Is it just me or is it whenever you’re serving a table of all-women, they always seem to order two or three drinks each. And EVERY frickin’ drink has a frickin’ lemon wedge in it. No matter the drink.

Me: “You want a lemon wedge in your Sprite?”
Her: “Uh…yea?”
Me: “It’s already got lemon in it. You know…lemon-lime?”
Her: “What’s lemon-lime?”
Me: “Wow.”

So when I get a table of four women and they all order (no exaggeration) eleven drinks between them, I assume that the waters the four women ordered need lemons in them. Boy how I was wrong.

Her: “What’s this lemon doing in my drink?”
Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. Usually waters come with lemon.”
Her: “I’m allergic to lemon!”
Me: “You’re…what?”
Her: “I’m allergic to lemon! Did I ask for lemon in my water?”
Me: “No, but I assumed since you were getting the salmon dinner that’s cooked with lemon you’d be okay with it.”
Her: “Since when is fish cooked with lemons?”
Me: “Umm…forever?”
Her: (Rolls eyes)

P.S. You black people need to step it up. You Europeans too. I’m getting less and less from you guys and the white people are having to make up for it.

I have a co-worker, Mallory, who recently had a terrible, no-good, bad kind of day.

She came to work and complained that the haircut she got that morning was “too short” and looked like a “boy’s haircut”. I didn’t even notice anything because she always keeps her hair short. She kept mentioning it over and over and I guess that’s what made everyone notice it. Mallory, here’s a little tip: Don’t want people to notice your haircut that got cut a little bit too short? Don’t say a word. Not one.

Anyway, she thought her hair was too short. I’m getting some drinks for a table and I hear one of my fellow servers, John, talking to a chef, Mike. As Mallory comes walking up right behind them, the conversation goes as follows:

John: “You know, it [her haircut] kind of reminds me of my aunt’s.”
Mike: “It kind of reminds me of my uncle’s.”

Guys, harsh.

Not an hour later, one of Mallory’s customers asks her point-blank: “So, how far along are you?”

Cue Mallory walking to the bathroom to cry.

Poor girl. I will say one thing in her defense: Those kimonos (for girls) and happy coats (for guys) we have to wear put on at least 20 pounds to whoever’s wearing them.

For all you assholes out there that ask me for “Regular Iced Tea” and then smirk when I ask “Sweet or Unsweet?” you can burn in Hell. I’m not a mind-reader and we have three types of tea: hot, sweet and unsweet. If you can’t say “sweet”, “unsweet” or “hot” instead of the “regular” in “regular iced tea”, you can kiss the fattest part of my ass.

P.S. I’d like to direct everyone that reads this on over www.ieatpeople.com. It’s a site run by my roommate, Mike, and the stories run along the lines of Tucker Max in that it’s about him getting drunk and doing ridiculous things. So, if you want to read something new, check him out at www.ieatpeople.com.

The other night, a family asked for a pair of chopsticks for their obviously five-year old son. The kid could honestly not be over six. So I got him what we call “Training Chopsticks”; they’re tied at the top with a rubber band as to allow the chopsticks to open and close for themselves. It’s like training wheels for little kids and their chopsticks.

Yea, I know. We’re pretentious as hell. Get over it.

Anyway, so I bring back the kid’s “Training Chopsticks” and the Mom gives me one look and says:

Mom: “What are THESE?”
Me: “Umm. Chopsticks?”
Mom: “No. Is this a rubber band on the end of my child’s chopsticks?”
Me: “Yes? I’m not quite sure I under…”
Mom: “Does it LOOK like my son needs TRAINING CHOPSTICKS?! He’s a full-grown six years OLD!”

At this, she literally rips the chopsticks apart causing splinters, paper and a rubber band flying. What a bitch.

Chopsticks don’t make a man. That’s what a penis and an infatuation with the movie “Red Dawn” are for.