Slow nights…

It’s been slow at work. It’s been slow at work all week long. I’m tired of going to work to make no money. I know the economy is slow, but come the fuck on. Not only is it slow, but the only trash that is coming out to eat is trash that doesn’t want to leave me a tip.

Tonight, in the bowling alley, it was a swirl of ghetto redneckyness. I had a couple of really nice lanes, ones that tipped me around 35%. Those two lanes didn’t make up for the other 7 I served that didn’t leave me jack shit!

First we have Deflanaqueesha and her kids. “Hey you!” I hear while I’m at another lane. “Is you our waitah?” I still don’t know who is yelling at me so I choose to ignore it and keep taking my order. Then I feel the tapping on my back. Within seconds, the tapping becomes a light beating and I finally turn around. “What the Hell is your problem?” I yell before actually seeing that there’s a little boy standing behind me.

“My mommah wanna know if you is our waitah. She say if you is ta come ovah here.” The little brat ran down to the next set of lanes and proceeded to yell to his mother, “Dat man yell at me mommah.” This little fucker couldn’t have been more than 6-7 years old. Knowing what I was about to get myself into, I chose to continue taking my time.

When I finally did get to their lane, Deflanaqueesha didn’t give me a chance to talk. “Who da Hell do you think you is yellin at my baby like that? How the fuck dare you?”

“First of all, ma’am, your child came to me while I was with another guest. Your child didn’t let me finish doing what I was doing before he started yelling at me. YOUR CHILD chose to start beating me in the back rather than wait for me to finish doing what I was doing, so yes ma’am, I yelled at your child. I apologize, I lost my temper, but I’m not going to have some little kid beating me in the back when I’m busy doing my job!”

“How is you gon’ talk to me like that? I am the customah, you need to treat me with respect.”

“Well how about this, ma’am. I won’t disrespect you, and you keep your kids at your lane with you and supervised, like they’re supposed to be. What can I get for you to drink.” She muttered under her breath about me for a bit but I had to keep her from going off on me somehow. She ended up getting half her food comped for being “cold” with steam coming off of it, and left me a dollar on a 30 dollar check. Fucking dirty assed snatch licking whore.

Then we come to the rednecks in the pool room. I hate rednecks. I hate them with a passion. I walk into the pool room which my co-workers had been neglecting for the most part, and I see a group in the corner. They have drinks and food, so I don’t think anything about checking on them. They weren’t my guests. I walk past them and go on to the people I was already serving.

Once again, I hear yelling. “Hey boy.” I ignore it, not sure if they’re yelling at me or not. I hear another yell, this one more centralized and much closer to me. “Hey waiter!” Fuck you, bastard, I don’t respond to the names ‘boy’ or ‘waiter’. I turn around, and I see a tall, maybe 6’6 or so, and stocky white guy wearing a red and white striped polo. He’s got an empty beer bottle in his hand. “I need anotha beer, boy.”

“I’ll make sure to tell your server you need another one then.”

“We done paid her, why don’t you go get me one. Brang us some shots uh Jager too.”

I can see just how drunk these mother fuckers are already, so I just kind of smile and nod and walk away. Less than a minute after I get back into the bowling alley, Big Red comes around the corner yelling, “Wheres da Jager at?”

I think maybe his girlfriend was embarrassed at how he was acting out in public, because when I finally rang in an appetizer sampler for them, 15 dollar check, she tips 5 bucks and writes “Sorry bout everythin” on the bottom of her credit card slip. I personally think that Big Red was a bit abusive with how she was cowering every time he came close to her.

Apparently he and his friends got a little pissed off at how much their pool tab came up to because they were pissed as hell when it came time to pay for it. The door “bouncers” and manager made sure they were escorted out afterwards.

This is the kind of shit that happens on a slow night. This, and the 38 bucks I made before tip out on an almost 600 dollar night of sales.

And people wonder why I hate working in the bowling/billiard area where I’m forced to serve nothing but trash. I don’t know why I keep getting screwed over there, but it’s really starting to piss me off. The game room is where I’m strongest, and where I make actual money despite having to serve trash within the great people.

If you’re going to act like you’ve caught the dumbass, if you’ve caught the dumbass, or if you’re just plain stupid, don’t bother coming out in public. Your actions cause people to plot your deaths….vividly.


As an add on to the original post, I’d like everyone to take the time to visit the RagingPartner’s site, FrontDeskBlog.


Cheerleaders are demons sent straight from the pits of Hell

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.