Here’s a pretty good example:

Tonight we celebrated two birthdays at work. I was elected to purchase a cake and opted to get a cake make of cupcakes, with the gayest frosting colors I could find. I had the bakery attendant put “Happy Anniversary Gary & Bob.”

Yada, yada, yada, at the end of the night there were a few remaining cupcakes leftover so before throwing them out, the other closer and I jokingly threatened to throw them on each other. I tried to convince him to simply allow me to smash him in the face with the tray of cupcakes. In exchange I offered to close out his remaining tables. I retracted my offer once I realized he had so many tables left. Just as we were debating it, the very pregnant hostess walked by. She offered to let me smash the cupcakes in her face if she was allowed to leave early, right afterwards. Once I got permission from the manager, It was on, bitches.

I gotta tell you, hitting a visibly pregnant woman in the face with a tray of cupcakes is a lot harder than it sounds. It’s not that the tray was heavy – for fuck’s sake it was 4 cupcakes on a cardboard tray. It’s just the debate that goes on in your head takes a lot to overcome. A little voice in my head was repeating, “This seems so very wrong.” Luckily, a louder voice was saying, “Hellz yeah, I’m about to hit someone in the face with some cupcakes.”

She prepared herself by taking off her glasses and pushing her face forward. I couldn’t do it with her staring at me so I made her close her eyes. Then I couldn’t do it because I felt bad smashing the entire tray into her face so I opted to go a kinder, gentler route – I just used a single cupcake. I neared her face slowly and then smooched the cupcake into her chin and mouth area. The excessive blue frosting smeared all over the bottom area of her face and dripped into her ample, pregnant bosom. All in all it was a gratifying experience. I would definitely do it again and I would highly recommend it to others.

It did take her about 10 minutes to clean the frosting off of her face – maybe next time I will be more considerate and get white cake with white frosting.

There will definitely be a next time.

Tonight a middle-aged African American couple sat down in my section. It was two hours before close. Business had pretty much died out. The other guests in my station were reasonably demanding and tipping decently. All in all, I was in a good mood and planned to stay that way for the remainder of the night.

I gave the couple outstanding service. They thanked me and even told me that the service was great. After I handed them their check, I watched as they gathered their money. It seemed to be taking them a seriously long time. They kept shifting money from one pile to the other and it was hard to tell (until later) what exactly they were trying to do. Then the wife began searching through her purse for change.

Finally, after a few minutes, the man hands me the check with his cash and says, “Keep the change.” I see him put a $20 in his pocket as him and his wife start to gather their things.

When I count his money, not only has he neglected to tip me but he shorted me a penny. I suddenly realized that the reason it took so long to get his money together was because he was trying not to break a $20. So instead of breaking a $20 so that he could tip me, he decided to stiff me and short me a penny. Being in such a good mood, I found it quite laughable. I approached the table and politely engaged the couple in the following conversation.

Me: I’m sorry sir. I think you must have miscounted. You are a penny short.
Man: What?
Me: The bill is $30.81 and you only gave me $30.80.
Man: It’s only a penny.
Me: I know but I still need you to pay your entire bill.
Woman: Can’t you just give him a penny?
Me: No, sorry. I have to collect the entire bill.
Man: You don’t have a penny?
Me: No, I don’t. Besides, it’s not my penny to pay.
Woman to man: Just give her the $20.

The man begrudgingly hands me the $20. I say, “Thank you very much. I will be right back with your change.” I returned a minute later with his change, which included two nickels and 9 pennies. The man counted his change several times before they both headed out the door.

The moral of the story: You don’t HAVE to tip me for awesome service but you bet your sweet ass you have to pay every single penny of your check.

Within the first hour of my shift I was so bored that I volunteered to trim a busboy’s facial hair.  This act was inspired by the fact that his mustache had gotten so long he was almost eating it.  I’m not a big fan of facial hair – especially excessive beard hair.  In fact, when I think about men with ZZ Top beards it kind of makes me sick to my stomach.  At first I imagine the awesome things you could hide within their beard hair – like staplers or horseshoes.  Inevitably I wind up thinking about the things that wind up there inadvertently-  like soup broth, Cheetos dust, or fingernail clippings.  To save the busboy from having a destiny filled with such inadvertent items, I took him to the back and carefully clipped the excess hair from around his lip and chin.  I used a pair of scissors from the cashier’s drawer that were probably infected with the plague – nothing but the best.   A cashier supervised the ordeal and advised me when everything appeared even and presentable.

Having done my good deed of the day, I tried to fill the boredom with idle chitchat. When this method failed, I decided to organize a contest.  I offered every female staff member the opportunity to join the contest.  It was a runway walk contest – America’s Next Top Model style.  We opted to walk from the hostess stand, to the other end of the restaurant, where we would do a pose and a turn. I was able to convince 5 out of 7 girls to participate – luring them in using a free milkshake as a prize.  A manager and the busboy with the freshly trimmed facial hair judged the competition.  After our awesome performances they stood at the bar and discussed (in great detail) who should win the coveted first prize/milkshake.  Then the judges came to the hostess stand to deliver the news.  First they told everyone what they did wrong.  I was told, “You weren’t serious enough.  You smiled too much.  You’re supposed to keep a straight face, models don’t smile.”  Of course, this is total BS.  Models are allowed to smile.  If anything I should be faulted for being well under 5’10″. In the end a hostess won.

When she went on break, she rubbed it in a little by telling me how delicious her free milkshake was.  The only thing I could say was, “You’re lucky it wasn’t a beauty contest.”

You know the type, they call every girl a “hottie” and insist on leaving their number for every waitress – even after they were told not to bother because they would never get a phone call.  As unlikely as it seems that anyone would ever sleep with guys who reek so strongly of desperation, they probably get laid pretty frequently.  Statistically speaking,  if they hit on 1000 girls at least 1 will have self esteem low enough to sleep with one of them.  For all of them to get laid, they would just need to hit on 4000 girls -that’s doable in one evening.

These guys started out being pretty annoying.  It wasn’t that they were rude or anything; it was just 4 in the afternoon and they were drunker than most people at 4 in the morning.

It’s not as cool to be uncontrollably drunk at 4 in the afternoon.  Buzzed… yes.  Controllably drunk… yes.  Four guys in their early twenties drunk from sharing a bottle of Baileys… nope, nothing you do can make that cool.

Another factor that makes people who have reached this level of drunkenness more annoying at 4 in the afternoon is the fact that the waitstaff hasn’t eased into it yet.  The later you work in Vegas, the drunker people get.  This means 4 a.m. drunks are 3 times more drunk than 10 p.m. drunks, just as 10 p.m. drunks are 3 times more drunk than 8 p.m. drunks.  It’s just a system that you get used to when waiting tables at night.  The fact that guests have gotten progressively more drunk during your shift, makes dealing with 4 a.m. drunks a lot easier.  The downside is that being used to this system makes dealing with 4 p.m. drunks, who are the only drunks who have stepped foot in the entire restaurant all day long, more annoying.

The ordering process was pretty uneventful, except for when one guy told me that his voice was hoarse from throwing up non-stop last night.  He then started to describe the scenario and I intervened to tell him that a more detailed description wasn’t necessary.  He then asked if it was because I was grossed out and I replied, “No, I just have other things to do, besides listening to the awesome story about how much your threw up last night.” His drunks friends laughed.  One tried to high-five me and I pulled my hand away just in time for his hand to hit another guy in the face – a skill that should be envied by all.

After everyone got their shit together and ordered, one of the guys promptly fell asleep.  He didn’t really seem like he was passed out; just like he was taking a little nap.  I didn’t bother to wake him.  He remained asleep while the others patiently (and loudly) waited for their food.  He slept through them eating their food, getting dessert, and paying the check.

I was pretty excited about the possibility of him throwing up or remaining unconscious when the group was ready to depart.  I crossed my fingers and hoped that something exciting was going happen.  I even made it a point to be watching the table from the hostess stand, as they all stood up to leave.  At first, the situation seemed promising.  The three remaining guys tried unsuccessfully to wake their sleeping friend.  They poked him a few times and spoke directly into his ears but there was no response.  I was super-excited that something was finally going to break up the monotony of my day.  I was filled with joy when thinking of the possible scenarios this could mean: maybe security would need to bring a wheel chair or maybe the guy would throw up in his sleep directly onto his friend (hopefully the one who loves to talk about vomit).

As my joy and anticipation grew greater and greater, it was suddenly and anti-climatically dispersed in a cloud of disappointment.  The man woke up, took a sip of water, and left without further incident.  WOW… Day shift is boring; the one opportunity that has the potential to become an incident just fizzles and fades away.  During night shift that man would have vomited onto the floor, slipped in it, and knocked himself and at least 4 innocent bystanders unconscious.

Better luck next time, I guess.

(Tip= 25%, drunks love smart asses, plus I’m 800,000 times more attractive when guys have been drinking)

Of course, I’m kidding about the escaped part… they were probably released once they were no longer a danger to themselves or to others. It’s just weird how some people have just enough crazy left in them for other people to be able to readily identify them. Perhaps it’s a tick, or the need to repeat the same soothing sentence while rocking themselves back and forth. For whatever reason, I find it interesting when someone clearly has some fucked up OCD-like behavior. Sometimes I wonder if the person I am waiting on is in the beginning stages of OCD or their behavior is actually an improvement from before. This keeps me awake until the wee hours of the morning – then I get up, turn the light off and on 5 times, walk to the bathroom in exactly 10 steps while avoiding the cracks in the tile, and wash my hands 3 times.

Afterward, I uneventfully get dressed and go to work to wait on someone like this:

Woman: Do you have Coke products?
Me: Yes
Woman : I will have a Diet Coke
Me: OK, one Diet Coke
Woman: I’m not finished. I want a Diet Coke with very little ice. 8 cubes of ice to be exact.
Me: OK.
Woman: AND… three splashes of regular coke.
Me: OK. One Diet with 8 cubes of ice and three splashes of coke.
Woman: Not 2 splashes, not 4 splashes… THREE splashes of coke.
Me: Got it, 3 splashes of coke.

To reiterate her point the woman held her hand like she was holding the soda gun and went “pssssh, pssssh, pssssh.”

You have to wonder about someone who orders a fucking Diet Coke like this. That’s a lot of precise instructions for a fucking soda. Unfortunately, she didn’t eat so I can’t tell you how she ordered her food. She just stared longingly at her friend’s plate the entire time instead.

I wonder if this is the start of her neurosis or an improvement from before…

BTW: She got a Diet Coke with 13 pieces of ice and 5 splashes of coke. She didn’t die or mention it.

Here are a couple of examples of things we discussed today while patrons ate their food.

MBHI:

Gaysian: M B H I
Me: What?
Gaysian: M B H I. I told you what that means, right?
Me: No, I don’t think so. If you did I definitely don’t remember now.
Gaysian: My butthole itches
Me: Nope, this is the first time I’m hearing it. Does it itch frequently enough to warrant an abbreviation for it?
Gaysian: Sometimes, especially on my days off.
Me: Why?
Gaysian: Because sometimes I don’t shower on my days off and the lube builds up and gets sticky.
Me: That’s gross but not the grossest thing I’ve heard today.

Me: M V I B
Gaysian: Oh God, what does that mean?
Me: My vagina is bloody.
Gaysian: Ugh.

Duck Butter:

Gaysian: I think I’ve got duck butter.
Me: Oh no, do I dare ask what duck butter is? It doesn’t sound good. Is it a gay thing?
Gaysian: No, all guys get it.
Me: Do tell.
Gaysian: It’s when you go to the gym or do something really physical and you get a build up of funk around your balls.
Me: That’s gross. Balls are just gross anyways and now you’re telling me about the butter around them… But why is it called duck butter? It makes it sound even more disgusting.
Gaysian: Vaginas are just as gross. Think of all the fluid that comes directly out of them.
Me: Touché

A Dog In The Hallway:

Me: Oh, look at that cute dog.
Rocky: That’s dog is cute but why is it in the hallway?
Me: I don’t know. I hope it does something exciting.
Rocky: Like what?
Me: I don’t care really, just something out of the norm. You know… to break up the monotony of this painstakingly boring day.
Rocky: That would be cool.

We spent the remainder of the day naming things we would like to see a dog do in the hallway.

I can’t remember all of them because they were mostly said in passing. Here are a few that I remember:

- Take a giant shit right on the floor.
- Throw up and eat it.
- Pee on a lady’s leg while she isn’t paying attention and then walk away without being detected.
- Ride by on a skateboard.
- Hump a small child.
- Scoot on it’s ass all the way to the other end of the hallway.
- Walk by smoking a cigar.
- Walk past, foaming at the mouth (The foam would be from an Alka Seltzer and not rabies because we wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt).

Notes:

A new thing I recently implemented was passing notes. It’s like in high school, only even less mature.

As I was waiting to walk out with the closing staff, I jotted down a message on a small piece of paper. I folded it up, handed it to a busboy, and asked him to take the note to the closing server. The server was standing several feet away, having a serious conversation with the closing manager. The closing server opened the letter, laughed loudly and handed it to the manager.

The note read:
“My pussy hole hurts.“

Man #1: I don’t get it. What is a douchebag?
Man #2: You know… it’s a bag of water that a woman cleans her vagina with.

Woman #1 (to me): I’m soooooo sorry. My husband is so confused about douching.

Man #1: I mean, how does it work?

Woman #2 (to me): It can be confusing… if you don’t have a vagina. Can we get some lemons please.
Me: -slow blink-

Man #2: I don’t really know how the water gets into the woman’s vagina
Man #1: Why would someone call a person a douchebag? Is it a bad thing?

Woman #1: OH LOOK HONEY! They have buffalo wings.
Man #1 (to his wife): I’m having a serious conversation here.

Man #2: It depends. In some cultures being referred to as a douche or a douchebag is a compliment. In America it’s meant to be an insult.
Man #1: Why the fuck is it an insult? Who says?
Man #2: I don’t think it is. It cleans a vagina for fuck’s sake.
Man #1: I know… right? Everyone likes clean vaginas.

Me: Douching isn’t necessary since the vagina is a self cleaning organ. (slight pause) Being called a douchebag is an insult because everyone knows that douching isn’t in style and hasn’t been since the 70s.

Everyone at the table: -blank stare-

Me: Did you all decide on food or would you like a few moments to ponder what I just said?

They laughed, and then paused their conversation long enough to order because the women were staaa-rrr-viiiiing!

They must have been impressed with my extensive douching knowledge because they tipped me 40%.

Me: May I take your plate?
Man: If you want me to lick it I will.
Men: (realizing how dirty he sounded the man begins laughing like a lunatic)
Me: That won’t be necessary.
Men: Wait… I wasn’t talking about your vagina.
Me: I figured.

He was, at the very least, a pleasant and fun drunk. He joked a lot and skipped around like a leprechaun who had finally found their misplaced gold. He also put receipts behind his ears and roared like a dinosaur.

While watching him frolic around like Cooter Brown was both fun and entertaining, it really wasn’t professional or acceptable. Even though restaurants run themselves, him being so visibly intoxicated was just bad for business. He was escorted off property towards the end of his shift.

This situation left us minus one manager. The remaining managers have been working long hours and working 7 days a week for almost 2 months now – exactly why I would never be them. After scouring the face of the Earth (and possibly Mars) they have finally found what they deem to be a suitable replacement.

Because people within this industry change jobs frequently, it is simply impossible for anyone to start entirely anew. Someone from your new job ALWAYS knows someone from your last job. Past co-workers will spill all of your dirty little secrets long before you have a chance to do so yourself. With that said, our new manager has previously worked at several other locations on the strip and someone immediately recognized him. In an attempt to get him to spill his own dirt, I pretended to know someone he used to work with.

Me: Did you used to work at XXXX?
Him: Yes
Me: Oh, my friend John works there.
Him: Hmmmm…. Good old John.
Me: Yep, Good old John.
Him: Is he still mad at me?
Me: You’ll have to ask him yourself.
Him: What did he say about me?
Me: Nothing really.
Him: He didn’t say anything bad about me?
Me: He didn’t say anything positive.
Him: I’ll take that as a yes.

Later….

Me: So why do you think John doesn’t like you?
Him: You’ll have to ask him that.
Me: Touché