You all know who you are. You are all Entitlement Junkies just like the trash that we wait on. You’re the server who thinks he’s too good to do any running sidework or polish your silverware. You’re the bitch at the pharmacy who wants to get your Lortab filled a week early and bitches when it doesn’t work. You’re the manager who fucks a 17 year old boy after getting him drunk and comping his food and liquor, and fucks another employee for giving you pills, yes, Mr. D K, I’m talking about you. You’re the hostess who sits on her verrrrrrrry fat ass on the counter at the front door, so that everyone coming in sees rolls instead of a person smiling.

Everyone knows that I hate entitlement junkies with a passion.

The particular junkie I have a problem with today is “Hawk”, a co-worker of mine who apparently thinks that I’m out to get him. That’s only partially true. He’s a decent server, albeit very racist (he, unlike me, completely goes off about taking black tables.)

Quick history:

He trained a couple of months ago, and did surprisingly well given the opinions the hiring managers had of him. He was a toss up apparently.

He did alright at first, seemed willing to work, but then again most new servers do when they first start. Within a week, he proved to me that he was utterly worthless.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and a couple of us notice him taking a bin of silverware that we already had rolled from the service station. He thinks that we don’t notice it. He then tries to show it to me, saying that he rolled it on his break. I know better, because none of us could find him on the break he took without telling anyone about. He gets all kinds of pissed off because we make him roll a bin of silverware.

He rolls a full bin, but I notice something right after he leaves. His silverware has spoons in it. At least some of it does. Some of it has a fork and a spoon, some is just a knife and a spoon. Some is a spoon and a spoon. We roll a fork and a knife. He got written up, and has held a grudge against me ever since that weekend.

We’ve now started actually enforcing the “soak and polish” policy on silverware that MOST of us go by, but some of the servers seem to think they don’t have to do. I’m tired of being bitched out about my co-workers not polishing at night when I’m shift leading, because they’re all adults and I’m not a fucking babysitter. This past Sunday, I’m just serving. Not shift leading, just serving. So I tell the closer that when she checks out his silverware, she has to open a few rolls of it (which is being done to EVERYONE after last week), because I know he’s not polishing it having watched him take it from the little plastic rack it was “washed” in. Closer tells Hawk this, and Hawk says “I don’t believe that comes from the managers, that comes from Ribeye, he’s just an asshole and I’m not doing anything he says.” So Manager goes back and threatens him with a write up, and Hawk does another pan of silverware.

Hawk also refuses to : Properly stock his section, the easiest and most widely known of all restaurant sidework, how hard is it to count out some sugar packets correctly.

Wipe out his crumb catchers

Clean tables in the game room.

Then we have the running sidework. It doesn’t matter what it is, normally getting ice or stocking glasses, he refuses to do it. It takes an order from a member of management to get him to stock a glass or fill the ice bin. It’s hard to even get him to wipe down a table.

He refuses to work in the bowling alley, especially on the weekends, because there’s too many black people for him to deal with and he gets scared. TOO FUCKING BAD DUDE, we all work in the bowling alley, and even when it gets ghetto, there’s still a bit of money to be made, so quit fucking whining.

He doesn’t carry a tray, which as a cocktail server is an absolute must, it’s not fuckin Fridays for fucks sake. I’m sorry, when I still drank my beer, I didn’t want a servers hands holding it by the neck, or the lip of the beer, its just not right.

Anyway, steps are being taken, because Hawk is about worthless. We do like to talk shit about his girlfriend, who would be pretty except for the fucked up hairstyles she has.

On a different note, why would any black person name their child Simeon, pronounced like “Simian”?

I thought black people didn’t want to be associated with primates.

Yes, LaVornia was her real name, at least according to the complaint she called into corporate.  She didn’t get anything out of it, being that her boyfriend was in the background on the voicemail telling her to hang up, and I didn’t have anything done, it’s just the fact that she dared to fuck with me.  I dare her to come back to my job.  I won’t fuck up someones food, but i guarantee you she’ll think her sandwich has been spit in.  It’ll almost be worth it, just to have a new post.

To Springs:

Give it a rest, will ya?  You are the only person other than Jimmy-James who tears apart every part of posts and everyone’s comments, and he ONLY does it to yours.   We’re all tired of the breaking down evey word that’s written like it’s AP English or something.  Please, just give it a rest.  You’ve made your point, and you make the same ones over and over and over again.  You say the same things over, and over, and over again.  Just stop.

So I was going through some of my old posts, and I just realized that some of the earliest posts are some of the best.  There are some real classics in the archives, some that none of you ever got to read, ever commented on, ever got pissed off about.  I just wanted to make this post and let you all know about them, I’ve re-added the archives links on the sidebar, right up on the top.  Below are some of my personal faves, so read and enjoy!

  “How much is Sweet Tea?”

“Where’s your cheap meal menu?”

The “To-Go” Cup

 “Do we get free refill on White Ziffadel?”

The above links are to some of my earliest work, and to be honest, some of my favorite.  I urge you all to check out the originals, and comment on them.  Those are the beginning of the Ribeye, and set the stage for the move from myserverblog.com (now defunct) to the RagingServer that you all know and love to hate.

Ribeye

This is a long one, but hey, it’s a true Raging post =)

It was bad enough hearing it once, but to hear it from more than one table in one night?

Deflaniquiana, big big big fat woman, with weave about a foot on top of her head and braided all down the back, wearing next to no clothes, and thinking she was just the hottest thing since fried chicken, had to be the most demanding whore I’ve ever had to serve.

I get to the table, maybe 20 seconds after they sit down.

“Hey there, how ya’ll doing tonight? My name’s Ribeye, I’ll be..”

“Brang me a sprite, I thirsty.” Yes ma’am, thanks for interrupting me.

“Anything for you to drink, sir?” I say to the silent and embarrassed boyfriend.

“Just suh waddah an a bow of lemons.” Great, I have ghetto-ade with the sprite.

It takes me maybe a minute and a half to get their drinks filled and return with them. “What the hell took you so damn long, I done said I was thirsty.”

“I’m so sorry for your wait, ma’am, I had to wait behind someone for a moment before I could pour your drinks.”

“You a damn smart ass. Brang me a cheeseburger. How long thats gon take?”

“Well ma’am, how would you like it cooked?” This whore’s really starting to piss me off at this point.

“Make it done, how stupid is you?”

“Ma’am, if you keep talking to me like that, I’m going to have you escorted out of here, and you won’t eat anything here tonight.”

“Is you be threatin me?” Yes, I know how it’s spelled, it’s how it was said. “I’m just telling you like it is, ma’am. I’m a server and I’m not going to be talked to like a dog. Take it or leave it.”

At this point she shuts up for a minute, her boyfriend is close to falling out of his chair laughing and she’s staring daggers into him. I can only imagine such a nice guy would be with her because she has tight fat folds, because there’s no way he’d be able to get to her no-no spots.

He stops laughing enough to give me his order, and I walk off to the sounds of their arguing. Ah, life is nice.

A few minutes later, I hear, “Hey, SERVER, you need to get yo ass ovah heah.”

“You rang?” I’m trying at this point to make her smile, or grin, or shut up again with my undeniable charm. My stomach’s still hurting like it has been, and I’m still in no mood for bullshit like this.

“I need mo sprite.” The glass is still more than half full.

“Give me just a moment ma’am, and I’ll bring it right out.” I go and get her sprite, and drop it off without saying a word. As I’m walking off, I hear her yell, “Brang me a salad too, with exKra rainch.” I go to the kitchen and get her salad, and 2 sides of ranch (4 ounces). I bring it back to the table, and set the salad on the table. The two sides of ranch are sitting on the tray.

“Where my damn dressin at?”

“It’s right here on the tray ma’am, give me a minute to set it down.” I set down first side.

“That sure as fuck ain’t no exkra, where da rest be?”

“It’s right here ma’am.” I more or less throw the ranch on the table, spilling it on her faux-prada purse.

“You need ta go get me 2 mo of dees, and what da hell kinda lettuce is dis?”

“It’s field greens ma’am.”

“Well why da fuck ain’t no real lettuce in dis, dis be nasty.”

“We don’t have iceberg here, ma’am. Give me a moment to go to the kitchen and get your extra dressing.”

“Hurry da fuck up, dis salad gon get limp.” It’s going to be limp from all the fucking ranch you’re putting on it you bitch.

Heading to the kitchen, I look back for a minute, and I see her get up and waddle over to the bar to ask for a manager. Bartender calls manager, and she rolls on back to her table. I ask bartender J what she said.

“It said you’re a rude bastard, that you didn’t ask how they were doing, and that you cussed her out.” Well isn’t that nice. I came close to cussing her out, but I didn’t. Yes, I did get rude, and I won’t apologize for that because I was responding to the way I was treated. I’m nobody’s dog, I work hard for a living.

Manager goes to table, and I casually walk to one on the other side of the wall to make it look like I’m cleaning up. I hear her boyfriend say to the manager, “Don’t listen to anything she says, she’s on the rag or somethin and just bein a bitch. Ribeye’s doing an awesome job, most people can’t put up with her at all.” Why do ghettofied black women, not strong and proud, classy and intelligent black women, just ghettofied trashy black women have to be so difficult?

Manager later comes to me and tells me what I already know, she came to him away from boyfriend and told him all kinds of shit, that I was treating her like shit, that I’m a racist, that I used the N word, which I don’t use at all, that I was rude. He told me that he didn’t believe her especially after what the boyfriend said. Boyfriend is also black, and surprisingly is quite ghetto. He’s also the type of ghetto that I enjoy. He’s not rude ghetto, he’s fun ghetto that doesn’t take shit but doesn’t treat others like shit. His girlfriend is the entitlement junkie in this equation.

Apparently she asked to get their meal free, and was denied.

Boyfriend tips me 100% of the check, which is 22 bucks. Made me happy. He walked into the bathroom before they left, and she grabs my arm and tries to pull me to the side.

“Ma’am, do NOT grab me again. If you would like something then ask, but do not put your hands on me.” Made me think she was gonna eat my arm or something, fat tub of lard.

“I just want you to know I gonna be callin yo coporate on you, you is a asshoe, an you gon pay fo da way you treated me.”

“Ma’am, I treated you the way you treated me. If you come back in here, I will not serve you, and neither will anyone else who was here tonight. Your boyfriend, however, is welcome at any time.”

Yes, tonight, I could have easily been fired for the way I talked to her, but you know what, I also didn’t care. I was in pain, and I wanted to stab her.

I told you all this weekend would bring some goodness.

Ribeye

Why do people think that using one ID between three people is going to fool me into giving them all alcohol?  Why do they think bitching to the manager and hoping that the manager won’t notice that they all have the exact same ID is going to change anything?

I had a party of 5 sit down later in the night, a mix of ghetto white, black, and Mexicans.  The two white guys decided to try using the exact same ID with me to get their drinks, and I caught them on it and told them that neither would get a drink if they tried it again.  Then the Mexican, who had his ID, and was almost dark complected enough to be a black man, tried to pass his ID to his friends under the table thinking they’d get away with it.

“Guys, you all have to have your OWN separate ID’s before I’m going to serve you a drink.  I know you’re passing those two around, don’t think I’m stupid.”

“What you mean main, we ain’t usin da same cahds, day be diffent.”  Bullshit, white boy (we’ll call him Crotchen).  “No, sir, they’re not.  I’m not that stupid to think that the two of you, who look nothing alike, have the exact same name and the same exact face.  Now, if you try it again, I’m going to have the manager come and escort you out.”

“Why you be tahkin ta us like we dumb?”  ElCantanori (the Mexican) asked me.  “You cain be tahkin ta us like dat.”  Wanna bet?

“Look guys, I’m sorry you felt the need to come out without your ID’s but you’re not gonna pull one over on me.  If you don’t like it, go to another bar where they don’t care about getting fired.”  Don’t fuck with me when I’m not feeling well.

“Main, Fuck you.  You be ackin crazy in heah, we ain gonna take dis bullshit.”  Says Genarlo (had to try out the name).  “We gots us some rights.”  That’s what you think.  You might have a right to drink, but you don’t have the right to drink without identification.

I get the manager over to the table, and he catches them pulling the same shit as I did.  Security escorted them out, the lot of them calling us racist the entire time.  That’s fine guys, I’m still not getting fired because you’re all fucking trash.

Then we have the fat bitches.  Big fat white honkey whores.  Berthetta and Daisy.  They came in with their kids, who were in their early teens.  The girls were 25 and 26.  The kids were 13 and 14.

“Hey you, brang us some of that Bud Ice.”  Berthetta says.  I can barely stand to look at her, with her skin-tight jeans and tube top she’s wearing, there are rolls abound and it’s making my already queasy stomach feel even worse.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t carry that brand of beer.  Can I get you a Bud Light or a Miller light?”

“Why ya’ll don’t got no Bud Ice?”  Daisy asked, twisting her hair with her fingers that were about as thick as my wrist. “Thats tha best damn beer there ever was.”

“We just don’t carry any Ice beers here, they’re not too popular with the restaurant crowd.”

“Are you sayin we don’t got enough class to be eatin here?”

“No, ma’am, that’s not what I’m saying at all.  I’m saying that when we did have it, it didn’t sell, so we got rid of it.”  We’ve never had it as far as I knew, but I didn’t want the two of them to tackle me for pissin them off, so I had to diffuse the situation before I was smushed into oblivion.

These two ordered two entree’s each, an appetizer platter, 2 salads with like 4 sides of ranch each and two desserts.  They didn’t just order it all, they ATE it all.  Can anyone say “Tapeworm”?

Total bill, 145.  Total tip, nothing.

Ribeye