Some of the people who have found my site just since the new year started are just sick fuckers.  Nasty.

  Maybe I should just stop posting things that involve sexual words.   Then I won’t have the “Chesters” and other freaks finding my site by searching for those things.

New posts coming soon, I promise.  Just had to take a day or two off.  Like my work, the quality of my posts has not been the best lately.

Ribeye

Over the years, working in various restaurants, and yes, even eating in various restaurants, I’ve seen some not so savory things.  I’ve seen guests having….relations..with each other, I’ve seen guests having relations with employees, I’ve seen employees having relations with employees, I’ve seen managers having relations with employees, and managers having relations with other managers.  I’ve been in a few of those positions, but not in a few years, since RagingPartner and I got together (June 27th 2005 is when we made it official for those of you wanting to send anniversary things to us).

At Dennyland, the first round, on Murfreesboro Road in Nashville, way back when it was still open and I was still in high school at 16, I saw hookers.  I saw hookers doing unsavory things beneath the booths, such as handjobs, such as being pleasured by their employers fingers.

At Shoneyland, round one, I saw many cooks hooking up with the young servers after getting them quite drunk and stoned.  This was the Shoneyland that is now closed from Harding Place.  These are where I learned my trade…I witnessed a manager and a bus boy in the office, and it was quite entertaining.  I was 16 at the time.  This was also the first time I took a guy into the walk-in cooler of a restaurant, and make sweet sweet love against the produce.

At Dennyland, round two, on Briley Parkway in Nashville, before it shut down, when I was 17, I walked in on a couple of guests having some jackrabbit sex in the mens room stall.  It was a little weird, as I wanted to use the stall for an illegal purpose of my own (pre-rehab).  I also caught a cook masturbating by the dumpster, a woman masturbating in a booth, and two servers consumating a 10 minute relationship in the back dining room.

At Shoneyland, round….I forget, it was 5 or 6, watching a voyeur watch another couple screwing in a minivan was quite nice, I was 18 at the time, and it was one of my servers and the day shift dining room manager…I was the night dining room manager….it was the now defunct Shoneyland in Hermitage, TN.

At T.G.I. Fridays, at Shopryland (Opry Mills) in Nashville, during one of my coke binges, I had a quick fling with a Burger king employee who happened to be my dealer at the time.  I was 23, he was 19, and his wife was not happy when she found out about it.  I didn’t know she saw anything, but apparently she’d been looking for him.  That Fridays also was notorious for handjobs and blowjobs in the bathrooms.  I saw a few, heard a few, and took a picture during one of them.  The picture was subsequently deleted from my phone with a threat of beating my ass.  The guy was laughing his ass off.  The girl was the one threatening me.

At Waffle House on Murfreesboro Road, RagingPartner and I saw a prostitute get fingered to three orgasms while eating her breakfast.  It was something that made the appetite go away.

There’s a ton more, but that’s for another post.  I’d like to ask the question:  What is it about restaurants that makes people horny?  Is it the food, the chance of getting caught?  What is it?

Thought this might be a funny, however sickening change from the norm.

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

I’m sick and tired of it!  Every few weekends a horde of people come in who are afraid of using our silverware, I guess out of fear of leftover spit on the fork.  All night long last night I was either run for the plastic to-go silverware or cups of hot water to soak and polish their own.  I know I’ve talked about this before, but it just got to me again tonight.

It was happening with such frequency tonight that these people weren’t even waiting until they put their orders in with me to order me to “brang us some hawt waddah” or “Where yall plassik fowks is?  Why yall ain’ gottem on da counta like otha places?”   If you are one of these obsessive compulsive people who are afraid to eat with restaurant silverware that you yourself have to polish it, then you have a problem and I think you should listen up.

Our silverware is soaked before we wash it, in high powered soap, designed for the purpose of pre-soaking silverware in restaurants.  After it soaks for however long it takes to fill up the tub it’s soaking in, the silverware is then dumped into a large, dishwasher friendly rack, and is run through a very high temperature and high powered soap filled economy sized dishwashing machine!  We run the silverware through the machine twice, to ensure optimal cleanliness.  It’s then dumped into a lexan tub (large plastic tub for those of you who don’t know what I”m talking about), where it remains until servers get to it.  The servers sort the silverware into wire racks, and run it back through the dishwasher another 2 times.  They then soak the silverware in a pan of soda water, and polish each piece before it is rolled.

Knowing all of this, are you all that fucking worried about picking up a germ from the fork that you’ll infest with your gonasyphaherpiaids?  If so, then just stop coming out to eat.  I think I’m going to start charging for plastic silverware that isn’t given with to-go orders or to-go boxes.  That shits expensive, and giving it out just because you’re afraid of the damn metal flatware is just fucking stupid.  Bring your own, assholes.

It was also a shitty night for tips.  I had a guy who after I ran his credit card, proceeded to stiff me and signed the credit card slip in the gratuity blank.  Not in the part that says signature, in the part that very clearly says gratuity.  If you have a credit card, you’ve probably used it at a restaurant, what would give you the idea that you put a name in the grat line instead of a fucking grat?  Especially on a damn 38 dollar check.  Leave something, the gods know I let you sit at my table for an hour without ordering anything but a fucking cup of coffee, you cost me money you fucking worthless bastard and I hope you die a horrible death of ebola and the black plague!

Had a black man refuse to eat anything that had “white cheese” on it, and when I told him the philly sandwich had “white american” cheese, he demanded cheddar saying, “I refuse to have anything in my mouth that’s named after a white guy.  I’m African American.”  I still haven’t figured out what he meant, except that he doesn’t like the color white, I guess because of his ancestry?   I ended up pawning that table off on someone new.

Ran over a kid today, and dropped a tray of food on his foot.  I was blamed for it, even though he was the one running around the place in circles.  Why are these overactive fucking brats not hopped up on Ritalin or something?  Why you ask?  Because their parents have to save their money for more cocaine and heroin, and alcohol!  That’s why they don’t even tip!

It was a long night…

Ribeye

This was the question from the beginning of the shift.  I walk into the bowling area, and there’s this woman sitting at the bar.  At least…I think she was a woman.  There were disagreements on this very topic all night long.  Half of the staff seemed to think she was a drag queen flirting with the bartender.  The other half say she was a woman.  I personally think she was a hermaphrodite.  That would explain the big ghetto ass and semi flat titties, but then we have the adam’s apple and the big muscular arms…

She wasn’t an ugly wo-man, he was just very built.  She had long brown hair, dark eyes, and a semi feminine voice.  By the end of my first hour on the shift, the busser/runner who pointed her out to me in the first place had brought almost all of the staff over to the bowling alley to get their opinions.  It ended up close to 50/50, with 2 of us saying it was “He-Ra”.  I think she had a scrotal sack along with her female parts.

It wasn’t so much a dead night for business as a dead night for tips.   People just weren’t leaving them tonight.  I had lots of lanes, just cheap asses.  I was stiffed by many many ghetto tables, and was in redneck hell for most of the night.

Mullets were the fashion statement of the night.  It was like Billy Ray Cyrus was there puking all over people.  I don’t understand how rednecks drink so much beer and then not leave a tip.  It’s astounding.

Not much more to say on the topic than that.  I’ll have a more interesting post either later tonight or tomorrow.  Till then,

Ribeye