So there's this guy, every restaurant has one, that's been waiting tables way too long. We'll call him The Crazy Waiter (or TCW for short). TCW is bitter and complains about every table he gets. He's also hilarious. So hilarious in fact that we, the other servers, have started to write down, on the back of receipts and such, the things he says. Here are a few of my favorite TCW quotes:
"The stupid mother fucker on the patio asks me for Eggplant Melanzana!? Melanzana means eggplant, HONEY!"
"Seven dollars on a 65 dollar check? This night is a fucking abortion."
Bartender: Do you need anything else?
TCW: Nope! Just one. fucking. Corona. for that fat. fucking. bitch.
"Just what I need in my section, another cunty blonde with a big fat ass."
"I'm going to have to get a second job to pay my tip-out."
"Have you ever seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? Because the whole fucking cast is sitting at table 17."
::Slaps a check presenter down on an empty table:: "Well there's another stereotype reinforced!"
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Hi bitches, its TCW. I love that you love me but I think you need to hear my side of what makes me crazy. Let me tell you about a typical night for me. The first table sat in my station is 2 skelatal upper eastside cunts - crisply brittle bleached blonde hair which would turn to dust and blow away without a good shellacking, skin so tanned that their abyss-like wrinkles have become impervious to botox, collagen, and hydraulic fluid. Their favored clothing is tight pants made of either a stretchy,bone hugging material or leather which is almost indistinguishable from their own tanned dried up skin. Some pants are so tight that the outline of their dusty rubble filled vaginas are quite visible. Their tops are deep vee neck white blouses that reveal the mummified remains of silicon mounds. One imperiously orders a VERY dry vodka martini up and I think to myself " why do these twats bother with the pretense of asking for a martini? The other x-ray asks for a glass of sauvignon blanc ( the preferred beverage of high class female drunks). Two hours and 4 rounds later they decide to order their entree- they will be splitting a $5 individual caesar salad. Next up - what appears to be an extended family of hillbillies, not to be confused with white trash. My first thought is " oh god I hope they left their shot guns in their jalopy and rolled down the window a bit so that the bloodhounds don't die from heat exhaution. As the hostess walks away I see that Jed and granny Clampett seem to be displeased with the table they have been given. Yippee skippy! I shout to myself thinking they will move to another table. But my hopes are dashed when the hostess informs them nothing else is available. I hope even more fervently that the shotguns were left in the pick-up and dread having to charm an angry mob of hillbillies. When I get to the taking of their order Jethro and Ellie may ask for the possum stew and a jug of moonshine. One of the other couples (or are they just cousins or- gag- both!)want to know if the the raccoon has been freshly skinned and if they get to keep the fur for the hat Susie-Jo is working on for Grampa's birthday gift. I have to go to Target know but I will finish my tale later.
Hi bitches, its TCW. I love that you love me but I think you need to hear my side of what makes me crazy. Let me tell you about a typical night for me. The first table sat in my station is 2 skelatal upper eastside cunts - crisply brittle bleached blonde hair which would turn to dust and blow away without a good shellacking, skin so tanned that their abyss-like wrinkles have become impervious to botox, collagen, and hydraulic fluid. Their favored clothing is tight pants made of either a stretchy,bone hugging material or leather which is almost indistinguishable from their own tanned dried up skin. Some pants are so tight that the outline of their dusty rubble filled vaginas are quite visible. Their tops are deep vee neck white blouses that reveal the mummified remains of silicon mounds. One imperiously orders a VERY dry vodka martini up and I think to myself " why do these twats bother with the pretense of asking for a martini? The other x-ray asks for a glass of sauvignon blanc ( the preferred beverage of high class female drunks). Two hours and 4 rounds later they decide to order their entree- they will be splitting a $5 individual caesar salad. Next up - what appears to be an extended family of hillbillies, not to be confused with white trash. My first thought is " oh god I hope they left their shot guns in their jalopy and rolled down the window a bit so that the bloodhounds don't die from heat exhaution. As the hostess walks away I see that Jed and granny Clampett seem to be displeased with the table they have been given. Yippee skippy! I shout to myself thinking they will move to another table. But my hopes are dashed when the hostess informs them nothing else is available. I hope even more fervently that the shotguns were left in the pick-up and dread having to charm an angry mob of hillbillies. When I get to the taking of their order Jethro and Ellie may ask for the possum stew and a jug of moonshine. One of the other couples (or are they just cousins or- gag- both!)want to know if the the raccoon has been freshly skinned and if they get to keep the fur for the hat Susie-Jo is working on for Grampa's birthday gift. I have to go to Target know but I will finish my tale later.
Ok kids I'm back. The next couple from the hillbilly table,Elmer and Betty-Sue want to know if we have any gator on the menu. Realizing that none of them can read I tell them that tonight we are serving a limited menu and describe just 3 menu items from which they can choose. Knowing that the only tip I will get from them is how to seduce your step brother/sister I ignore them until I am ready for them to leave. My next table is a party of 3 more upper east side biddies but of a different species than the dried up husks from before. This type is cut from a different cloth, no spandex or leather for them, strictly cotton-poly blend that breathes. These women are softer and rounder more full bodied, sometimes even obese. They do not have the commanding tone neccessary to belittle a waiter. Sure they are obnoxious but whereas their counterparts are wasps they are gnats in comparison. They are from humbler beginnings, an outer borough or Bayonne N.J. Like the Jeffersons in the 70's, they were moving on up to the East side to their deluxe apartments in the sky. The husbands made their money from making I heart NY tee shirts,plumbing/construction companies, being the proprietor of a notorious sex club, gay disco or from some other low rent venture in the hospitality industry. And yes even from the success of their chain of dry cleaners ( I swear to god, a couple that my parents were friends with really did open a string of dry cleaners and hit it big and bought an apartment on YES the upper east side!!!) They aren't drinking or looking at the menu but are gossiping as only people with inferiority complexes can. Another table wasted.
Standing by the host stand I see a regular who is such a flaming queen that I tell the hostess to seat him by the fire extinguisher. Not because of a fear of sparkling pyrotechnics but simply because the extinguisher is not in my station. A little while later the host tells me he'll be seating a 10 top in my section. My spirits rise. Until I see a tribe of Indians ( curried not American). Does anyone have a magic marker so I can play connect the dots? Blah blah blah Yes the food you ordered is completely vegetarian but if you ask me one more time it won't be!!! I'm getting discouraged and am beginning to feel sari for myself. To be continued .......
At this point I stop believing that any hope will ever find its way to one of my tables. Then fate intervenes and gives me a table of fun, friendly, happy, polite patrons. It is a joy to serve them and everytime they thank me for something my eyes tear up a little. I never want to leave their table.Whenever I am violated by the savages that fill my section, I return to bask in the healing aura of civility and humanity emanating from these celestial beings. The chaos and dissatisfaction around me fades into the background until I am yanked back to reality when my angels ask for their check. The sadness is unbearable as I hand them the check and wonder what special place they come from and if I will ever see them again. As they get up to leave I must restrain my self from throwing my arms around their shoulders and wrapping my legs about their waists, begging to be taken with them. Back to the snakepit. Although the sun is still shining, we are suddenly engulfed in darkness. I quickly glance at the front desk and see the chilling sight of 2 shadows following the hostess as she heads in my direction. My veins pop out, I break into a sweat, and my entire body trembles from the effort of telekinetically guiding them to a different station. The hostess tilts her head as if someone is whispering in her ear. Success! She veers to the right into another waiter's sphere of hostility. But I am kicked in the balls by Yin's evil counterpart, Yang! Once again we are plunged into darkness. My one large table is being sat with a large party of large eggplant people. Their girths are approximately the same as that of the table. I can only watch with despair and proactive resentment of being stiffed as the behemoths lower themselves onto our delicate bent wood seats. Anticipating the collapse of the creaky old chairs which are missing 40% of their original screws, and the resulting tsunami of lard, I delay my approach to the table which is no longer visible behind the wall of flabby bling until I am sure that the hardened conglomeration of sauces and cheeses holding the chairs together is strong enough to withstand the enormous pressure being exerted by these elephantine "booties". I grab a pitcher of water and head into the heart of darkness. I pray that this colossal mass of dark matter will not collapse into a black hole and suck me into the infinite realm of government subsidized space.I get as close to the table as possible without being crushed by the immense gravitational pull of a Uranus sized planet. Even completely stretched to my limit I can still not reach the water glasses. I'll just have to leave a pitcher of water on the table. As I adjust my course my left foot gets entangled in a pendulous fold of flab hanging from the ankle of one of the wooly mammoths. I crash into one of the titans and am propelled across the room as if I had jumped onto a trampoline from a great height. I give up on acheiving any proximity so instead I grab a bullhorn and recite the specials and a list of beverages we do not serve; grape soda, pina coladas, orange soda, fruit punch, watermelon martinis or any other watermelon flavored cocktails, sweetened ice tea, or the new fruit flavored varieties of Hennessy. One person demands to know where his basket of garlic knots is, another orders the chicken alfredo, another wants to know about our "endless pasta" special. Other requests are chicken tetrazzini, all you can eat shrimp, pizza, and a dessert menu ( apparently in anticipation of the end of the culinary orgy about to commence). I tell them they can have whatever they want, just give me a minute so I can jot down the address of the nearest Olive garden. More later.
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