Yes, this time I did bring the laptop with me, in anticipation of taking a break at some point of the night and giving you all a half-shift report.
Sitting at RagingPartners job and waiting for him to get off, it’s 11pm here in Nashville.
I am finally realizing that I’m not allowed to leave my job any earlier than closing time unless I’m working the day shift.
I love Starbucks guys, love them. Venti Iced White Chocolate Mocha with two pumps of Cinnamon Dolce syrup and 7 shots of espresso. HOWEVER, the California Starbuckers have pissed me off. Not the baristas, no, the company itself. The company that stole tips from the baristas to pay the wages to the shift supervisors.
87 million dollars they stole from their baristas. This billion dollar earning company stole those tips so they could pay the wages to their shift supervisors instead of paying them out of pocket. FUCK YOU STARBUCKS CORPORATE BIGWIGS!
This isn’t a long post, it’s just something I just had to get off my chest.
I’ll still drink Starbucks coffee, it’s not the TN stores that are fucking their barista staff. It’s the California ones. GO GOVENATOR SCHWARTZENAGER! That’s what you get for electing a fucking bad actor to public office, you get corporations stealing from the little guy.
(edit 3/22 — sorry bout there not being a link to the news story before now, I just plain forgot guys.
I finally got my cell phone turned back on tonight, after a couple of months of being without.
I, the Ribeye of your Dreams, of semi-sound mind and more or less sound body, do henceforth and forevermore swear, that I am done serving teenagers.
I don’t give a flying rats ass if they’re ghetto teenagers, little cheerleader teenagers, band geek teenagers, sporty teenagers, or the brains.
Notice I didn’t use the word fat.
It was a liquor family.
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.
Every fucking night, it happens.