Every few months, we get groups of people in my restaurant that make me want to sacrifice small animals to the gods to make them go away. These “people”…and I use that term loosely, are cheerleaders. Little high school cheerleaders. Screaming at the top of their lungs, wearing next to nothing, dancing like whores to every song that comes on the radio, practicing, and making me have migraines that are worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. They come in with their overly fat, overly pushy mothers. They order diet drinks, and demand that we change our menu to have non-fat low calorie items. They tend to scream over the stupidest things.
It’s really bad when they start playing claw games. It usually happens when they’re waiting on their dinners, they all get up and gravitate in a group of 20 or so to one of our claw machines. One of them will put in their money. Putting in the money illicits the first scream. The entire group of them begins bouncing in unison. The claw moves a half inch. Another scream emerges from their loud asses. The screaming continues in bursts until the claw drops. God forbid it touch a stuffed animal, for glasses may break.
Then we get the fat mothers who decide they’re going to bitch at their daughters when they try to order something that doesn’t have the words ‘diet’ or ‘bottled’ in the name for a drink. Regular coke? No No No, you have to fit into your uniform.
Example from a couple of months after I started, end of last year: Group of girls come in, 2 mothers, 6 girls. All of the girls but one order diet cokes.
“And what about you, ma’am?” I ask the last girl. She was the heaviest of the bunch, at a grand total of maybe 82 pounds. “I’d like a coke please.” She was very well mannered, despite being a squealing and annoying cheerleader, in full cheer regalia.
“Oh no you don’t young lady, you have to think about your figure! She’ll have a bottled water, and make sure that you bring her a straw, don’t need her getting germs from the bottle.” At the time, I had no idea of the lunatics that came into my job. I’ve since learned.
“Ma’am, no worries, none of us even touch the rim, and we haven’t a straw that will fit in our bottles. I will gladly bring her a glass if she would like.” I hate cheerleaders, but I think I hate their mothers even worse. They’re like pageant mothers.
“Mom, I want a coke!”
“You’re already getting fat, sweetheart, you’ll get water.