To introduce myself I'm a 21 year old server in the Orlando (Flori-duh) area. I've worked in the restaurant business since the beginning of time as I know it. Because of this, I hate people in general. The views and opinions I express may sicken your stomach or even make you contimplate suicide, so come and read this at your own risk. All I ask in return for my contribution to humanity is that you don't sue me if I ever happen to mention you. Anything and everything I write is 100% truth*.
It was a beautiful day outside, or maybe it was the 9 k-pins and multiple blunts I had only hours before work. I began my drive to work swerving and speeding amongst the traffic in hopes of making time for red bull, the sweetest nectar present in the world. I chugged my red bulls, made an attempt at appearing sober, and then proceeded to walk through the 12 million dollar "wooden shack" known as Bahama Breeze. As always, I sat around for around a half hour playing sodoku in front of all the guests as they waved their arms in the air every few minutes hoping to make me work; "don't make eye contact." That's my motto in the workplace. Out of nowhere, as if by magic a Jay-Z concert was just let out, the deck filled with Canadians (restaurant lingo for black people). It's not that I dislike black people or am racist in any way, but even if the CEO of Microsoft were black he still wouldn't tip more than 10%.
I approached my first table.
"Oh my goodness, you were our waiter last time!"
For some reason people believe we carry this mental photo album of restaurant guests... It just so happens though that I did remember this party. They came in a week ago, a half hour before we closed, complained about half the food and gave me less than 2% of their check. I pretended to be excited to see them again, and quickly suggested something cheap to start off with. I delivered the drinks and quickly ran off to the side to take a chug of my $5 captain morgan bottle.
About fifteen minutes into their meal a random guy came up to me, intrigued by the cankles of one of the women at my table, and offered to buy the table two rounds of drinks. I grabbed his credit card, got the drinks, and dropped off the check to him. He handed me back a signed credit card slip, with nothing but a signature. Thanks for allowing me to pay money out of my own pocket for you to eat here you bottom-feeding faggot.
It was near the end of their meal, and I dropped off their checks. They handed me their credit cards in return. I was a little drunk and dropped one of the cards. "What have you been drinking?" If they only knew... I walked off with the credit cards, hid them in a random spot in the restaurant, then walked out on the job. They had it coming. I woke up the next morning, surprised I even remembered the event. I already found another job, which is the purpose of this blog... To document the stupidity of common people in my work from beginning until end.
*some articles may be exaggerated for dramatic purpose.
