“Why I will never, ever, freaking ever be a waiter as long as I’m on this Earth.”
As a man with a sparkling personality, devastating sex appeal and an inviting scent, most people who meet me think I would make a terrific waiter. To support this argument, they remark at how good I am with small details and my ability to make large groups of people feel uncomfortable without even trying. They claim it’s a gift from God; my therapist and I think otherwise.
I’ve had a lot of Public Relation jobs in my life. Bartender, Customer Service Representative, gas station attendant, strip club DJ, rock slanga’, cameraman for Guys Gone Wild and a brief stand-in for Peter Jennings shortly before he died. I’ve never been a waiter, however. My reasons for this are pretty simple, if you ask me.
I can’t tolerate anyone, and I don’t like to walk and carry things at the same time.
Me and the Missus go out to eat about 10 times a month. We do this because we’re too lazy to go grocery shopping every 2 weeks, as initially agreed upon by contract when we started living together. Nope, we instead spend $60 a night, grinding our teeth in a nice restaurant, thinking of ways to telepathically poison the food of the party next to us and wishing we were at home.
For years, I cursed my luck, thinking that I was consistently sat next to the most annoying table at whichever eatery I happened to be dining at. Nowadays, I know better; every table is annoying, because everyone in the world is annoying.
Even you. Probably even the Missus, but not me. I’m sure of it.
No matter where I am, no matter the restaurant, no matter the city or state, I’m always seated next to one of the following groups. Allow me to elaborate:
Table #1 – Attention-seeking children; non-responsive parents. 96% of families in general.
Look, just because you’ve found a way to tune out the sound of your childrens’ voices, that doesn’t mean that everyone else at The Olive Garden* has. If your kid says “Mom!” one more time without you responding to them, I will pick them up by the ankles and beat you to death with your own kid. If you are physically unable to raise a child to keep their mouth shut when at a public place, you have failed as a parent and should never be allowed to enjoy a meal outside of your loud, and no doubt filthy, home.
*Still my favorite chain restaurant.
When I was a kid, it was naturally assumed that children had absolutely nothing of importance to say to adults, and the mere thought of addressing one was met with a look of disapproval and certain death. Not only does that teach respect, terror and good behavior, it also reminds you not to say anything unless it’s important. For example, if his or her pants were on fire, or he or she was in the clutches of a registered sex offender. Any other circumstance- denied!
Furthermore, I always see parents and their horrid spawn at expensive and ‘upscale‘ places. Why? Not only are you going to spend $200 on a meal that your kids aren’t going to even touch, you’ve also ruined a decent night out for those of us who aren’t inconsiderate mongoloids. If all you were looking for was an easy way to waste a bunch of money, you should have just donated it to Coats For Kids. Kids don’t need coats, dumbass.
Another thing that I see all the time are children leaving their tables and walking around unsupervised. No less than 20 times have I been eating, only to look to my immediate right and see some kid staring at me, typically covered in a sauce of some sort. In most cases, I wave the knife around a little and they back away. However, there are those times where I run into a child that’s more dense than a black hole, opting to stand next to my table and stare until their parents finally realize that they have strayed.
New rule, parents. If your kid stands by my table for one second longer than a minute, they become my property. I will then kill them, hollow them out and use their husks to smuggle meth across the border. You may have thought that story was just an urban legend, but I’m going to make it a reality with precious Tyler and Cheyenne.
Restaurants should also start stocking chairs that have seatbelts on them. Just a thought.
Now that smoking is pretty much banned in every restaurant in America, I propose that we have a section for families and groups of five or more people, and a second section for adult parties of four or less. Not only does that keep the noise and annoyance where it should be, but I can also fulfill my fantasy of eating an expensive dinner in the nude; this time, without Dateline NBC busting in with their fancy hidden cameras and litigations.
In short, children shouldn’t be allowed into any restaurant that doesn’t have a kid’s menu. And even then, they probably shouldn’t.
(If you’re one of the very few families that has children who are well-behaved enough to eat in public, pat yourself on the back. Then fly to the Space Station on the wings of a unicorn, because you don’t really exist.)
Table #2 – Groups of teenagers. Specifically girls.
If there’s one thing worse than a group of butthole parents and their equally-butthole children, it’s a group of unmonitored teenage girls, demonstrating why they should still be chaperoned by Daddy and huddled in the back of a diesel-powered mini-van.
Now, before you start calling me a sexist, I’ll have you know that I ran this theory by the Missus and she approved it. If at least one woman agrees with me, it can no longer be called sexist. Much like me making fun of fat people as long as one fat person thinks it’s funny. Thanks Cliff, you’ve unlocked months of comedy gold for me.
Most teenage girls that congregate in groups like to talk quickly and loudly about tough issues that matter, like politics, religion and how fat Dakota’s ass looks in that skirt. They laugh way too loud at things that are in no way humorous, are almost always rude to the waitstaff (if it’s a woman, especially), and are usually so stone-dumb that it’s embarrassing to even eavesdrop. Furthermore, they always want to talk to whoever’s on their phone far more than whoever’s at the table. Next time, they should really invite the person that’s on the phone, and they can skip a step.
Oh, and it goes without saying that you may want to silence your phone before you go into a restaurant. If you happen to be sitting next to me, I have a little system I like to follow:
If your phone is silenced during the meal: You will live. Dinner will continue as planned.
If your phone rings, and you immediately silence it: I will be annoyed, but forgiving. Even I forget to silence my phone at times, but my ringtone is so rad that people actually ask me to play it for them again.
If your phone rings, and you let it ring until your voicemail picks up: Your tires will be slashed upon exiting the eatery. Anything left on the dash will be stolen.
If your phone rings and you answer it: It’s over. I hope you’re having a good meal, because you’ll be seeing it again when I tear your stomach open with a broken bottle of Pabst.
If it turns out to be an emergency and you have to immediately leave the restaurant, that’s fine by me. Just as long as you don’t get to enjoy your meal, and someone that you know is potentially injured or killed. What’s important is that I’m happier than you.
Table #3 – The Snobs.
On most Sunday mornings, you can find me and the Missus at a place called Sir Hobo’s. Hobo’s is a diner a few blocks from our house that serves breakfast anytime and is run by a pushy Greek family. I like this place for a number of reasons. The food is cheap, the place is usually empty, everything’s covered in grease, and it’s owned by a pushy Greek family. If anything, I’m just happy that places like this still exist in big cities.
Me and the Missus can go there wearing hoodies and caps to cover our unwashed hair, still confident that there will be people at the bar looking worse than us. Nobody knows who we are, we’re never approached by acquaintances or co-workers, and the waitresses don’t want to chat. In fact, they all but throw your plates down on the counter, and everything’s scalding, even the milk*. I enjoy this more than I can accurately convey.
*You’ll laugh later; that’s really, truly funny.
Last Sunday, we were seated next to a well-scrubbed family of four, who had clearly never been to Sir Hobo’s before. They were dressed as if they just left church (which they probably had). I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a Range Rover parked outside with golf clubs sticking out of the back, all set for a relaxing drive to the country club to discuss fine wines and munch on unborn baby Yak cheese, or whatever it is that rich people eat when they’re around company.
Such a funny sentence.
So, the deep-voiced and not-at-all-to-be-messed-with Greek waitress comes over to take their order. For the next five minutes, she has to stand and listen to a lecture on the differences between wheat bread and whole wheat bread, even though I’m quite certain that Sir Hobo’s has neither nor. When they finally settled on an order that suited them, I heard them continuing to berate this poor woman after she left, for being so clearly uneducated in the fine workings of wheatiness.
Unless it’s deep-fried and over 1000 calories, you won’t find it there. I promise.
I was vibrating with anger. It was completely unnecessary and unspeakably rude. The id in me wanted to jump the booth and piledrive both Soccer Mom and Country Club Dad with ruthless aggression, but I guess I’m not that kind of guy. Next time, however, they won’t be so lucky.
I could go on for a few hours longer, but in short, I wouldn’t be a very good waiter.
Enjoy your day; sound off in the comments section and let me know if you would want me as your waiter.