Category Archives: humor
You should probably know that while I do regularly have to deal with Matt the fry cook asshole- who I’m sure is a homophobic bigot- there are actually some nice people that I currently work with. One of those is a sweet little honor roll student we’ll call Adrienne.
Tonight, after we closed- and after I mopped in front of the entrance, A thirty something year old man came through the front door carrying another, younger man on his back. Behind them was one of those sad young women who honestly thinks its okay to exit the house in her Elsie the cow print pajama pants.
Immediately upon stepping through the front door, the man carrying the other, slipped and fell on the wet floor. Since I had thought our manager had locked the doors when she went to the front to… LOCK THE DOORS, I didn’t see the need to put a wet floor sign. Luckily both men were laughing hysterically at the incident. Adrienne immediately rushed to the front as if to aid the men. Instead she grabbed a wet floor sign, put it in front of the two men who were still laying on the ground and yelled “WE’RE CLOSED!”
Today, I had some more of those senior discount customers who couldn’t order correctly and blamed it on me. If you haven’t read any of my previous posts, I claim to be a nice person. In real life, no one knows that half of the things I’ve written here thus far even cross my mind. I have another (public) blog which details the life of a very pleasant person- it has gotten me invited to co-host charity events, a fashion show, and numerous wonderful things that only really really nice people seem to be involved in. I’m actually planning several events for charities who help people in Africa (primarily Ethiopia), and even an event I’m very honored to coordinate benefiting a group which aids families of people with autism. Again… I’m not actually an mean, I’m just smarter than most of the people in my hometown. Now back to the senior discount assholes.
I waited patiently for an elderly man and his wife while they looked at the menu. Mind you, they had been in the restaurant for fifteen minutes already and although they moved up to my counter, they were still contemplating what to order. The man started to speak “I want that Platter the one with the uh…”
His wife interrupted “I want a fish and shrimp platter and a salmon platter.”
The man continued “I want a super sampler platter.”
I said “OKAY, so you want a fish and shrimp platter, a salmon platter and a super sampler platter.”
The woman yelled “NO!!!! WE WANT A FISH AND SHRIMP PLATTER AND A SALMON PLATTER, THERE ARE ONLY TWO OF US.”
I responded “Okay mam, but you realize your husband ordered something completely different after you.”
She continued “WELL YOU SHOULD PAY ATTENTION…AND TWO DRINKS.”
Her husband continued “what do you have for diet?”
I responded “Pepsi and Root Beer.” This is after I set out their cups (a little note, our diet root beer machine doesn’t work in the dining room, so all diet root beers are made by the staff.)
He responded “OKAY THAT!”
I asked “Okay, what?”
He got angry “I WANT A DIET ROOT BEER AND YOU HAVE TO GET IT FOR ME!” He pushed one of the regular sized cups back to where it fell off the counter.
I responded “I’ll do that once you’ve paid…”
The wife paid.
I filled half of his diet root beer with soda water.
Something else you should probably know about me is that I am preparing for my glorious return to The Big Apple by doing several things.
1. I’m not spending any money because there is nothing here I’d like to spend it on… although the $6 Hendrick’s cocktails in the nearby metropolis seem to be calling out my name in the dead of night. Still, I can wait until I can get some old asshole to pay twice the price in NYC.
2. Since there is nobody I spend my time with besides Maria the gas station worker, I’m spending all my spare time in the gym. This is partially because A. I want to improve my health and physicality, and B. I’ve noticed that when I’m at a certain fitness level , I don’t pay for shit (hence the $2,000 dinner at Caravaggio I told you about).
3. Since I am working on improving my appearance, I am going every so often to a tanning bed. No, not a tanning salon. Remember, I’m trying to save money. I instead found this glorious little Chinese restaurant attached to a nail salon with two tanning beds in the back. Sure, I’m probably catching melanoma, but at $5 a tan, you can bet I’ll endure this until it gets warm enough to be that asshole who runs through the golf course shirtless.
When I finally moved out of the obese lesbian apartment, I thought my issues with her were over (aside from the $350 she still owes me).
I was working a particularly busy night at Drunk Party with Kelly when I kept getting a string of texts from my former land lord asking to get into the apartment. The problem was, I was still on the lease and was subletting my room. I had a letter drafted for the management company, but still hadn’t gotten to their swanky midtown high rise to deliver it. After about five missed calls in the span of five minutes, I rushed to the restroom to call my former land lord Miguel back.
“Hi, we need to get into your apartment, there’s a leak,” said Miguel.
“Um, I’m sorry, I’m at work- did you try Bubbles?”
“Thats just it, I was putting some tile in on your floor when she got home. About fifteen minutes later the people downstairs called me in to look at a leak from your apartment. Its coming from the bathroom, and Bubbles hasn’t picked up her phone or answered. We’ve been trying for an hour.”
“Shit! I’ll see what I can do.” Not wanting to bring attention to my illegal sublet, I texted everyone I could between serving customers, even Bubbles. I ran back to the restroom.
“The problem is,” said Miguel “we’re going to have to call the fire department. We think she may have had an accident and maybe fell and died in the shower.” I tried not to imagine the 350 pound Bubbles as a giant wet mass of dead weight in my old apartment. “Is there no way you can come and open the apartment?”
I lied “I’m the only one working tonight, I can’t.”
“Oh I see… I’ll let you know what happens.”
About thirty minutes of periodically bursting out in inappropriate laughter, I finally got a phone call from Bubbles. I rushed to the restroom.
“They fucking thought I was dead!”
“Well what happened?” I was whispered in a stall.
“Well you know how I’m deaf in one ear… I just rolled over on my good one and woke up to a bunch of angry cops in my room. They’re gonna half to replace the lock. Fuck.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well thank God you’re alright.” I hand delivered my letter to get out of the lease the next day.
One of my favorite things about my now defunct bartender position in the center of Manhattan, were all the pseudo-celebrities who felt their status in NYC made them relevant. Such was the case with a man we’ll call Frank. Frank was in the restaurant industry and was a notorious asshole. He was also a closeted homosexual.
On my second night of employment, I was serving Frank and a well-known celebrity chef who, amazingly enough, I still have respect for. Maybe its because I witnessed far too many of his attempts to get laid fail right in front of my eyes. When Frank was finally alone, he began talking to me about classical music and food. I still didn’t know he was gay.
Finally he asked me “do you have any German in you?”
I replied “no, I’m part Welsh…” I was about to continue through my racially ambiguous lineage when he interrupted me.
“Would you like some in you?”
It didn’t take me twenty minutes between closing the bar and getting completely naked in front of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the financial district. All I can say is that there is nothing more awkward than having to compliment a mediocre penis, especially when it’s owner thinks he’s hung like a prize stallion.
I discovered that Frank loves porn, and using his $20,000 telescope to watch others have sex through their windows. After being told how special I was for the hundredth time and that Frank had never met anyone like me, that he felt he had known me forever, I was asked to leave.
After our rendezvous, Frank ignored me. He held frequent meetings at my work and actually had the gall to tell me that if I ever told anyone what happened, that he would send his new, six foot five muscle brained boyfriend to get me. Over the coming months I continued to run into the flabby Frank who kept making it a point to mention things like his personal trainer, how he used his money to stay in shape, and how fabulous it was to be let into every exclusive place in Manhattan. Though he tried to take my pride, I have one thing Frank will never have… pecs. Oh yeah, there’s another thing… but again, size shouldn’t matter ;-)
Did you know that the Girl Scouts were founded the same year the Titanic sank? Coincidence? I think not!
Today, I was amused to find a box of the Girl Scout Cookie “Savannah Smiles.” I thought it was interesting how the box had a quaint little story about Savannah, Georgia, but failed to mention that the cookies share a name with that 1982 film where two men accidentally abduct that cute little girl who later died of a heroin overdose in the mid nineties. Way to go Girl Scouts.
Today, aside from customers who were hard of hearing, we had to deal with unnaturally strong wind. Seriously… outside it looked like a scene from Lawrence of Arabia. Sure enough, in blew a woman who looked like she had raided Divine’s wig collection after her death.
“Its so windy today,” I said, trying to make a semblance of polite conversation which I am so much better at when I’m behind a bar and the customers know the difference between Gucci and Pucci.
“Oh?” I asked.
“Haven’t you ever noticed it always does this during lent? When Jesus goes to Heaven on Easter, the sun will be shining and we’ll have our spring!”
“Oh, yeah.” I replied. Another thing you should know about me. I’m not an atheist, but I really cannot stand religious zealots who refuse to be scientifically or historically informed about, well… anything. This was probably the kind of person who believed that the church calendar followed dates according to historical anniversary and didn’t know that things like the Christmas tree were actually pagan in origin.
When I gave her her change she looked at me and said “Christ be with you.”
I smiled from ear to ear and said “and also with you.”
Today, I had the pleasure of working with yet another fry cook who managed to arrive late and not have ANYTHING ready by opening. I was also greeted by an elderly couple who seemed to have trouble understanding the words “WE AREN’T OPEN YET.” Their response was “Um yeah, we’ll have the shrimp scampi, the fish and more, two FREE waters and a SENIOR DISCOUNT.” I informed them that since our lovely workers in the back had trouble doing their work, they would have to wait nearly thirty minutes for their order so the rice and shrimp could cook. “THATS FINE!!!” The man yelled.
Twenty minutes passed and I called out the orders that were ready over the speaker. The old man came up every time and finally said “You must be mumbling on the speaker.” I just smiled at him and yelled “YOUR RICE IS ALMOST DONE!” He nodded enthusiastically after telling me to speak clear numbers in the microphone. A little bit about me… nothing angers me more than when people in Bumblefuck tell me they can’t understand me. First of all, I’m the only person who uses the nice, new and clear speaker system at this place. Secondly, I am sure I’m the only person within a two hundred mile radius who has been told by diction coaches at the Metropolitan Opera that I have a perfect Standard American English accent. So how dare you undermine my ability to speak clearly when its obviously your broken ass hearing aid. And no, I do not think its funny. Today was one of those days that made me oh so joyful that my return/ permanent move back to NYC is only 12 weeks away.
When you live in New York City in your twenties, chances are you have roommates. My first NYC apartment proved one for the books. My first two weeks in Washington Heights were pleasant enough. My Canadian roommate Lacey was from British Columbia and was perfectly fine, when she took her meds. Our third roommate Bubbles, was a lesbian from Texas who was morbidly obese at 5 foot nada and 350 lbs. She arrived the third week of our lease.
Bubbles had actually had a gastric lap band, but since she only ate foods like pizza, burgers and, well… shit thats bad for you, she became malnourished, lost her gallbladder and had to have part of her large intestine removed- right along with the lap band. Her next effort at The Biggest Loser’s Fitness Ridge in Utah didn’t seem to help her much either. Immediately upon her arrival, we started to have problems.
“Why are we out of toilet paper already?” asked Lacey when Bubbles was out.
“I don’t know, I haven’t been home… and that was like COSTCO size.”
“Oh this is gross,” said Lacey.
“Its because she eats all day! She just shits and shits!”
When Bubbles returned, things got ugly.
“PEOPLE SHIT LACEY, ITS NORMAL!”
“NOT WHEN YOU USE A COSTCO SIZE SUPPLY OF TOILET PAPER IN A WEEK BUBBLES, I AM NOT PAYING FOR YOUR SHIIIITTTT!”
Doors slammed and things were thrown. Then Lacey proclaimed we were all starting The South Beach Diet the next day. That night she went through the kitchen, and Bubbles’ room to perform an exorcism of the evil foods in our apartment. The thing is, that didn’t really help Bubbles. Since you were allowed to eat lean meats, some nuts and string cheese, Bubbles would walk around the apartment with a bag of sliced deli meat attached to her face. She also kept a party size container of mixed nuts by her bed along with the apartment Brita Filter, because God forbid she have to move out of bed in the middle of the night in case she needed water. Although Bubbles claimed to have learned to cook at Fitness Ridge, she managed to set off the fire alarm every time she used the stove. This meant a daily alarm at 3 am. I shortly ended my part of the lease and moved in with a ballerina.
Today I had the delicious experience of being told I had a fucked up attitude by a customer who was just too plain stupid to order correctly. First of all, he was trying to get me to take his order at a register which had no money in it, and kept interrupting my polite “will this be for here or to go?” with “UMM YEAH I WANT…”. I mean, obviously “Yeah I want” is not a response to an either or question, plus I do have to punch in that little button before we can run your order. And trust me, I possess the disposition of Mary fucking Poppins, I mean, I was perfectly nice to the man. When he realized I had asked him a question, he stopped and said “oh, this is for here, are you ready for me now?” I replied “yup.” with my winning smile. This would be the point when the man stormed out of the restaurant claiming he would call the owners and ruin my life. Sure, I mean, I happen to be starting a magazine internship upon my return to the Big Apple, and have just been asked to host several charity fundraisers… you can try and ruin my life by calling in a pointless complaint to the people who just told my unique and positive attitude was a breathe of fresh air from some of their current employees.
Later in the day, I got some of those people who had a thousand and one instructions for the preparation of their fast food order. I mean, sure, have it your way all you want, pickles, no onions, whatever, but come on- extra toasted buns with moist meat and cheese that isn’t too melted? The customers were a loud and obnoxious pair who claimed “we just like the finer things” as a reason for their fast food snobbery. This coming from people with extra body hair spilling out of their clothing matched with the fine perfume of what I’d imagine burnt crude oil to smell like. Again, I know that I’m stuck in this job for just under three more months, but that doesn’t mean my standards have slipped by any means, and if you’re claiming to enjoy the finer things in life, maybe you should set some actual standards for yourself. You’re talking to someone who has managed to flirt his way into a $2,000 dinner at Caravaggio and has, on more than one occasion weaseled his way into brunch at Norma’s at Le Parker Meridian without the requisite reservation. No, I’m not drop dead gorgeous or anything, I just have a way with people. Besides, when was the last time you were walking down 58th street when the President of Time Warner Travel stopped to tell you you had a nice ass? Exactly… and that ended with oysters, salmon, dessert and wine at The Monkey Bar.