Weekends at my job suck ass in the beginning of the year.  Ghetto trash, white trailer trash, and redneck trash all swarm us.  They run us like dogs, and we’re still nice to them.  They camp for hours, run up huge bills, and then they leave a shitty tip if they leave a tip at all.  I’ve decided that I’m going to try something new with this trash, knowing that I’m not going to get tipped from them no matter what I do.

All night, I was nice.  I was in an awesome mood, and we were decently busy.  I thought for sure I was going to get some great money tonight.  BOY WAS I WRONG!!!

I had over a thousand dollars in sales, and before tip out I’d only made 70 bucks.  35 of that came from 3 tables, a total of 90 bucks in sales with those 3 tables.  The rest of what little I made was from the aforementioned trash.

The Experiment:  I’m going to start being the biggest asshole to my tables that anyone has ever seen.  I’m not going to be nice to anyone except for my regulars that I know I’ll make money off of.  I’m going to be rude, short, abrupt, and just plain hateful.  I’m not going to let my guests make any special menu requests, I’m not going to let them drink more than 2 drinks per hour.  I’m going to stop short of cussing out every one of my tables, only because I’d like to keep my job.

When they ask me if we have strawberry lemonade? “This ain’t Red Lobster.”

When they ask if they can substitute things on our appetizers that say in the menu no substitutions: “No.”  When they ask why?  “It’s in the menu.  No.”

Bread?  “It’s not O’charleys, you’ll have to pay for that.”

Guest: “Is ya’ll gonna clean dis table?”  “When I get good and ready to, you’re not the only guests in the building.”

Hot water for silverware?  “It’s clean, stop being so anal.”

Absolut, Cuervo Gold, Tanqueray, Grand Marnier, Bacardi, Jack Daniels.  These are MY new house liquors, especially for parties with gratuity.

Milkshake?  “No, there’s no ice cream.”

I probably won’t actually do all that, but for fuck sake, something has got to give!  This trash has got to start tipping!  I’m going out Monday to find a second job, because I can’t handle making shitty tips when I’m doing everything possible with a smile on my face and a great attitude.  I can’t keep running my feet to the bone and not getting paid for it.  I’m so sick of going above and beyond for people that aren’t going to reward me no matter what I do.

If I see any more fucking Heelies, I’m going to pull out what hair I have left.  I hate parents that let their kids run wild, and I’m going to end up being a dick to the kids.  No more running around unattended, this isn’t a playground.  I hate looking at those fuzzy boots with the spiked heels that the ghetto girls wear lately, with their 4 inch and bigger ankle holders on their heads.  I’m sick of looking at fake gold teeth, I’m sick of smelling weed at every one of my tables.  Tonight was like the TSU Homecoming night that I got spit on.  I’m sick of being cussed out by ghetto trash because I don’t let them have any discounts.  And, I’m sick of the new general manager that’s not letting us fix problems without a manager anymore.  I’m sick of his overstaffing, which is costing us money by the bucket load.  We had 6 servers in our area tonight when we should have only had 4.

I just had to vent tonight guys, more than normal.  We had a mother who’s toddler wandered off while she was drinking, and she didn’t even know the baby was gone when we finally found her, half the restaurant away.  The baby was just walking around, not with anyone.  Ghetto momma had the nerve to cuss out the server who brought the kid back, for putting hands on her baby.

I love serving, and I don’t hate the job in general.  I hate the clientele that I’ve had to put up with lately.  I want it to be like it was before Christmas, when we actually made a bit of money.  Sure, we had our trash, but it was only about 10% of the overall guests that come in.  Now, that’s more like 60%.  Nice families don’t want to bring their kids in because of all the trash, and we’re losing that business.

Things have got to change soon, or I’ll be finding 2 more jobs, and dumping this one in the cold.

Ribeye

I worked a double today for my first day back to work after vacation.  It got really ghetto early in the day, and I’m not sure how.  It wasn’t just ghetto black people, it was ghetto crackhead looking white people too.  They were all trash.

First table of the day:  Ganeeta and her 4 crotch spawn.  They come in and I knew something was wrong when the 2 boys who weren’t even ten years old had their pants down around their asses.  How fucking ghetto can these people let their kids be.  These little fucking brats were rude as hell too.

Ganeeta “Brang us waddah.”  This is before I even get my greeting out.  After the demand for water, I try to introduce myself.  No luck there.  “Dis table be dirty.  Ain’ yall clean dis aftah otha people is done?”  The table wasn’t dirty, the table is stained and no amount of wood soap has cured it yet.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I’ll get a towel while I’m getting your water.”

“Don’t fo-get ta brang us a lotta lemon.” So I walk off, a piece of me dying inside that my first table after vacation is a bitch and her bitch kids.

When I get back to the table with the towel and waters, Ganeeta is nowhere to be found.  Her crotch spawn is sitting by themselves, the oldest is 12 or so.  Lamarrita, the oldest, decides to open her big assed mouth, with her rubber bands that had the big fucking beads on it.  I hate those rubber bands.  “My momma say you gotta do what we say.  She gonna be back in a houah.”  This bitch has pawned off her kids on me.

“I’m sorry, but she has to be here with you.  She can’t just leave you all here.”

“You need ta brang us some wangs and rainch.”

“Where is your mother?” I ask, not putting up with this shit.

“She shoppin.  You gon’ brang us ouah wangs?”

“No, I’m going to get security to take you to find your mother.”  Ganeeta later comes in to bitch me out, and complain on me.  Sorry bitch, but it’s not a daycare service.

I get another table later in the night, of 6 black kids, all under 18.  Company policy says we don’t serve kids under 18 without an adult.  I tell them this, and immediately get called a racist.  This has nothing to do with the color of your skin you little bastards, it has to do with the fact that you’re fucking CHILDREN.  I don’t serve high school kids without parents.  Fuck them all.

I had a guest stiff me tonight because the prices of the drinks were not on the menu, and she never asked how much they were.  I’m sorry they don’t come with the kids meals, but it’s not O’charleys.  She said I should have told her how much the drinks were, yet she never asked.  I don’t volunteer that information.  I give it when it’s asked of me.  I had a guest stiff me because the food took too long, when I told her up front the kitchen was running 45 minutes.  Her food was out in 26.  I had a guest leave me 2 on 50, and this is after giving them a comp they didn’t bother asking for, because I felt bad they had to wait for as long as they did.  Being nice gets me nowhere, obviously, so I’m just going to have to be a dick to everyone.  The tables I was an asshole too left me good money.  Time to change my ways.

On another topic, Springs1 seems to have returned to RagingServer.com.  She’s made a comment about me being a hypocrite because I’m mad that RagingSisters purse got stolen.  She calls me a hypocrite because “Isn’t it funny how it’s OK for YOU to STEAL from your customers not to return someone’s coin change”.   She states that she doesn’t feel sorry for me.  Nobody asked you to feel sorry for me, springs, I’m merely getting out a message.  I’ve never once had anyone bitch about that change, because it’s never more than a quarter or so.  I work in a fast paced area, and people just aren’t as Nazified as you are when it comes to things.

Once again, bitch, I’ve never asked once for any of you to feel sorry for me.  I was and still am merely trying to help my sister, who has been screwed by a crackhead bitch.  A crackhead bitch that I’m sure complains like you do about every little thing that goes wrong.  Fuck you Springs, and Fuck your husband.  He must not be too much of a man to be able to put up with you, you obviously wear the pants.  Do you wear the strap on too?   Nobody asked you to come back here and start commenting again, and nobody really wants to to be here.

As for the thief, come Monday, we’ll have pictures of the bitch posted here at RagingServer.  She’ll be a very public bitch after that, because the liquor store she used my sisters credit card at didn’t bother carding her.  They are, however, giving us the picture from the video, and her face will be online, on myspace, on facebook, and everywhere else.   Bitch is going down.

Until next time,

Ribeye

Every few months, we get groups of people in my restaurant that make me want to sacrifice small animals to the gods to make them go away. These “people”…and I use that term loosely, are cheerleaders. Little high school cheerleaders. Screaming at the top of their lungs, wearing next to nothing, dancing like whores to every song that comes on the radio, practicing, and making me have migraines that are worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. They come in with their overly fat, overly pushy mothers. They order diet drinks, and demand that we change our menu to have non-fat low calorie items. They tend to scream over the stupidest things.

It’s really bad when they start playing claw games. It usually happens when they’re waiting on their dinners, they all get up and gravitate in a group of 20 or so to one of our claw machines. One of them will put in their money. Putting in the money illicits the first scream. The entire group of them begins bouncing in unison. The claw moves a half inch. Another scream emerges from their loud asses. The screaming continues in bursts until the claw drops. God forbid it touch a stuffed animal, for glasses may break.

Then we get the fat mothers who decide they’re going to bitch at their daughters when they try to order something that doesn’t have the words ‘diet’ or ‘bottled’ in the name for a drink. Regular coke? No No No, you have to fit into your uniform.

Example from a couple of months after I started, end of last year: Group of girls come in, 2 mothers, 6 girls. All of the girls but one order diet cokes.

“And what about you, ma’am?” I ask the last girl. She was the heaviest of the bunch, at a grand total of maybe 82 pounds. “I’d like a coke please.” She was very well mannered, despite being a squealing and annoying cheerleader, in full cheer regalia.

“Oh no you don’t young lady, you have to think about your figure! She’ll have a bottled water, and make sure that you bring her a straw, don’t need her getting germs from the bottle.” At the time, I had no idea of the lunatics that came into my job. I’ve since learned.

“Ma’am, no worries, none of us even touch the rim, and we haven’t a straw that will fit in our bottles. I will gladly bring her a glass if she would like.” I hate cheerleaders, but I think I hate their mothers even worse. They’re like pageant mothers.

“Mom, I want a coke!”

“You’re already getting fat, sweetheart, you’ll get water.  You,” she said to me, “go and get our drinks.  We’ll order when you get back.”

I got the drinks, and when I got back I got the orders.  Salads with no dressing all around, except the two mothers who ate steak.  Let the fat get fatter I say.

After their meals, the girls go back to playing games.  More squealing.  I see a couple of them playing Dance Dance Revolting…I mean Revolution.  I see them throwing their arms in the air, and suddenly I see pom pom’s popping up in my vision.  I want to hurl at the sight of them.  More screaming.  More screaming.

Two hours later, they’re still screaming at the top of their lungs, and I’m wondering if it’ll ever quit.   While I’m at one of my tables, I notice that the cheer-moms are now sitting at the bar.  One of the guys at my table says something about how much he hates cheerleaders, and how vapid and stupid they are.  Cheer-mom flies into action, and there’s even more screaming I have to deal with.

It was later reported to me by a female server that at least 6 of the cheerleaders that were in the building that night were caught in the bathroom purging after their salad binge.  The mothers knew about it from what this server overheard in the loo, and encouraged it.  Getting fat was not an option.  Bulimia at it’s best.

I just have to wonder, where do these cheerleaders get those banshee like demonic voices that pierce the soul and make you want to die?  I went home that night in more pain than I’d ever been in, and that’s including my hellish toothaches and the pain of my appendix almost bursting in 01 before it was taken out.

I hate them all

Ribeye

Hell….there’s no other words to describe Black Friday but Hell….

Hateful women all over, children rolling around on those fucking Heely’s, men drinking themselves to insensibility over the women (or their men) spending all their hard earned money on something other than them.  People complaining about the automatic gratuity on their parties.   Servers running around freaking out, servers refusing to do sidework, servers pissing me the fuck off.  Not finding out about the bartending job till probably Monday.

Women who stand over people watching them eat make me really upset, and those who are rude to me when I ask them to wait elsewhere so that my guests have some sense of privacy can go to Hell.  I don’t know what makes women think they are entitled to stand over guests that are enjoying their dinner and have the nerve to ask them how much longer they’re going to be eating.

I also got no end of stupid questions tonight, such as:  Standing in front of the restroom, “Where’s your restroom?”  to which I replied, “It’s right out that door, and up about 6 stores on the right,” while pointing out the door to the mall.

Putting in an order on the computer, “Do you work here?”  to which I answered, “No, I’m just working on their computer system.”

While carrying a draft beer to a table, I was interrupted by a tap on the arm and the dreaded, “Hey You.” I glared, and asked, “What?”  “Do you sell beer here?”   I responded, “Only to kids.”

While taking an order from a guest, another guest is looking at the burgers section of the menu.  “Do your burgers come with fries?” she interrupted her friend.  “No, they come with potato sticks.”

Let’s just say I was in rare form with the stupid questions tonight.  I made a decent haul with my being a smart-assed bastard too.  People seemed to love my “charm” and tipped well.  I did have some bad tippers as well.

My worst table of the night was a group of 9.  I simply forgot to put the gratuity on their table being that I was busy as Hell at the time.

Kenyattara, the 22 year old mother of 4, came in with her 4 kids, her boyfriend and a few of their friends.  They took up 2 of my booths.  Kids in one, them in another.  Round of waters for the kids, and round of Grey Goose and cranberry/grey goose and pineapple for the “adults”.

After I delivered the drinks, I was about to start my normal spiel when I was interrupted by Kenyattara with, “Last time we was heah, yaw was outta wangs an yaw managah say we get sum fray nex time.”  I see this one’s starting out the right way.

“Do you remember which manager told you this, ma’am?”  Knowing full well that no manager would tell any guest to come back next time for free anything because we ran out.  That’s just bad business.

“Not his name, buh he was a showt black guy.”  Isn’t it nice that we haven’t got any black management staff anymore?

“I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t have any short black managers, the only black manager we had was quite tall, and he’s no longer with our store.”

“Dat musta been him den.  We still want ouah fray wangs doh.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t honor a promise that was supposedly made by a manager that’s no longer employed at this location.  I can bring you wings, but they will not be free.”

“Why da fuck not?  We was promised dat we would get em fray.”

“Because there’s no way to know that for sure.  Once again, I’m very sorry.  I can get you another manager over here, but they’re all going to tell you the same thing.”

“Dis cuz we black ain it?  Ya’ll ain got no black managahs no mo, so ya’ll ain gonna do what da old black managah says.”

“Ma’am, please don’t assume your race has anything to do with our not honoring a promise that we know nothing about.  Now, can I still bring you an order of wings?”

I ended up bringing them 5 orders of wings, and the rest of them chicken strips tossed in buffalo sauce.  Tons of ranch.  More drinks.  I had been ignored during most of their experience only to hear them talking shit about me when they didn’t think I’d hear, things like “Dis place hate black people”  “Dat fuckin white boy gon fuck wit us.” and other racial things, I dropped off their check.   I didn’t really care, I sat with another black table most of the time the party was there, and they were having a great time with me.   When I dropped off their checks, a grand total of 179 bucks, they asked to see a manager.  I sent one over, and went back to my other table.

The party told the manager that I was rude the entire time they were there, that I refused to get what they wanted, and that they wanted all of their meal and alcohol for free.  The manager ended up comping a couple of orders of wings, one off each check and explained that because they ate everything, and they drank all their alcohol with no complaint until the end, therefore he wasn’t comping anything more from their bills.  They paid, left no tip, and I was compensated by both management, and my other table who left a big tip.

My other table before they left decided to talk to a manager too.  I didn’t find out about it until they were gone.  They told the manager that I did an awesome job, and that they were uncomfortable sitting near the party.  The only reason they stayed sitting where they did is because we didn’t have another open table for them, and because I stayed with them as long as I did.  They also told the manager that I was an awesome server, that I was extremely professional while dealing with a table that clearly was racist against me, and that they would be back to see me tomorrow night.  I really hope they do come to see me tonight, because I really enjoyed talking to them.  One of them is in law school, she’s about 24 years old.  Her boyfriend is a restaurant manager, about 26 or 27 I’m guessing and told my manager that he would love to have me working for him downtown.

If only I didn’t love where I worked so much, I’d probably be downtown working for him.  I still might, after my dental work.

Little white kids that roll around on heely’s are the most evil things I’ve ever encountered.  If their snotty assed fucking parents would stop drinking their martini’s for a few minutes and discipline their kids, then I might not have so much of a problem with them.

I told one of the kids to stop skating, to which I was rewarded with a hearty, “Fuck you, you’re not my daddy.”  This girl was 10 years old.  I told her to take me to her daddy, and when we got to him I said, “Sir, your child cannot be skating in here.  She also cannot wander around the building without your personal supervision.  If you do not supervise her, I will have you escorted from the building.  It’s not a skating rink, it’s a restaurant.”

“You can’t talk to me like that, I’m a customer.”

“And I’m just a couple of steps below a manager, sir.  It’s stated clearly on the rules that you’re given when you enter the building along with the rules hanging on the door that children must be supervised by their parents or guardian at ALL TIMES or they will be asked to leave.  Do not think that because you’re here with friends that we will do no less to you.”   He asked to see a manager, who told him the exact same thing.

Another snot nosed entitlement junkie white brat running around knocks a tray out of one of the servers hands and falls down.  He starts yelling at the server like it’s the servers fault.  The server gets a manager involved, and they find the parents.  The parents start yelling at the server about how he could have really hurt their little boy.  The server said to them, “Your child was running around the building, and you’re supposed to be watching him.  It’s not my fault that you’re too drunk to keep an eye on him.”  The server was written up, but we were all proud to work with him tonight.

Black Friday brings out the worst in some people, and brings out the best in others.  I personally know that managers of restaurants located in malls, or near malls, are always very stressed out, and they lose their temper just as much as their staff does.  That’s why we get away with as much as we do on Black Friday.

Next weekly feature will be in a couple of days, and I’ll probably be e-mailing a few of you asking your opinions on the matter.  This one is going to be “The Mistreatment of Support Staff in Restaurants.”  These support staff members include Dishwashers, Bussers, Runners, and Expediters.  They are treated like utter manure in most restaurants, usually get paid minimum wage to 7 bucks an hour, work harder than people who make 14 bucks an hour and get little to no respect whatsoever.  I plan to expose this mistreatment, and with your help I just might change a few minds.

Sung to the tune of the old hovaround infomercial.  Everyone’s seen a hovaround, those little wheelchair scooters.  No offense to the handicapped community, but those damn things are a menace.  Today I actually saw a kid, on her 13th birthday, driving one of those around the restaurant.  Not just driving, but driving faster than some of the faster go-carts I’ve seen.  So I chase little miss 13 year old around the building for a few minutes, and tell her that she has to slow it down.  She responds by trying to run me over.

Do not try to run me over for doing my damn job!  In the 2 hours she was there for her birthday party, (which I got a decent tip from, and some cake), this little brat knocked down two other guests, one of them an old woman, wheeling around with her sister running behind.  She knocked a server down who was carrying a tray, she knocked down a bartender who had bottles of liquor, and she pissed off half the people in the building cutting in front of them.

BEING DISABLED DOES NOT MAKE YOU SPECIAL!  IT DOES NOT MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE TO FOLLOW THE RULES!!  This childs mother had the nerve to tell me her kid could do whatever she wanted.  She was special, and it was her birthday.  I told her she was welcome to do whatever she wanted at home, but she was out in public and she had to follow the rules just like everyone else.

Other times when the disabled think they’re special:  If I hand a blind person a braille menu, that doesn’t mean I’m going to read the entire menu to you.  You learned braille for a reason.

If you run over my toe on purpose with your chair, I’m probably going to avoid you the rest of the time you’re there.  Yelling at me isn’t going to change that.

If you have a special needs child, please feel free to NOT change the diaper at the table, take your child to the bathroom or your car.  It’s nasty, and nobody wants to see it, much less smell it.

I was always taught growing up to treat disabled people just like anyone else, and that’s what I do.  Do not think you’re going to get any special treatment from me, because you’re a person just like anyone else.  Don’t expect special treatment either, because it’s going to make me specially IGNORE you!

Ribeye