The past few days at work, I’ve had a lot of trashy rednecks in town. I don’t know where they’re all coming from, and I don’t really care as long as they leave as soon as fucking possible. I can only handle so much of these fuckers counting out exact change, to the fucking penny and refusing to leave a tip.
Last night was the best.
I had a table of 7 rednecks, 4 adults and 3 inbred kids. I started off like normal, “Hey everyone, how are you today.”
“Ya’ll got some drank specials?” asks the first guy.
“Well, we have our happy hour right now, you get a dollar off drafts and half off on well drinks.”
“What’s a well drank? That mean a jack and coke?” he asks, pulling out his can of skoal and making me want to puke as he puts it in his cheek.
“No, sir, we mean things like rum and coke and bourbon and coke, amaretto sours, house margaritas.”
“So I can get a captain and coke if I want and it’ll be half off.”
“No, sir, captain is a more expensive liquor, it’s going to be regular price.”
“What about Busch? How much is a can of Busch?”
“Sir, we don’t have cans, and we don’t offer Busch here. Would you like to hear our draft list?”
“Naw, just brang me a budweiser in a bottle. That’s gon’ be 2 fah 1 righ’?”
“No sir, bottle beer is not on happy hour specials.”
“Well what the fuck is on this Happy Hour since ya’ll don’t give no two fa one beer?” He picks up the bev-nap off the table and spits in it and I throw up a little in my mouth. I explain the specials to him again, and he gets a bud draft.
“What about for you, ma’am?”
“Don’t talk to her, shes gon’ get waddah. Make it extra special and brang her some lemon too.” Rednecks always want to order for their wives, but don’t want to let them get anything real to drink. The kids end up getting water too, and all the guys get budweiser drafts.
“If the draft is a dollar off, that means it’s gon’ be a dolla righ’?” one of the hicks asks as I walk off. This one smells like a garage, and has a mullet. Another thing that just makes me want to hurl.
“No, sir, it’ll be 3.50.”
“What?” he hollers. “That’s too damn much for a beer!” well this ain’t the bar on the side of the road either, dumbass. Go back to Mississippi if you want cheap shit.
I still end up getting the beers. They order the wives a cheap cheeseburger each, but with no fries, thinking it’ll make the meal cheaper. Sorry, not McDonalds.
One of the guys orders a Philly. I very clearly ask him, “Would you like peppers, onions and mushrooms on your sandwich?”
“Just a can of mayo, nothin else.”
“Mayo it is then, sir.” I walk off and put the orders in. They try swiping a bank card on a coin machine, knowing they have to have a game card I laughed. Then they asked me if the games were a quarter. Nope, sorry, go to a regular arcade.
They bitched about the price of things the entire time they were there. I wasn’t there to deliver the food, so I don’t know that the first guy is pissed off about something. When I do get over to check on them, he still doesn’t tell me anything’s wrong with his philly, seems to be eating it no problem. I don’t see that the mayo isn’t on the table and he doesn’t mention it.
When I bring the checks, I start to walk off when one of the she-hicks yells at me, “Hey, waiter, where you goin?”
“Can I help you , ma’am?”
“Why is my brother having to pay for that sammich when it ain’t right?”
“What do you mean?”
“It posed ta have the veggies on it, and mayo!”
“No, ma’am, he only wanted mayo.”
“Is you callin my sister a liah, boy?” up walks dippin Philly man.
“No, sir, I’m merely telling her what you ordered. I asked specifically if you wanted anything else on your sandwich and you told me, and I quote, ‘Just mayo’. If you had a problem, why didn’t you tell me beforehand, I would have gladly fixed it for you.” I wasn’t rude about it, just firm.
I ended up having to get the philly taken off.
I see them counting out change. 10 dollars worth of quarters, nickels and pennies. No dimes, that would have been too much. There’s no tip, either.
I hooked the women up with cokes, feeling bad for them. I made their whiskey and cokes when their beers were done, and I made them heavy like they asked.
I’m the one who yelled halfway across the game room : “Well thank ya’ll so very fucking much for your generosity!” when they stiffed me.
The night didn’t get much better either. This inbred trash was in all night long, trying to order cans of beer, bitching about prices, and leaving no money. I was ready to stab a few of them before they left.
Had one argue with me, telling me it wasn’t illegal to smoke inside a public place and he wasn’t putting the cigarette out. I told him either it was going out or he was, and he tried to tell me it was his “American Right” to smoke indoors. I’m all for the rights argument, I wish we could still smoke inside. Too bad. He flipped ashes on my floor and that was it. I snatched the cigarette from him, sprayed it with the soda gun, and tossed it in the trash. He left yelling how he was going to have my job.
Take it buddy.
This weeks been bad enough money wise, but Fanfare is coming up. More hicks. And I’m in bowling tonight, the ghetto capitol of the restaurant.
Somebody shoot me.
More later,
Ribeye
These nails in the picture are about a quarter of the size but you get the idea. Anyway, I walk up to the table and have to wait for a minute before I can talk because the fucking crotch stain kids wouldn’t shut up. “Momma I gon’ get some wangs.” “Day gon’ brang some roll, Momma?” Finally, I’d had enough and I more or less shouted at them, “Hello everyone, how are you?” They shut up right quick when I raised my voice. Momma Jaquandria puts one of those talons in my face in a ‘hold on’ gesture. “Let me axe you a querstion.” I hear ghetto speak every day, but the words ‘axe’ and ‘querstion’ in one sentence was almost too much for me and I nearly burst out laughing at her.
