I’m just plain done working them. Someone always ends up calling out “sick” and fucking the rest of us who diligently show up for our jobs despite our lack of sleep, the kitchen inevitably crashes due to everything coming in at once, and the managers are generally useless. Tonight was no different. Talk about a Happy Labor Day Weekend…I dread tomorrow (the actual Labor Day).

I’ll go ahead and take some responsibility for tonight: I went into work on next to no sleep under the impression that we wouldn’t be at all busy based on our lousy Labor Day Weekend last year. I can’t take all the responsibility for it, however, as there were many aspects to the Hell this night.

First, when I get to work (on time for once), I learn that one of my other 4 cocktails has called in “sick”, and we will only be 4 in the game room. I’m okay with that at first, except for the person scheduled to close didn’t want to close and the person who wanted to close took forever to find the closer to switch sections. Things were a bit confusing the first hour due to bad communication, which could also be due to my apathetic attitude when they asked me what to do. I just didn’t want to be in the building and didn’t care who knew it.

The first few tables I had were pretty awesome; good money and great conversation, people as insane as I was in my fatigue induced dementia, I had a blast. The first three tables of the night were the only ones I had fun with for a while. The kitchen was crashed when I went in, and no matter how I tried to tell these “guests” that their food was going to take up to 30 minutes or beyond, they were still hateful when it came out late. I was perfectly honest with everyone as they were sitting down, so I’m not sure I really deserved their sour attitudes (though they sure as hell deserved the sour attitude I returned).

At around 7:30 or so, I made a really fucked up judgement call, and sent the girl in the section beside mine (the other 4 of the 8 tables on our side) on her break. At the time, it seemed like a good idea; she’d been working since noon without a break and wanted to get something to eat. I felt a little bad because I’d already taken one but I was under the impression that she’d had hers already. At any rate, she got her food ordered and came back to the game room. I was expecting to be introduced to her tables, then be able to close them out one at a time, thereby getting them bussed and re-seated at my own pace. Ms. A’s guests, it seemed, had another plan in mind.

The last thing Ms. A said to me as she went out the door on her break was “I’ve only got those guys, everyone else is paid out, here’s my card.” As her tables appeared to be empty, I thought it was still a good idea, because I could finish up with my two new ones and start bussing hers so that people could sit down. I get the drinks for my newbies and am about to head to her tables to start cleaning, when I see the busser in her section. The busser is cleaning all 4 of them, and there are guests waiting to sit down at each of them. I just rolled my eyes and got ready for the worst.

Part of my preparation included letting the manager of my area know that I was most likely going to need help because Ms. A was on break. He started to get pissed at her about it until I let him know it was my own stupid decision to let her go. Let him yell at me, not someone who just wanted to get a bite to eat. I made a quick run through with a towel and menus, letting each table know that I’d be with them as soon as I could as I was now running the entire side. Had these been my own tables, I probably wouldn’t have been worried but when I’m giving someone else a break I have a certain style, a style that was now blown out of the water. I return to the manager and ask him if he’ll greet a couple of the tables for me and get their drink orders. I’ve now got another new one of my own, a party of 6 (two adults and four of their groin spawn) that I haven’t even been able to say hi to yet. I know when I need help, I know when I’m in the weeds, and I’m not afraid to admit it. You’re only as good as the team that helps you out when you’re fucked.

The manager decided against greeting said tables. I don’t think he had a call on his radio to take care of, as he just wandered for a bit, leaving me to sink or doggie paddle as needed. Thankfully, all of the guests except for one of my tables were very patient and could clearly see that I was slammed. They can see me going to all my tables, and to one of the games that I had tabs running at, and back to them, so it didn’t end up being too bad until I had to fix a mistaken order (meal was supposed to be steak and shrimp and I’d only heard sirloin). It was no issue for me to get the shrimp for the gentleman, and we gave it to him free for his inconvenience, yet he still stiffed me. Fucker.

During this whole time, I’m randomly forgetting what I’m doing, survival owed solely to the fact that I write everything down when I’m that busy. The fatigue didn’t help either, yet somehow I made it until Ms A returned. I wasn’t all that thrilled with the manager in question (this manager shall remain undisclosed owing to my co-workers that read this and not wanting drama to follow). It seems that with every new set of management we get, they get less and less “team oriented” when it comes to doing the job of a server, and that’s going to be a whole post in itself. I just don’t get it, there’s a couple of managers at my job that don’t mind greeting tables and getting orders, or even serving tables when we’re slammed. It’s part of their jobs! This one, however, has been heard to say such things as “I don’t care” in regards to guest issues, and proved to me that he just doesn’t care when his staff is in the weeds and needs his help. He did go to the kitchen to relay instructions for me a couple of times but I think it’s because he sensed that I was about to lose my temper with him.

Disclaimer: The remainder of this post is VERY racially charged. I don’t use the “N” word, but I make clear where I stand on the race issue in ways some of you may not agree with. It doesn’t matter if you agree or not, though, as I’m only human and I can only take so much. Click the little button following this warning if you want to read the rest.

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Tags: african, african-american, bitch, bitches, black, charged, cocaine, crack, cumshot, curdled, dark, darkness, drug abuse, fat, food, fuck, fucker, gang, gang bang, ghetto, gratuity, gun, Hell, judgement, Labor Day, money, negro, racism, raging, redneck, regulars, respect, ribeye, serving, shit, stupid, tip, tit, trash, weekend, whore, whores, worthless

So I have to apologize, I thought this one was posted already but apparently I was wrong =)  Enjoy!

We have a guest that comes into my job every few days that everyone cringes at seeing.  This guest’s name is Tony.  Tony knows who he is, so I really hope he’s reading this right now.

Tony is in a wheelchair.  Tony thinks that his chair means we owe him something.  Perhaps he’s a veteran that’s just disabled, we don’t care.  He’s the most hateful, spiteful old man most of us have ever met, and we want him stabbed.

This man doesn’t have a problem yelling at any of the servers to “Get the fuck out of my way”, he will park right in front of the ice in the game room, right where we have to get our drinks from the bar and our sodas from the gun, and god forbid you tell him “no” to anything.

Tony likes to play games.  He likes to play the little coin slider games that give tickets for each coin that falls.  Kind of like the ones in KY and other places where you get to keep the quarters that fall.  He plays those for hours on end, only taking breaks to go to the bar to yell at the bartenders for beer.  I refuse to serve him, as do many of the other cocktail servers, and if that bastard has the nerve to come to me when I’m bartending I’ll throw a beer at him.  A few weeks ago, while playing one of the games, he got mad because it didn’t make enough coins fall to suit him, so he shattered the window of the game.   We couldn’t kick him out because we didn’t personally see him and our witness vanished on us.

Soon after that, he ran over the toes of a couple of our servers, not apologizing for doing it but bitching because it made him spill his beer.  When he has a problem, he comes to us yelling how he’s going to call our general manager on his personal cell phone and we’re going to lose our jobs.

A few more toes run over, a gym whistle blown at one of our bartenders to get another beer, and we come to last week.

It was a Friday night, and it wasn’t necessarily busy, but it wasn’t exactly slow either.  I was in the bowling alley, right by the front door.  I’m walking toward the front bar to get a drink for my lane, and as I pass the door, something made me look to my right.  I see a big, ugly van, parked diagonally across the front porch, blocking the door, maybe 2 inches from hitting the building.  It’s Tony’s van.  Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to park in the handicapped parking spots, so he chose to park nice and close to the building.

The managers hunted to find him, and when they did, they told him, “Either move your van or we’re having it towed.”

He responded, “Tow my van and see what happens next,” refusing to move his van and going back to drinking.  Mall security takes a hand also, meeting our management staff outside the front doors.  Tony refuses for a while to move his van until mall security tells him that the tow truck is on the way.  He moves his van then, almost hitting a few kids and their families as he does.  He then comes back in the building.  Why he hasn’t been banned, I’ll never know.

Later that night, I’m bored and wandering around in the game room, when I find out that Tony ran over another foot of one of our servers, then proceeded to shove her because she was in the way.  He was rolling though the employee area trying to get a beer.  A beer that he got from the bar, and proceeded to throw on the ground and break as he was wheeling his way out of the building.

I really hope he’s not a veteran because I’d hate to disrespect one of a majority that I normally care about.  Most of us just want to steal his hovaround and see him stand (he can stand just not walk) until he falls, then leave him on the ground and watch him whine.  That’s how big of a dick he is.  And let him run over my toes, I’ll knock him from one end of the building to the other.

Ribeye

No tag for this post yet.

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

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Yes, you saw it here first.

This is the tale of two men, a little girl, a manager, and a helpless server caught in the middle.

Your very own Ribeye was standing at the Micros, putting in an order when suddenly, this semi-tall weird looking man in his late 40’s comes running up to the bar, yelling at the top of his lungs, “HEY, HEY!  I NEED YOUR HELP, I’VE BEEN ASSAULTED!”  I looked up, seeing that the old guy wasn’t swelling up or anything like that, and went back to my order.  He kept yelling.

I finished ringing in my tables food, and started to walk off when the old guy grabbed my arm.  Now, I want you all to imagine Mr. Garrison from South Park, as a human.  That was this guy.   He grabs my arm and pulls me around, and with some really bad breath, yells into my face, “CAN YOU HELP ME?  I’VE BEEN ASSAULTED!  I NEED THE COPS!”

I didn’t really know what to say except for, “Will a manager do?”  I call a manager on the radio, and turn back to the guy.  “What happened?” I asked.

“I was playing a game and my niece asked me what ‘Fuck You’ meant.  She’s 6 years old!  She was pointing to that guy over there’s shirt!  I said something to him and he told me ‘Tell her it means to fuck off, and if either of you bother me again I’m gonna nail you!’  I was assaulted!”

The manager came by and talked to the guy.  Apparently, old guy wanted us to get the young guy with the offensive shirt out of the building.  Manager J with the Backbone tells Mr. Garrison that there’s nothing we can do, it’s a free speech issue.  Garrison doesn’t like this, and he and another friend of his walk off.

Maybe 15 minutes later, I’m out on the game room floor taking care of another guest, and I finally see the shirt in question.

I really want one of these shirts by the way.  I also see Mr. Garrison and his friend getting up in the owner of the shirt’s face.  I don’t pay much attention to it until I try to card the guest I’m talking to, and suddenly, I’m bombarded.  “MAKE HIM TAKE THAT GODDAMNED SHIRT OFF RIGHT NOW, RIBEYE, IT’S OFFENDING ME!  THIS IS A FAMILY ESTABLISHMENT, I BRING MY NIECE HERE ALL THE TIME.  WHY AREN’T YOU TAKING THAT SHIRT OFF OF HIM?!  I TOLD YOU TO TAKE IT OFF OF HIM!  DO IT RIGHT NOW!”  As he’s yelling at me, he’s literally less than an inch from my face.  This sets me off.

“Sir, if you don’t get the fuck out of my face and stop yelling at me, I’M going to be the one to lay you out in the floor!  You need to take a few steps back, RIGHT NOW!”

“HIS SHIRT IS OFFENDING ME, IT’S JUST PLAIN RUDE!  I DEMAND THAT YOU TAKE IT AWAY FROM HIM AND MAKE HIM LEAVE!”  About that time, Manager J walks up again, and asks if there’s a problem.

“YOU NEED TO MAKE RIBEYE TAKE THAT SHIRT AWAY FROM HIM!”  How the fuck did I get dragged into it other than asking what happened in the beginning?  I still haven’t figured it out.

“I can’t make him remove his shirt, it’s a First Amendment Right.”

“NO IT’S NOT!  THIS IS A FAMILY RESTAURANT!”

“Wrong, this is an 18 and up restaurant and bar, and if you’re that worried, you shouldn’t be bringing your niece here in the first place.”  He escorted Mr. Garrison and his friend out of the building for making a scene.  Later, he comes up to me and Mr. S, one of my cocktail comrades, and shakes our hands.  “It’s my last night, it’s been fun working with you.”  Apparently, Mr. Garrison said that by the time he was done, Manager J would no longer be working for our company.

We went to Manager J the Impartial after that and said, “Since this is Manager J the Backboned’s last night, can we have some key hourly shifts and move up the ladder a bit?”

Does that shirt really offend people to the point of losing their tempers, or was this person just a fucking nutcase?  I wanted to throttle this old man.  What makes the whole thing worse is that according to all the guests who were in the area, there was no niece with the old man.  Manager J said there was no niece when he escorted Garrison out.  The old man wanted to start some shit, and chose a guy with a cool shirt who was minding his own business playing games to start his shit with.

I hate people sometimes.

Ribeye

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No really, nothing anyone can do is going to get me in a bad mood.  At least…that’s what the plan is. 

This weekend has been pure and utter Hell, dealing with the trash that’s seemed to come straight from the crack house, so I figure today has GOT to be different.  It can’t be all bad, 100% of the time, so tonight, no matter what people do to me, I’m going to stay in a good mood.  At least on the surface.

This weekend has really made me think though…I bluster on and on about how I’m not a racist, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m just fooling myself.  All weekend I wanted to slaughter my guests, and 90% of them were ghetto black folks. Don’t get me wrong, there were some white and Hispanic guests there too, but it was mostly Black-Americans that were treating everyone like shit, even the black servers.  Nobody made money this weekend, and we all wondered why.  We all treated these guests the same as anyone else, I even had fun with a bunch of them.  It didn’t matter, they still didn’t want to tip.

 Enough of this, I’m already putting myself in a bad mood.  It’s going to be different tonight.  All the Memphis and TSU people have gone home, and we’re going to have our normal ghetto trash, the ghetto trash that we’re used to.  We’ll have our normal rednecks and hicks, the ones who come in for a race and leave 2 days later after drinking a few cases of Bud. 

And we’ll make the normal decent money we make on a Sunday. 

I’ve been told that next month, TSU is going to have another event at our establishment like they did last year for the Homecoming fiasco.  If this is the case, you can count me out.  I’m already planning on refusing to work their Homecoming event this fall, when they buy the building out again.  I had enough of that shit the first time around, and if I ever get spit on again, I’m going to end up in jail.

I’m probably going to have another “Stupid Names” post up tonight, after this weekend I have plenty to spare. 

Please come back soon, and enjoy what I have to offer.  RagingPartner will soon have a new blog up, something to do with Hotels, and we’ll have that to share with you. 

Ribeye

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