Notice I didn’t use the word fat.  I’m trying to stay away from that word, as it’s mean and cruel.  What the fuck am I saying, these bitches was fucking HUGE!!!!!!!!!  Today is the birthday of the Ribeye, the Ribeye who is feeling less than 100%, and that had to work a day shift today.  It’s been a long time since I worked a day shift on a weekend, and I was NOT prepared for what was to come.

There was a UK Basketball game on today, and the dining room was full 15 minutes after we opened.  The kitchen wasn’t prepared for such a rush, so when the game room started filling up, the kitchen was overloaded.  When I say overloaded, I mean we were waiting close to an hour for a caesar salad.

Normally, our day shift cooks are the best guys in the world.  I’m not sure exactly why it was so bad today.  We’ve been busy as hell like that before, and been busy just as quick before, and they haven’t crashed.  I must attribute part of it to the inept GM who was on the expo line and sending out the wrong food, food runners who didn’t read tickets, and a manager on the line who doesn’t mesh well with the rest of the kitchen staff.

It was pure Hell.

My first table of the day was a group of bitchy large women…there’s that word again…who absolutely had to have their food in 20 minutes because they had to catch a movie.  I tried to tell them that the kitchen was running very long, but they didn’t listen.  As soon as their food hit 15 minutes, they started the bitching.

“I thought you said it was going to be out in a few minutes!  It’s been 15 minutes now, and we don’t even have our appetizers!”  These four women had 5 appetizers between them, and some of their app’s were grilled.  Well done grilled.  That’s not going to come out quick when the kitchen is slammed, and I told them from the start that it was going to be a long shot.

Their appetizers come, and they shut up for a while.  One of them nearly chokes on a buffalo wing, and I’m surprised I didn’t have to Heimlich the bitch.  Just to let my larger readers know, I really don’t hate all fat people, I just don’t like bitchy, hateful, self-entitled fat people who think the world orbits them just like everything else.  I’m a fat boy, and I’ll be the first to admit it.  These bitches had me beat.

When their food comes, apparently Inept GM who sent it out didn’t pay attention to the ticket, and one of them was without her 3 sides of ranch for her house salad.

“Where is my ranch?!” she shouted, her face getting as red as the ketchup she’d slathered on her chicken strips.  “I ordered three extra sides of ranch, and they’re not here!  How the hell am I supposed to eat my salad without ranch?”

“Ma’am, I will go and get your ranch, if you’ll but give me a minute.  You still have your chicken, your fries, and your cup of soup.  Why not start on one of those while I head to the kitchen?”  I tried to be as nice as possible while getting yelled at.  Other guests were staring, and I could do nothing but look at them and apologize with my facial expressions.  It’s surprising that she could overpower the speakers of the place.

“My food is going to get cold because you are too stupid to remember to bring my ranch out!  I damn well better not be paying for any of the extra!” she screamed, pushing the plate toward me.  “Why are you still here, get to the kitchen and bring me my ranch?”  Springs, did you make a special trip to Nashville to torment me?

“Ma’am, getting irate isn’t going to get your ranch any faster.  Give me a moment, I have other guests besides you.”

“How dare you talk to me like that!  Get me your fucking manager!”  she cried, her face now a color deeper than the ketchup.  She had started huffing, and I silently wondered if she was going to pass out from the strain.

“As soon as my manager gets a chance, he’ll be right out.  Right now, he’s making sure the kitchen doesn’t crash any more than it already has.”  I walk off, and purposely neglect her ranch.  One of the other servers apparently got it for her, because she had all 4 sides emptied by the time I went back to the table.  I don’t appreciate being cursed at and talked to with disrespect.  Fucking bitch, I hope you die.

We also had an influx of Hovarounds in the building today.  One of them tried to park at the end of a table, and ended up being sent to the dining room because we couldn’t reach over him to serve him.

More big women bitching all day.  Why are bigger women usually so hateful?  They weren’t even ghetto today, they were just hateful!

I hate them all, and suggest diets.

Ribeye

There was fat everywhere.  I don’t know where they all came from, but there were great big fat people roaming all around the place.  Most of them couldn’t fit in our booths, being that the tables don’t move, so they were pulling up stools to the tables.  I wondered if the barstools might be absorbed into them, but it didn’t happen…at least not while I was in there.

I don’t know why people let themselves get that fat.  Even with how much time I spend on here, I’m still not grotesquely obese like some of these people.  Sure, I’ve got a belly on me, but I run enough at work to keep it to a minimum.   I think if I ever got as fat as some of the people that came in tonight I’d prefer to shoot myself in the head than go out in public.

Fat table of the night: Two big fat women wearing clothes they just should not have been wearing.  Rolls were seen, 4 on each side of one of the women’s bodies.  The other one crammed herself in the booth and her tits were hanging onto the table, along with half of her stomach.  They looked hungry, and I was afeared.  I approached the table, wondering what I was about to get myself into.

“Good evening, ladies, how are you doing tonight?”

“Hungry, what kinda specials ya’ll got?”

“Well ladies, we’re in Happy hour right now, you can get half off all your drinks from the bar.”

“Ya’ll ain’t got no food specials?”  Bertha (fat lady with the tits and belly laying on the table) asked.

“No ma’am, but I will gladly make some recommendations to you if you’d like.  Some of our steaks are just to die for.”

“How many wangs ya’ll get to a ohdah?” the 2nd one, Rollita, asks me.

“There are 8 to an order ma’am.”

“Dat it? Dat a ripoff.  Ya’ll gon brang me some exkra wangs instead of dem fries dat come wit it?”

“No ma’am, the fries are just a side item that go with the wings.”

“Well brang me thray wangs, and a frozen margarita.”

“Yes ma’am, and for you?” I asked Bertha.

“I’m gon’ have 2 plates of wangs and a salad.  Brang about fo side ranch wit my salad.”

“I’ll have to charge for three of those sides of ranch, it only comes with one.”

“Why da fuck ya’ll gotta do dat fo?”  Great, a bitch that wants to drink ranch with her dinner, and doesn’t want to pay for it.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but those are the rules.  I don’t have much of a choice, the kitchen won’t give the ranch to me if I don’t ring it in.”

“You gotta charge me fa exkra ranch wit my wangs too?”

“Yes ma’am, the wings also only come with one order.  You’ll get 2 sides with yours,” I said to Bertha, “and you’ll get three sides with yours,” I said to Rollita.

They ended up ordering 10 sides of ranch between the two of them for the wings, and 4 for that one salad.  28 ounces of Ranch Dressing, and 40 buffalo wings.  3o ounces of fries between those 5 orders of wings, and the food doesn’t stop there.  These bitches finished the wings off, and every single fry.

“Ladies, would either of you like some dessert tonight?” I asked as I was taking ranch covered plates away.

“Ya’ll got some chasecake?” Bertha asked me.

“Yes, ma’am, would you like Strawberry or Caramel, or just plain.”

“Brang me a caramel, but put some hawt fudge on it, and brang a stawburry too.”

Rollita was looking at the dessert menu while Bertha ordered.  “Brang me a couple pieces of chocolate cake.”

Total bill between the two of these heifers came to 88 bucks and some change.  They left me nothing.  They used up about 30 napkins, and they ate every bite of everything they ordered.  It was scary to watch.

There were more fat tables, but these two bitches took the cake.  The only other one of note was the really fat ghetto bitch with the ankle holders almost as big as her tits.  I don’t know how her head supported those things that had to be at least 8 inches in diameter, or how her little stumps supported her 400 pounds, but they did.

It wasn’t a great night for tips, it wasn’t too busy.  Just lots of fat people ordering a ton of stuff.

Tomorrow is the last Saturday before Crimmus.  Should be a big shopping day for those who waited till the last minute and didn’t go out of town.  Maybe it’ll be a better night than tonight was…

See you soon everybody,

Ribeye

So tonight, everything was actually going pretty well, until last call was given.  Not 5 minutes after last call was given, for both the kitchen and the bar, I have a 6 top sit down.  These people have been in the building for over an hour, and they’ve farted around playing games and such.  They decided they wanted to eat as soon as the kitchen was in danger of closing.

I see them wandering closer to the tables as I hear the call over the speaker.  I look at one of my co-workers and basically say to them “These mother fuckers are about to sit down and order.” praying I was wrong.  They sit down, and a little piece of me dies inside.   I go to the back and cuss and bitch for a minute, then go back out to the table.  These people can tell I’m not happy about serving them.

I go through my minimized opening lines, which basically means, “Tell me what you want, we have only a couple of minutes.”

In actuality, it was this, “Guys we’re closing in 45, kitchen closes in 10, we have to be quick.  What can I get you to drink?”  They spend 8 minutes picking out a fucking drink, and they all but one end up with fucking pink lemonade.  The last one, ugly whore, orders a fucking strawberry shake.  A fucking shake.

After I get their drink orders, I try to get the food orders before I get their drinks out to them. “Guys, we have only a couple of minutes left until I can’t feed you.  Let’s move it along if you want to eat.”

“Why you gotta rush us?”  Says Jentiquara (from the stupid names of the week), “We gotta have time ta look, dayum!”

“Ma’am, time is a luxury you don’t really have at the moment, the kitchen is about to close.”

“Well we gonna staht wid sum wangs.  Go an put dat in and we be ready when ya get back.”

“Ma’am, I really need to take it all at once.  What would you like.”  I have no patience, and I dont’ care if they complain.

I get their orders, and get them in right as they’re giving the announcement that the kitchen and bar are closed.  I go back to the table and take the drinks, cept for the shake that I now have to make myself.

“Where my shake be?”

“I have to make it, you’ll have to wait.” I reply, and walk off.  I make the shake and bring it back, only to have one of the guys, JaMario, ask me, “Deez be fray refill?”

“Yes, sir.”  All five of them suck down their lemonade, and I have to get them refills.  I end up bringing them all three refills apiece in 5 minutes.  Fucking bastards.

The food comes, about 5 minutes till we close.  “Guys, can I go ahead and bring some boxes for you, we close in 5 minutes.”

“You ain gonna offah no desseht?”

“I can’t, the kitchen is closed.”

“Well we gon sit heah an enjoy ouah food, you ain gon rush us.”

“Sorry to do it ma’am, but I am.  It’s illegal for you all to stay in a bar after it’s closed, and we do count as a bar.”

I didn’t care that on their 113 dollar check that they stiffed me, because I was compensated by management for it.  I just hope they don’t come back tomorrow like they were talking about because I might just hurt them if they do.  I ended up at work 30 minutes late, cleaning up fucking ranch and buffalo wing sauce and bones off my fucking floor because of that trash.

People, if you want to stay on your servers good side, don’t fucking come in and eat right near close, because we’re going to hate you, give you lousy service on purpose, and aren’t going to care if you don’t tip.  We would rather see you choke on a bone and die.

Ribeye

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