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

You all know how close I am to being over it at my job, well tonight, I almost walked out the door.

First three tables of the night were nice people.  Two were families, one was a guy and his girlfriend on a date.   I had a great time with all three of them.  I got two of the tables to get dessert, the one with the kids got chocolate cake and cheesecake, both with ice cream, running up a grand total of 67.14 on their bill.  The other one got cheesecake too.

The 2nd table, the one with the singled out cheesecake, the couple on their date, had a slight issue with dessert.  The girl had an allergy to almonds.  The girl didn’t bother asking me about any nuts in her dessert, nor did she tell me about her almond allergy, else I’d have told her to just avoid all the desserts completely as they all have a potential allergy warning on them.   While she didn’t actually start swelling up, she started feeling sick to her stomach, and I was worried that I’d killed someone.

Grand Total?  48.52.  They gave me 51.52 and told me to keep the change.  3 bucks on table number 2.

Finally, we have the two sisters and their daughters who were out for a night of shopping and fun.  I flirted with the sisters, a middle aged pair of beautiful black women, and gave the daughters free games.  I got the sisters a couple of drinks after flattering them about their ages.  Their total?  47.82.  They gave me 52.00 and told me to keep the change.  4.18 total.  10 bucks in 2 hours, from 5pm till 7pm.

I made about 15 more bucks in the next hour and a half, and then the ghetto trash black women and He-Ra, their ghetto trash black Tranny decide they’re going to come in and fit their ugly asses into a 4 top booth (there were six of them).

When I walked up to the table, there were only 3 of them.  One looked to be about 50 or so, one looked to be about 22, and one looked like an amazon, my height (6′4), skinny, plenty of weave of a deep orange/red color, and a skin tight gold/brown outfit on.  Ugly as sin the amazon was, and you’d think that one was the tranny.

“Good evening ladies, is this everyone in your party or have you got more coming?”  I ask, trying to be in a good mood despite the bad tips I’ve gotten so far.

“Der gon’ be six uh us,” Amazon Andranettie answers.  Her real name I’d find out later was Chanel.

“Have you already stopped in our dining room, this table is going to be a tight fit for six people.”

“We gon’ sit heah, why?  You don’ wanna wait on us?”  Old Orthapedia asks.

“I’m just trying to make sure you are all comfortable, ma’am.  Would you like…”

“Jus’ come back when da ress of ouah grou get heah.” Chanel tells me.  I go on to the next table to prebuss it and go back to the service station to wait.  A few minutes later, the rest of their group shows up.  I go back to the table.

“Now that you’re all here, my name’s Ribeye, and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.  Are you all going to be on one check tonight?”

“We ain’ know yet, we nee a frew minute.”  The girl speaking is sitting right next to Chanel, and she’s got a slightly deeper voice than most women.  She looked to be about 22 years old.  She was a bit shorter than the amazon, and had in some blonde weave laced with red.  Ugly ugly gold glittered spike heels on, which immediately made me think Hooker, where’s the pimp at.

I give them a few minutes before I go back to the table.  When I finally get back, I don’t even have a chance to speak before they start ordering drinks.  “I’m gon’ have ______ Margarita.”  Amazon tells me.  “Can I see your ID please?”  The ID question is repeated 3 times, as people just don’t want to get it out and ready, or they don’t think I’m going to card them.  The girl sitting next to Chanel tells me she doesn’t want anything, as does the last girl at the table, a quiet girl I’m going to call Fran.

When I get back with the drinks, the girl by Chanel tells me she wants the same drink Chanel got.  “I’m going to need to see your ID please.”  I tell her.  She pulls it out, and it’s a TN ID card with the name Chanel on it.  Chanel had already given me a drivers license, and I didn’t remember the last name on it.  The picture looked more like the Amazon Chanel than the short girl.  “This is a little weird, ladies, this ID has the same name as the one you gave me,” I say, pointing at Amazon Chanel.

“Da descripton diffrent.”  she says, and being that I’m in a hurry, I don’t think much about it.

I get Chanel #2’s drink, and go back to the server station.  Mr. N comes up, and informs me that he’s served my party before, and that Chanel #2 is a cross-dresser.  I remember him telling me about this person a few weeks ago when He/She/It was in there, and I started thinking about something.  I got Manager S the Feminine over, and told her about what happened.  We talked about the ID situation for a minute, and it was decided that I was going to go and check the ID of both Chanel’s at the same time.

Flash forward to me going back to the table.  “Ladies” I begin, looking at Amazon Chanel and Chanel #2, “Something’s been bugging me since I saw your Id’s, and just to clear it up, I’m going to need to see them both again so I can look at them side by side.  Something just doesn’t add up, because they both had more or less the same picture on it, and the same first name.”

“You done seent em once already.”  Chanel #2 says, looking pissed off.  “We ain’ gettin dem out again.”

“I’m sorry to be rude, ma’am, but if you don’t let me see your ID again, I’m going to have the manager come and take all the drinks from the table.”

“Why you gotta see dem fo?”  Tatarethia asks, heretofore a silent figure.

“In all honesty, I believe that one of them has passed off an ID to the other, and that’s illegal.”

“Well day ain’ gotta brang dem out fa you, day aready got day dranks so day cain’ get in no troubah.”

“Yes, they can, if they don’t show me the ID.”

“You need ta brang out ouah checks den, and cancel ouah food.”

Grabbing Chanel #2’s and Amazon Chanel’s drinks, I reply, “Right away ma’am.”

“What da hell is you doin?” Tatarethia asks again, reaching out to grab my hand.

“I told you, if I don’t see the ID, they don’t get to drink.  If you don’t let go of my hand, you’ll not finish your drink either!”

“Brang ya’ll managah ovah heah, you gon’ pay fa dis!”  Tatarethia tells me, her fist shaking as she let my hand go.

I get Manager S the Feminine to the table, and they proceed to tell her that Chanel #2 doesn’t have her ID on her, and that I let them all drink.  She was told by the bitches that I didn’t card any of them, in an attempt to get me fired.  Too bad the manager knows that I value my job too much to let someone slide.  I missed the ID pass off, which was on me. However, I did catch it before more than a couple of sips were taken, and they didn’t get any of the drinks free.  As they were getting up, I heard one of them calling me a “Snaggletooth Cracka”, which gave me the idea to take the rest of the drinks from them.  They bitched because I didn’t bring back every penny of their change, literally 4 pennies total on 3 checks.   That made me wonder if perhaps Springs is a black woman in Nashville…..

I then noticed that Chanel #2 had an Adam’s Apple, and a quite noticeable bulge in her skirt….Mr. N was right, she WAS a he.

I’ll damn sure recognize this ugly black tranny next time it comes in, and that mother fucking fake titty wearing cocksucking flaming dress wearing coke snorting crack smoking methhead weave wearing cunting whore better watch the fuck out because my foot is going right into it’s nuts.  It was quite obvious that this tranny is NOT a post op yet, and I’ll cause some pain.  Fucking piece of shit trying to get me fired!  Had it been a manager that hasn’t seen me work forever and didn’t know how rigid I am about ID’s, I probably would have been fired on the spot, especially since it’s a corporate place.  Justice prevailed though.

They were also informed that if any one of them were caught drinking on the premises again, they would be reported to the police for using false identification to obtain alcohol, and summarily arrested.  Fuck them and they boats they sailed in on, I hope all six of them get beaten by their pimp and are buried alive.  I hate it when I’m threatened like that.

Fucking whores.

Back tomorrow,

Ribeye

Going along with the theme of things that shouldn’t happen, just like the last post on “Things you shouldn’t say to your server”, today’s post is going to be on the things you shouldn’t do if you want people to take you seriously out in public. They can be at restaurants, they can be at the mall, this one is not just a server issue, this one’s a life issue. Stupid is spreading like the plague, so don’t be the next person to catch it.

Don’t go out in public drunk or high. People can tell, no matter how hard you try to hide it, and when people can see your intoxication, they know better than to believe anything you say.

Don’t make out with someone while you’re sitting at your table, or in the theater. If your server walks up and sees you making out with your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/trick/brother/sister/who the fuck ever, they’re going to roll their eyes, most likely tell you to get a room, and know that if you make a complaint, it’s only so you can try to impress your other by being a badass.

Don’t eat everything on your plate, then complain to a manager that the food was prepared wrong, or that it didn’t taste good. The manager isn’t going to give it to you for free just because you don’t feel like paying for it. If it was really prepared wrong or tasted bad, you’d have complained early, not eaten every last crumb.

Threatening to call the corporate office when you don’t get your way is just another way of throwing a temper tantrum. Managers and employees know that you’re just out to get something free, they won’t cave. Every time you threaten to call the corporate office, those employees make sure to call them first to let them know the exact situation.

Don’t pull out the race card unless it really needs to be pulled. Not everything is because you’re Latino, or because you’re black, or because you’re a Muslim. Sometimes, things just don’t go like they’re supposed to, and that’s no reflection on you. Sometimes we cannot give you the same thing we gave another table, either because we’re out of that thing, or because it’s going to be a while before that thing is ready. Sometimes you’ll be wanting to sit down, and while there are open tables, that doesn’t mean there are servers available to take care of them. It’s not that we don’t want to seat you because believe me, we want your money. It’s because we can’t seat you. If it’s a first come first serve area, and you sit down at someone else’s table, we’re going to ask you to move. It’s not because of your race, it’s because the table is someone else’s.

Another problem with the first come first serve (aka, cocktail) areas of restaurants: Do not sit down at a dirty table and immediately send your crotch spawn out to find someone to clean the table off. First of all, you sat at a dirty table in the first place, and we see you sitting there. Second, we’ll get there when we can. Sometimes you just have to wait. If you bitch at us about cleaning your dirty table, not even 2 minutes after you chose to sit down at said dirty table, we’re not going to take you seriously because you’re probably going to find other things to bitch about during your meal. Patience is a virtue, it’s time you learned to use that virtue to it’s fullest extent.

Don’t bring your unruly crotch spawn out to a nice restaurant if they don’t know how to behave, or if you don’t know how to control them. You’ll piss off other diners, and you’ll piss off your server.

Don’t go to the Wal-Mart with all your unruly crotch spawn in tow, and try to return things at the service counter while you have your cell phone stuck to your head. When you’re talking loudly about who’s fucking who and who’s beating on who. If you can’t talk in a normal indoor voice, without getting pissy, then they’re not going to take your return.

Don’t lose your temper when they don’t take your return without a receipt. Put yourself in their place, if you can. If you saw a string of people coming in without receipts trying to return things, would you allow it?

Don’t run around with your pants hanging off your ass, your cap all crooked on your head, your clothes 8 sizes too big, and a bunch of fake jewelry. Nobody likes a thug, and nobody likes a poser thug. You look stupid, you look immature, and you look like a moron. When you come in dressed like that, no matter where you are, we don’t care. We know when you bitch you’re just trying to get a discounted price on something, or get something free. Just don’t bother. Nobody likes a thug.

Women: Don’t run around wearing next to nothing, it cheapens you and makes you look like a street-walking whore.  When we see a woman walking around in a shirt that shows more skin than it covers, a pair of shorts that are more or less a pair of panties, and earrings that a 6′6″ man can put a fist through and still not have the metal touch his wrists, then you’re dressed improperly for public viewing.  Go back to the strip club.  Even worse, don’t go to a family restaurant or family business.  Other than lecherous old men, adolescent boys, and 20-something guys, nobody wants to see your goods, and they don’t want you, just your cooze.  Dress like a person, not a dirty little skank.

Women: Plastic surgery should be used in moderation.  The gods made you the way you were for a reason; getting new tits, a new nose, a new ass, new lips, a new stomach, a new forehead, and new everything else makes you a new person, and usually a very hateful person.  Be yourself, people don’t want a fake.  And yes, fake tits feel just that…fake.

Going out in public and acting like a child just shows that you shouldn’t be out in public at all.  Restaurants are not frat houses, act like a fucking adult.

That’s all I can think of right now, but I’m sure there will be more later.  There may or may not be a part 2 to this post, depending on if I have more material after work tonight.

Ribeye

Welcome to my 150th post here on RagingServer.com!!!

I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d make it to this post, and without you it just wouldn’t have been possible.  By the way, to those of you with sites, I’m very sorry about my lack of commentation, I’ll remedy that.  It’s hard to work as much as I do, post as much as I do, and still have the motivation to actually visit the site outside of Google Reader.  Once again, I’m sorry.  I’m workin’ on it.   You’ve all made me so happy, and I haven’t reciprocated as much as I should other than giving you links.

Once again, my job was redneck hell tonight.  I hate them.  I hate them all.  I give all of you on BitterWaitress a nod that claim rednecks are not all bad and I’m thinking of white trash, but I’m sorry, you’re just wrong.  Rednecks are now tied with Ghetto trash as the scum of the planet.  They come in smelling like a fish tank, the women do anyway, the men smell like body odor mixed with motor oil and feces.  Despite this, I was in an exceptionally good mood tonight, and in rare form just like I was on Black Friday.

My first table was a table of redneck scum, and had I the time during my shift, I’d have posted about it then.   They actually started out alright, except for one guy at the table.

“Hey dude, I’m gonna naid some hawt sauwce.  Ya’ll got a big bottle of it back thaih?”

“I’ll bring you a bottle of tabasco as soon as your food comes out, sir.”

“But I wanna drank some of it now.”  How fucking nasty.  Tabasco is gross at the best of times with it’s smell and taste, that you want to drink it makes me want to hurl.

“Then give me a minute and I’ll bring some out to you.”  I go to another table, and start chatting with them, when I hear, “Hey, where’s my sawce?”

“Sir, I’m with another guest, I’ll have it to you in a minute.”  His parents (he’s at least 16 or 17 years old) don’t say a word to him, they don’t look embarrassed, they don’t look surprised.  “Hurry up then, I been waitin too long now.”  I keep talking to my other guests for a minute, our conversation has now turned into a mutual hatred of hickdom and we’re all laughing together when I hear, “What tha hells takin that waitress so damn long?”, just loud enough for me to hear.  I ask my guests to hold on for a minute.  I walk to the service station, snatch a bottle of tabasco sauce, and walk back to the hick table.

“First of all, sir, do not again yell at me or you won’t get served anymore.  Second of all, I’m not a waitress, I’m a server or a waiter.  Here’s your tabasco, your food will be here shortly, and once again, do NOT yell at me again.”   I start to set the sauce on the table and he snatches it from my hand.

“You do what I say, waitress, not the other way around.”   He opens up the tabasco, and puts his nasty lips around it and starts drinking it.  I wanted to retch.

“That’s alright, sir, you call me what you want, just remember, I’m the one who handles your food and you’re putting me in a bad mood.”  The family thought I was just joking with him, when in reality I was really getting pissed off.  His attitude was ruining my uncommonly good mood, and I wasn’t happy about it.  He stopped being a prick after that though.

Thirty minutes or so pass, and I go back to the table to see if they need anything else.  The dad grabs my arm, “You need to take that shit off my bill,” pointing at the cheeseburger.

“Is there something wrong with it, sir?  Were you just not that hungry?”

“I just want to eat it at home, I don’t want to pay for it if I’m not gonna eat it here.”   I was shocked.  “Sir, I can’t take it off your bill just because you want to eat it at home.”

“You pose to do what we want though, the customer always right!”

“Sir, there’s nothing wrong with your burger.  Nothing at all.  Therefore, being that you’ve eaten close to half of it and intend to take it home, I can’t take it off.”

“Then you better brang ya managah over here, cuz I ain’ payin for somethin I ain’ gonna eat!”

“But you’ve said you’re going to eat it, just not here.”

“WE ONLY GOTTA PAY FOR WHAT WE EAT HERE, NOT WHAT WE TAKE HOME WITH US!”  I’d known the whole time I was getting no tip, so now I didn’t care what they threw at me.

“Sir, I’m going to tell you like I told your son.  Do NOT yell at me again.”  I walked off.  Manager J the Spineless, cohort of Manager J the Impartial visits the table, and caves in.  He comps the burger.  I ring up an extra soft drink for the tabasco drinker.

I go back to the table and take the check.  As I walk off, I swipe the guys burger right off the table, and toss it into the trash.  “What the Hell did ya do that for?  I was gonna eat that!”

“No, sir, you weren’t paying for it, so you’re not going to take it home.”  I start to walk off again, and this time Momma grabs me by the arm.  “Ma’am, let go of me, right now.”

“Why the Hell is there another coke on this bill.  We had 3 waters and 2 cokes, not 3 cokes.”

“Well, your son there drank a bottle of tabasco, and I saw him take another from the service station and put it in his pocket, I’m just making sure the company gets reimbursed for the loss it has incurred during your meal here.”   They ended up paying, after complaining to the manager who refused to take off the other coke, but who did make them give back the unopened tabasco.  Life is fun sometimes, but I really hate rednecks who think they own the world.

Later on, I go on break and head through the mall.  I’m going to get my Starbucks, Venti 7 shot, hundred thirty degree, white chocolate mocha with gingerbread syrup and whipped cream, and I see one of our security guards.  It’s bad enough we have security there that can barely talk and rolls around with no legs in a hovaround, but now they also have Segways, the goofiest invention since the Heely.  I hate seeing people on these expensive pieces of shit, because they’re usually yuppie scum that think they’re hot shit owning one, and they’re just goofy as hell.

Here’s the security guard I saw.

After I got back from break (sorry, haven’t figured out how to make my editor write next to the pic, only under it), I felt better, I had caffeine in my system again.  I had some great tables, and then cover charge started.  The ghetto arrived, but not in full force like normal.  It was relatively calm.  I got busy, yes, but not with trash.  The other servers got the trash at the end of the night this time…until my last table.  They sat down about 30 minutes before last call.  They ordered, and canceled their order 4 times.  I stopped trying to get them food after the 4th cancel, and started doing sidework.  While they sat, most of them got up to run around and play games, leaving a very obviously intoxicated and quite ugly white girl with her ghetto assed, pants around his legs boyfriend.  I didn’t say anything to them while they were making out, and I didn’t say anything to them when they were feeling each other up.  One of my co-workers, however, noticed that her hand was underneath the table, and was moving in a peculiar fashion.  “Please…tell me she’s not doing what it sounds like she’s doing…” I thought to myself.  They needed to get a room, and not do what they were doing in my restaurant.  I left them alone, thinking that it couldn’t be anymore than harmless petting.  Nothing major, nothing x-rated.  How wrong I was…

I was walking through my section, and I see her facing him, a couple of beads of sweat rolling down her face.  I again pray that she’s not doing it.  I then see a little kid, maybe 4-5 years old, staring raptly under their table, and the guy is leaned back with his eyes closed.  The kid runs off, yelling, “She’s touching his pee pee.”  I still don’t know if she was actually jerking him off, and I don’t want to know.  That would push the limits of my belief and yours.  I’m chalking this one up to a myth unless someone else from work tells me otherwise.  We get trash, but we’ve never had that.  I’d just like to repeat, I don’t know if the handjob was actually happening, so don’t say anything about it being false, because I don’t know.  I only know what I think, and I wish I were wrong about that.

After that, I went out to smoke for a couple of minutes.  When I came back, the whole group was back at the table, and it was enough to grat.  They all started barking orders at me at the same time, and I stopped them to say, “I just want you all to know that there will be an automatic 18% gratuity on your party, being that there are 9 of you.”  Half of them left the table, the others just sulked and whined because they were going to be charged extra to eat dinner.  I finally ignored them when they tried to order from me at last call.  I walked off, and let them sit there.  They were ghetto, but no, they weren’t all black, they were mostly white girls with great big ankle holders on each side of their heads.

I also waited on an awesome woman named Lorraine, older woman who looked like a judge from Law and Order, and she was the most awesome guest of the night, leaving me 30 bucks on top of an 18 dollar auto-grat for a large party.  She was just fun, she and her family.  I just wish I’d been able to get her drinking…

Keep coming back, I’ve got ideas for some new stuff coming, and I need ya’ll to send me some of your ideas also.  I’m still working on the submission page for your personal Horror Stories, and I need some more topics for weekly features.  I’m also thinking about taking a cue from some other bloggers and having an “Ask the Ribeye” post each week, and RagingPartner is trying to convince me to set up a podcast.  I’m not sure about the podcast though, because I don’t like how I sound “on-air”.

About the 4 posts a couple of days ago, that was due to a glitch.  I had 4 of them prewritten (including the unpopular fart post), and accidentally posted them all within a couple of hours of each other.  That won’t happen again.  Only 2 of them were supposed to go up.

I know it’s been a long post, but it was the 150th post, so yes, it was bound to be long.

Shorter next time,

Ribeye

I’m back you guys, and I’m back in a big way if you couldn’t tell by the name of this post.  To those of you who are offended, I’m quite sorry to you, but it was necessary to let you know the extreme seriousness with which rednecks must be dealt, and soon.

I hate rednecks with ever fiber of my being.  I hate them all.  Fat redneck women, and I don’t mean fat as in pleasantly plump, I mean fat as in forklift fat, are the worst that you’ll ever meet.

Enter the redneck family.  Fat Frannie, Bucktooth Billy, and the rebelling redneck kids, Gothic Gary and  Dumbass David.  I watch them come in about 5:15 yesterday (Saturday) and I hope and pray that they veer around the big open table I have in my section.  The gods above are angry, and they sit their asses right on down.  The kids immediately abandon their parents to go play games, and Bucktooth Billy the Dad goes to the bar to get beer and watch football.  I get to the table to greet Fat Frannie the Mom.

“Hey there, how are you today?”

“Fine.”

“My names Ribeye, I’ll….”

“We need a couple of swate tay’s, don’t you bring out no lemon now, and the boys nade uh coke and uh dr. peppah.”

“Alright, ma’am, I’ll have those right out to you.  Would you like to go ahead and get an appetizer cooking while you wait for the guys?”  As I say this, I glance down…I don’t know why I did but I wish I hadn’t.  As with most….larger..women, this woman had very large titules.  These were overly large, and they were bursting out of the little tiny sweater she was wearing.  That wasn’t what really got me though.  One of her titties, the left one (yes I had a photographic memory of this one because I needed it for this post) had a huge wart growing on it.  I’m not just talking big like you’d see on a witches nose in a cartoon, I’m talking over a quarter size in diameter and about a half inch high.  Just sitting there like it was nothing, staring up at me.  It was all I could do to not puke all over her.

“So we’ll get a free 10 dollars of games for every dinner we get?”  She’s referring to a special we have at my job (you all know where I work there’s no need to post it) where for a certain fee you get an entree and 10 bucks of gameplay.  It ends on Friday and Saturday at 5, but the managers have some leeway if the guest has been waiting for a table since before 5.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I can’t give you that promotion.  On Friday and Saturday, that promotion ends at 5pm.  I’ll gladly get you the gameplay you’d like but it’ll have to be paid for separate from your meals.”

“But that’s the only reason we came here.  We’ve been here walking around for over 30 minutes now, it’s not our fault we couldn’t get a table.”  Fucking lying fat wart-boobied bitch.  They walked in the door at 5:15, it was now 5:30.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am, but the computer locks that promotion out at 5pm.”

“Well you better just wait on those drinks then, I just don’t know if we’ll be eating here or not now.”  That’s fine with me you fat bitch, “You just let me know once you’ve made a decision.”  I walk to another table in my section, and start talking to them.  They’re some regulars that come in every few weeks and I was really happy to see them.

We talk for about a minute, and I feel a tap on my shoulder.  I ignore it, as is my custom, when it happens again.  I look at my regulars with the look that says, “You might need to bail me out of jail soon,” and turn around.  “Can I help you?”

“Yea, Son, you need to get us a manager over here.”  It’s Bucktooth Billy.  His arm is in a sling, so apparently someone has kicked his useless ass recently, too bad it wasn’t me.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Just get the manager and don’t ask questions, Son.”  I HATE when people call me son that aren’t related to me, and even those who are don’t do it often except for Dad.

I run around looking for a manager, mainly to keep from backhanding this hick straight to the ground where he stood, and I run across Manager T the New, GM extraordinaire.  I don’t know that he’s technically still observing our store, so I get him to the table.  He comes back and tells me “They’ve been waiting for a while for a table, go ahead and give them the promotion.”  Way to pull the rug out from under me there, boss.  This means I have to ring up their gameplay separately and get it comped to the price it would be with the normal promotion, then try to explain it to these morons.  I go back to the table…

“Have you all decided what you’d like to eat tonight?”

Fat Frannie takes the lead.  “He,” pointing to Gothic Gary, “is going to have this double cheeseburger.  Just ketchup, no lettuce or any of that shit.”

“It all comes on the side, ma’am,”

“Don’t even bring it on the plate, then!  He,” pointing next to Dumbass David, “is going to have chicken strips, with a big bowl of ranch.”  “I’ll have to charge you for two sides if you get a big bowl of it, ma’am, it only comes with one small side and the bowls have 4 sides in them.”

“You better not charge for it, it already comes with it!”

“I have no choice, ma’am, I have to follow the rules.”

“FINE, I’m gonna have this chicken alfredo.  There ain’t no mushrooms or nothin in there is it?”  If you’d read the menu you’d know the answer to that question.

“No, ma’am, it’s just chicken and pasta.”  “Well whats all that green shit in the picture.”  “It’s just a sprinkle of parsley flakes for a garnish.”  “Then you lied didn’t you.  I said I don’t want anything else but the chicken and pasta.”  Well bitch, no that’s not what you said.

Bucktooth Billy decides to order for himself, “Chicken Fingers” and didn’t say anything more.   “I’ll get these into the computer and have them out just as soon as they come up.”

“Make it quick, we’ve already been waiting an hour.”  Fat Frannie orders.  Fuck you you wart-boobie bitch, and your decrepit hick hubby and your crotch spawn.

Flash Forward to when the food comes out.  Even though I had on the ticket ‘no burger set’ it still came out.  I get to the table, “I thought I told you to leave this off.”

“Ma’am, I wasn’t in the kitchen when the food was set up, and I wasn’t here when it was delivered.  I can show you the ticket where it was entered correctly, but other than that I wasn’t there to ensure it was right.  I’m very sorry, and I”ll be glad to take the vegetables off the table for you.”  As I’m reaching for a plate to put them on, she grabs them off her sons plate and throws them at me.  Did I mention that I hate fucking rednecks?

“This chicken tastes like ass, did you throw it on the fucking floor before you brought it out?”

“Once again, I wasn’t back there when your food was set up, but I’ll be glad to bring you something else.”

“Bring me a double cheeseburger like his. Make sure to bring a lot of mayonnaise too, and hurry the fuck up, they gonna be done before I get to eat.”  I’m very close to hurting them all…very close.

“Right away, sir.”  I don’t want to be fired, so I’m trying to hold my temper.  I put in his new order, and go to another table.  I’m stuck there for a minute taking an order, and I see the manager walk past me with 2 teas, and I know where he’s going.  He comes back to me, and asks me why his burger didn’t come out with the food.  They told him I forgot to ring it in, I told him what really happened, but it was too late, he’d already comped the burger off.  Fucking Bastards!!!

I go back to my regulars, and again I feel a tap on my shoulder.  I turn around, knowing full well it’s Bucktooth Billy, “You just fuckin up left an right tonight boy, this tea tastes like ass, you better bring me some more and quick.”

“Just as soon as I’m done here, sir, I’ll do it.  Please do not touch me again.”

“You getting smart with me boy?”

“I’m just telling you like it is, sir, if you touch me again I’ll snap your wrists.”  A write up, but it was well worth it.  My regulars just glared at him.

I finally get around to taking their new tea out after standing around a few minutes.  I was in no hurry, I knew I wasn’t getting tipped, and I was getting a complaint, and I no longer cared.  Fuck them.

Check time.  I have to go explain the comps to them.  It takes about 20 minutes, because even after I point things out, and show them exactly what the managers did, they still didn’t understand why they were paying 65 bucks.  The normal bill for their dinner would be about a hundred.

Rednecks are by far the stupidest people on the planet, which is where the name of this post came from.  Once again, sorry if it offended ya, but well, it had to be done.  I only wish that Fat Frannies wart gets bigger and bigger until it finally consumes her alive, and Gothic Gary feasts on the corpse.  I hope that Dumbass David and Bucktooth Billy are run over by a tractor on the farm, or stampeded by a cow or something.

Later on, before they leave, I’m cleaning up the game area, and I happen upon Fat Frannie and Bucktooth Billy near one of the racing games.  Fat Frannie tries to get into it, and can’t fit.  Bucktooth Billy ends up playing, and a black guy sits in the chair next to his.

“Oh fuck no, goddamn n****r sittin next to me.”  I took it upon myself to have him thrown out, and made sure they knew they were banned.  I don’t tolerate that shit in my place of business, and I’m not going to have some fucking redneck piece of shit start a riot either.

I can only hope I chance upon them in public sometime…

Ribeye