I have had another exhausting day today…another double shift.  I went in at 12 today, originally scheduled off at 10 pm.  When I got to work, the managers were asking if I have a phone.  An odd question seeing as how they have my phone number listed in my file.  I change numbers a bit often for my liking, but I always make sure to update, can’t take the chance on missing out on money.  Apparently they were trying to call me and tell me they didn’t need me till 4.  I couldn’t afford to leave, so I convinced someone else to go home and come back later.

After staying up late Saturday night, despite my trying to sleep, I went in exhausted.  It was dead during the first couple of hours and that didn’t help my exhaustion.  I didn’t even have time to get any Red Bull before I went to work.

I went through the normal motions I go through, waking up naturally and getting annoying guests that tipped 10% or less.  We started getting busy later in the day, about 2:30.  That’s when I started making money.  Other than my feet getting blistered though, nothing bad really happened….

Until the night shift….

Every month, on the last Sunday of the month, we have a group that comes in.  I don’t know what the significance of the end of the month is, but it never fails.  The entire young Kurdish community of Nashville comes to my job.  They’ve been doing it since I started my job over a year and a half ago.  Ever since I started, there’s been a group of this community that I have to deal with.  It never fails.

This portion of their little “family” gives me some type of problem every time they come in.  In the beginning, when we still allowed smoking, we didn’t allow cloves or cigars.  It was a corporate thing that I never really understood, but it was a rule.  Some of the guys happen to smoke cloves, and got very pissed off at me when I used to put them out.  They bitched about every little thing, from having to pay an upcharge to go from a cheap side to an expensive one, to having to pay by the hour when they bowled.

It doesn’t matter if I happen to be in the bowling/billiards area or in the game room, they always end up with me.

Tonight (Sunday) happened to be that night again, and I didn’t even realize it until I heard the quacking of their voices.  I looked to see where the strange noise was coming from and my good night suddenly got bad.  I prayed they weren’t going to sit in my section.  There are about 24 of them that gravitate toward my section when they’re there and sure enough tonight was no different.  Half of them didn’t order, the other half ordered one thing at a time.  Not as a group, where it would have been easier.

They spread out across my section, taking up 5 of my 8 tables.  Only the people at 2 of the tables chose to order anything tonight, the other three were just hanging out.  Being that they were a party of more than 8 people, I had to put a gratuity on the checks.  *note* We got a memo at work recently saying that we no longer have a choice at whether we put a gratuity on a check or not.  If it’s 8 people, they get a grat no matter what.

They didn’t like the gratuity.  The first couple of checks I delivered had 5 of the 9 orders on them.  I dropped the checks and walked to the kitchen to pick up some of their food.  When I got back, Bartender B pulled me aside.  “They are pissed off that you put a gratuity on their checks, they say you have to have 8 people for a grat and there’s only 4 at the table.”  Well yeah, of course there are only 4 people at their table, they aren’t piled in to the point of bursting anymore.  At any rate, another part of the memo was that we have no choice but to remove a grat if the guest asks.

I hunt down Manager B the Wise and have him exempt the grat.  I then try to explain to them that I had no choice in the grat, that despite them sitting at different tables, they were still one big party.  They didn’t care.

They left me exact change.  I got no compensation on the 110 dollar check and I did everything right.

I hate Kurds.  Not all of them, just some of them.  The ones I have on a monthly basis have a harsh smell and a superiority complex.  I don’t like being around them, but nobody else will pick them up.  They see how I get treated, and I get stuck.

I think next month I’m going to exercise my legal right to refuse service to them.  I’m not even going to care if they call me a racist because of it.  I’m tired of being shit on by these fuckers.  Let them go to a restaurant that caters to their nationality.  I’m tired of them changing every single thing they order to something completely different than what’s in the menu.  I’m tired of the attitudes.

Right now, I’m just plain tired!!!!!!  I’m going to take care of that problem in a few minutes though.  The toilet calls, and the RagingPartner needs cuddlings, and I just plain need sleep.

I’ll post something tomorrow so until then…make sure to check out the Horror Stories page, and submit your own from there.  I can only update as long as you all send them to me.  I put up a new one earlier, bringing the grand total to 4.

Enjoy,

Ribeye

Tags: asshole, bad tips, bitchery, cigar, clan, clove, community, family, foreign, fuckers, gratuity, group, Hell, Kurd, Kurdish, language, odor, party, quacking, smell, smoker, smoking, stink, tip, tipping

Sunday nights at my job are generally pretty lucrative, however evil the people are. This past Sunday night, they were more evil than normal and let me tell you, I was in rare form.

I was in bowling, which I prefer on Sundays because I make good money in there, and I’m generally alone. I was alone this Sunday, and didn’t expect it to get busy. It did.

First group is a party of 11, but they couldn’t get two lanes side by side. They get one, another group has the next one, and the rest of the third group has the last one. There’s a group of people in between the party. The party is made up of ghetto as hell women, a Ghetriarch, and a couple of corn-rowed guys.

When I say ghetto here, I don’t mean ghetto in the normal sense I have to deal with, I mean ghetto as in even the two teenage girls (13 and 14 years old) had full mouths of fake gold, all the women had weave built a foot high on their heads, I could barely understand half of them, and they all, including the older woman who I took to be the Ghetriarch, reeked of pot.

I went to the lanes to try to get drinks, and was nearly overrun by them. I don’t know what makes people think I can write down 11 drink orders when they’re spoken simultaneously, and have to check ID for 8 of them. All the women had frozen strawberry margaritas. All the men had Hennessey and cranberry, a total waste of a cognac.

While I’m taking their drink orders, three more lanes go down. One of them sends their kid after me, which is something I hate. Don’t send your crotch spawn to get me, I see you there, and I’ll be over there when I can.

About 15 minutes go by before I get back with drinks for all 4 parties (the 11 top, a 4 top, and two 2 tops). I stop at each lane and deliver drinks on the way, letting them know I’ll be back to get orders after I finish dropping all the drinks off. I stop at the 11 top first.

“We ready ta ordah!” one of the women, named Quintiara according to her ID, screams at me as I walk up with a double sized tray full of drinks.
“Let me get all these dropped off and I’ll get your orders, ma’am.”
“But we is ready ta ordah now! We hongry!” she yells.
“I understand ma’am, but I have to get these dropped off before I start taking orders.”
“Dat bullshit. We was heah furst!”

I get a few paces away and I hear yelling again. “Hey you, waitah!” it was Quintiara’s sister, Shiquitta. “Get ovah heah, dis drank don’t look like da pickcha!”
“I’ll be there in just a moment ma’am, let me drop the rest of these off so I can take care of it for you.”

By the time I got back, three minutes later, the drink she was bitching about was gone and she was demanding it be taken off the check. I refused because she drank it. I told them I was ready to take their orders, and again was bum rushed by them, yelling their orders in my face like they did with their drinks. I finally got them to shut up and give them to me one at a time. I made sure to charge for each and every extra that I possibly could, including extra cherries on their drinks. I was very happy it was all on one check, so they had no reason to bitch about a gratuity.

Flash forward to 25 minutes later when their food comes out. I read back each order to all 11 of them, so I knew exactly what they ordered and that it was all correct. Unfortunately they didn’t see it my way.

“Where my baby chickin strip is?” Quintiara yells at me. “Why day ain’ heah?”
“Ma’am, you didn’t order any chicken strips for anyone.”
“Yes I did, is you callin me a liah?”
“No, ma’am, I’m just stating a fact. I went over each order with you all before I rang them in.” I ended up having to ring in two orders of wings, a kids chicken strips, and a cheeseburger. This was extra food.

The extra food comes out, and I start to walk off after giving it to them. I don’t get more than 4 steps away before Shiquitta grabs my arm and yells, “Hey you, get yo’ fuckin ass back ovah heah.” She yells this right in my ear. I turn around so fast it makes me a little dizzy, and it took all I had to not knock this bitch straight to the ground.

“Ma’am, I’m only going to say this once. If you yell at me or grab me one more time tonight, you’ll be wearing your next drink. Do NOT do it again.” Quintiara, when paying for the meal, told me she was thrilled that I went off on her sister as Shiquitta was embarrassing the hell out of her.

Total bill, including 18% gratuity: $298.45. Quintiara gives me 312 bucks and tells me “Yo’ tip is in der wit da bill, you was great.” She hadn’t noticed the gratuity of 38 bucks included on her bill. (I know it seems like the grat should have been more, but we do not add gratuity to gaming credits, that’s why it’s lower than it seems like it should have been.) She was only intending to leave me 13.55. Fucking whore.

Then we have the part of the night that just pissed me off the most. It’s about 8 pm, and I’m busy as fuck. I had to get a server from the game room to come help me out because running 8 lanes and 4 pool tables is just stressful and I was in the weeds big time.

In the pool room, there was a group waiting to be served. Two guys and two girls. One of the guys, with his nappy braids (see above picture) looks slightly familiar, but I’m not sure from where. At any rate, I can’t get to them. I tell them I’d try to be with them in a couple of minutes, but it may be the girl I had helping me out.

About 10 minutes goes by, and she still hasn’t gone over to see them. I’m slightly caught up by then, so I go over there.

“Sorry about the wait guys, we’re slammed and I was a bit behind. How are you tonight?”

“Axe da ladies what day wanna drank.” Says the taller ghetto fabulous guy, the familiar looking one. I ask, and they want a coke and a water respectively. All four of them reek of pot, and I realize that I’ve got a fun time on my hands. Pissed off and stoned ghetto group that’s had to wait for service from a white guy. They’d already been glaring at me as I passed them with trays of drinks, so I knew they didn’t like me.

“How bout for you guys?” I ask, trying to subtly rush them.
“What ya’ll gots wit some Belvedere dat’s frozen?”
“We don’t have any frozen vodka drinks, sir, I’m sorry.”
“Brang me a cwayvo mahgarita den.”
“Can I see your ID please?” I ask.
“I’m Young Buck.” Now I realize where I recognized him from. He’d been in there before, and I’ve seen him on tv a couple of times.
“That may be so, but I still need to see your ID.”
“She gots it up front fa da poo.”

“How about for you sir?” I ask his stoned friend. “Brang me a goose and cranburry.”
“Just need to see your ID sir.” Apparently, Young Buck doesn’t need friends that can drive, because this guy doesn’t have a license.

Just to let you all know, this guy truly was Young Buck. I checked the ID, and got their drinks. I looked him up on my laptop after the rush to make sure (I took it to work with me Sunday).

They were demanding, hateful, and constantly called me “boy”. I was too busy to make a scene. Their total bill, 81 and some change. Buck gives me 85 and tells me to keep it.

Young Buck, I’m calling you out. You are a fucking sub-rate rapper, you’re worthless, nothing but drug using ghetto trash. You think you’re hot shit, you think you’re famous, but nobody really likes you, and nobody really likes your music. I’d rather listen to a real rapper, like Ludacris or 50-cent than you, and I know they’re better tippers. You are not worth the money it cost to produce your failures of albums, and if you don’t end up in prison for your drug dealing, I’ll be surprised. You come back into my job reeking of pot again, and I’m going to make sure you don’t get a single drink. You talk to me the way you did Sunday night, and leave me another shitty tip, and you’ll never get served at my job again.

Take those whores you were with, and that ghetto trash friend of yours and go straight to Hell you worthless piece of dog-meat. If you left that 4 dollar tip to make a point, you made the wrong one. Not everyone is there to bend to your will, it’s not like you’re a real celebrity. You don’t have any pull anywhere because nobody wants to be around you. You’re not intelligent, you’re not smart, and you’re damn sure not a nice person.

If you think you’re hot shit, Buck, then you better start acting like it. Tip like it. Treat people better, because they remember you. You want to know why I didn’t care when you said you were Young Buck? It’s because you mean that little to me. Your name isn’t one that people who enjoy rap toss around regularly, when you’re mentioned it’s to say how much you suck.

Fuck off, Young Buck, I’m ashamed to share my birthday with you (March 15th, everyone, mark your calendars.)

Now that I’m done with my roast, everyone, please feel free to comment.

Buck, if you can’t handle this kind of criticism, then maybe you shouldn’t be part of the public eye. Fuck you.

To other celebrities, if you go out to eat, and you treat your server like shit, that server is going to remember you and is going to call you out in public. Let this be a lesson to you all. We don’t mind waiting on celebrities, some of you, like Steve McNair, who I’ve also waited on many times, are fucking awesome people and we wouldn’t care if you tipped or not. But when you come out and treat us like shit, we remember. For those of you who are wondering, McNair is a fucking awesome tipper, and his family are some of the nicest people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. I only wish that he hadn’t gone to another team, because he came in more often when he was still on the Titans….

All of the Tennessee Titans except for Pacman are awesome people too, and awesome tippers. Pacman however, you are worthless. You tip 1-2 bucks on a huge meal, and you beat women. You wonder why nobody likes you.

Even with all the bullshit Sunday night, I still made damn good money, close to 23% of my sales. I was quite proud, and being that RagingPartner and I are in the process of storing our things and finding an apt., and trying to fix the Raging T-bird, every little bit helps.

Ribeye

Tags: asshole, bad tips, bastard, bitch, braids, cornrow, david darnell brown, drunk, failure, fuck, fucker, ghetto, pacman jones, pot, rap, rapper, slut, steve mcnair, stoned, stoner, stupid, trash, vodka, weed, whore, young buc, young buck