I just want all you little ghetto assed girls know that you sorely misrepresented your school tonight.
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.
I’ve been thinking about some of these things for a while, and tonight just seemed like the night to post the list. Here are some things that you should just not say to your server when you’re out eating, either because it’s going to piss them off or because it’s just plain rude and makes you seem like a worthless piece of excrement.
“You missed a spot.”
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.
Only this time, it’s nothing about tipping so much as us all being racist, and daring us to spit in her food. You can see my comments if you actually visit the page for the video posted below. Basically, it says that most black people with the exception of the ghetto are embarrassed by people like her, and that because of her showing her ass (publicly and figuratively) no server in their right mind is going to willingly serve her, and most management is going to back up the server in fear of losing close to 200 dollars because she’ll play the race card. I know the talk that’s gone around in Nashville restaurants, people know her face, servers and managers alike. I know of managers who would ask her to leave just on the basis of that video and the fear that she would besmirch their restaurant over nothing. I still don’t believe the server actually followed her out over the tip, that rarely happens anymore, and the server is usually fired on the spot when it does.
A recent post on the BitterWaitress.net forums inspired me to make this post, and I’m sure it’s going to make me pretty unpopular for a while.
Wrong again. I got a comment on the Women can be so dramatic sometimes post saying that I was a “racist pig”. I get e-mails on a daily basis saying that I’m “evil racist slime” and “I wouldn’t spit on your cracker ass if I were on fire”. I don’t know how many ways to say this, but I AM NOT A RACIST! Yes, I dislike certain portions of different racial groups, and you all know that I’ve lumped those groups into one group, the Entitlement Junkies.
Yes, this might be a bit callous, but after serving these different people for so long, I’ve learned the hard way that Entitlement Junkies just don’t tip, and they treat servers like shit. If you think that makes me a racist, then you can stop reading this blog right now. Sorry to offend you, but that’s just how I feel.
If some of you haven’t noticed, I’ve never once used a racial slur on this page, and I never will. I don’t agree with using it, and if you think the words “ghetto trash” are a racial slur, then you also can stop reading this blog right now. I’ve said it time and time again, I don’t have a problem with all black people. I have a problem with the dregs of the black race, the ones that come in with either their pants hanging down their asses, weave four feet on top of their heads, ebonics so thick that I can barely translate it, etc. I have a problem with black tables that are so demanding that I spend more time with them than any other table in my section, therefore losing tips on other tables for a table that I’m not going to get tipped on anyway. I get tired of doing nothing wrong, giving exceptional service, and getting no tip. I’m tired of people assuming that I fucked up their order on purpose, when it was the fault of the kitchen, pulling the fucking race card, and leaving me no tip. I get tired of ghetto hoochie mommas that let their vast numbers of crotch spawn run around like dogs doing whatever the hell they want with no discipline whatsoever, and then yelling at me because I ask them to keep their kids under control. I get tired of being disrespected because I go to a table happy and in a good mood, and serve them just like I serve anyfuckingbody else.
What I don’t get tired of, are my black guests that are my regulars. The ones that are respectful, that talk to me and laugh with me. I don’t get tired of hearing how they hate the ghetto trash that I talk about. I don’t get tired of hearing how embarrassed they are with how their brethren act out in public. They don’t like to be lumped together into a group with the trash, and I don’t lump them together with the trash.
Black servers hate serving black tables. Black servers think they have a right to give substandard service to black tables, whether they are trash or not. They know the drill, only they don’t care if it’s a table that’s trash or a table that’s not. They get away with treating their black tables like this, yet if a white server treats a ghetto table (not a table of non-trash black people) perfectly, with no change in attitude, they are stiffed and usually end up with a ticket full of comps and complaints to the manager.
I have a ton of black friends. I get along great with the kitchen, that is primarily black men. They know I’m gay, and they know my feelings on ghetto tables. They know that me, along with other white servers don’t hate all black people. They know that we only hate those that come in with a chip on their shoulder against us and those that come in expecting to get something for free. We have lots of black servers that work where I do. One of my best friends, who just moved to Kentucky, is a black girl that could regularly be heard in the break room yelling “I HATE black people!” and on one particularly bad night after serving a group of extremely ghetto guys and girls that took the time to puke in a bowl and leave it on her table and spit in her menu, “God as my witness, I’ll never wait on another mother fucking nigga!” while holding a spot sweeping broom into the air, then throwing it across the room.
I have news for anyone who thinks that I’m racist. I love waiting tables, it doesn’t matter who it is. I don’t like being called “white boy” at the table, and I don’t like that some black tables insist on trying out 4 different alcoholic drinks before settling on a water with lemon.
Once again, I’ll also tell you about my first regulars. A black couple who comes in with their well behaved kids. They were the first couple I waited on when I got onto the floor, and they come in every week to see me. The wife sits at the table with me and listens to the gossip of the place, and loves hearing my stories about the ghetto trash I have to wait on. They tip great every time they come in, because I treat them just like anyone else I wait on. I don’t give them special treatment, save for getting them a free dessert for the kids sometimes, and that’s on my dime because I enjoy them coming in to see me. I couldn’t give a shit if they tipped or not to be honest with you, I enjoy it when they come in. I enjoy talking to them, because they are my friends. They have been coming to see me a little over a year now, and they have no plans to stop coming to see me. When one of their kids had appendecitus, the mother came in to let me know that they’d be back next week. I told them I’d buy them dinner, seeing as they were about to have a ton of medical bills for surgery. They came in the next week, and asked me for their check before I let them know that I’d already paid for their bill OUT OF MY OWN POCKET! They are good friends of mine, and they know that I’m not a racist, so I would appreciate it if you’d all stop judging me based on my feelings for the fucking ghetto trash I have to wait on. I know not all black people are like that trash, and I don’t prejudge anymore. I wait until after I meet the table before I decide the way it’s going to go, and even then I still give exceptional service until I am disrespected.
Just had to get that rant off of my chest.