?”  I tried suggesting drinks before, I wasn’t going to do it again.

Giganta: “I won’t a Diet Pepsi with 4 lemons.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but we have Coke products here.  Can I offer you a diet coke or a sprite?”

Aquanetta: “She said she wonted a Diet Pepsi wit fo lemons.”

“And I apologized when I let her know we didn’t have Pepsi products.”

Lardametria: “But there a bottle of pepsi sittin right over dare”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s my pepsi that I bought from our vending machine.  That’s for employees only, not for the guests.”

Lardametria: “But she don wont a damn coke, you need to go get her a diet pepsi.”

“Ma’am, there’s no outside food or drink allowed in here.  Maybe I can offer you a sweet tea?”

“Just bring us fo waddas wit a lodda lemon.”  By this point I have other tables that I need to greet, so I start to walk off to get their waters.

“You aint gonna take our ordas?” Blubberella snarled.  “We hongry.”

They ordered:  A house salad each, with 3 extra ranch dressings apiece, which I charged for.  They also ordered: 3 appetizer wings, an order of cheese sticks, and 2 orders of spinach dip.  Those were just their appetizers.  For their entrees, we’re going to start with Aquanetta.  Aquanetta orders a ribeye steak, extra well done, extra cheese and bacon on her mashed potatoes after bitching me out for the restaurant not having baked potatoes as if it’s my fault.  She also orders a grilled cheese and fries, which is normally on the kids menu but i didn’t have time to argue about it.

Lardametria:  A ribeye steak, extra well done, with fries covered in cheese and bacon, and onion rings (not on the menu but we can make them) instead of the normal other side item.  She also orders a double cheeseburger, also with fries drowned in cheese and bacon, and demanded ranch and sour cream for said fries.

Giganta:  Chose to be more conservative.  Parmesan chicken alfredo with 2 extra alfredo sauces, a side of cheese and bacon covered fries, and a side of mashed potatoes (again I was bitched out for not having baked potatoes).

Blubberella: Roast beef sandwich, fries the same as her friends.  A ribeye steak burnt, potatoes the same as above.   Also, extra order of said potatoes.

As they’re waiting for their food, which is running long because we’re busy, and they ordered enough food for a party of 12, I ended up refilling their waters about 20 times.  Appetizers and salads come out to the table after about 12 minutes.  “We gon need some mo rainch than that,” Aqua snapped at me.  Apparently 3, 4oz. sides of ranch for each of them just wasn’t enough.  So I charge them for 2 more sides each, 8 more sides of ranch.  I run to the kitchen to get it, and by the time I get back, they’re back to smoking.

“These done got cold, you need to get sum mo,” Larda said, pointing at the wings in front of her.  They are drenched in ranch dressing.  Cold ranch dressing.

“Ma’am, honestly, by the time I rering the food, go to the kitchen and ask for a rush, your food is going to be here and you’ll be eating.”

“Den you betta take dem all off our bill,”  Blubberella snapped at me.  I look at the table, and 19 out of 24 wings have been eaten, and bones have been literally sucked dry of both ranch and meat, and the fries that come with those wings are non-existant.  “Ma’am, I’ll take one order of wings off of your bill, but over 3 orders have been eaten completely.  Fries and all.”

“FINE!”  Don’t fucking yell at me you fat assed piece of trash.  I’ll let your food sit back there and get cold.

Aquanetta:  “How much longa it gon’ be for da food?”

“I don’t know ma’am, we’re a bit busy.  It shouldn’t be too much longer, maybe 7-8 minutes.”

“Why the fuck it’s takin so dayum long fo?” Lardametria asked me, lettuce falling out of her mouth.

“Because half of you ordered extra well done, thick ribeyes, that take longer to cook.  We’re also quite busy.  It’s gonna take a minute.”

By this time, when I visit my other tables, I am talking shit about these whales with them and laughing, not caring if they happen to hear me or not.  I was tired of them.  Tired of them to the point that I went to my manager, Mr. J, who is awesome.  I asked him to make someone else take the table over, and ended up pawning these fat bitches off on a server who had just gotten on the floor a few nights before.  That server quit the next night.  I don’t know what they did to her, and I really don’t care, I just couldn’t handle it anymore and I was afraid I was going to cuss them out and get fired.

The only satisfaction I got from that table the entire night was when they tried to leave.  They’d paid out their bill, if I heard Ms. C correctly (the server who took over), they stiffed her.  Aquanetta and Giganta nearly fell to the ground trying to get out of the booth (they were sitting on the outside, ass hanging off the entire time.)  Blubberella and Lardametria however, after cramming themselves into the inside parts of the booth, were NOT able to get out.  We had to find someone skinny enough to get under the table and unbolt it from the floor.  I was told after they left that being under there with the foot smell, the fat fold leg smell, the sweaty obese cooch smell, and the sweaty fat ass smell that he actually felt dizzy.

The moral of the story is, if you’re a bitch to your server, and you’re the size of a small sperm whale, then you’re going to get stuck in your booth and be embarrassed to ever come out again because people are going to see someone having to unbolt the table from the ground.  And you deserve it.  Bitches.

Ribeye

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