Exhibit A: I rolled something that looked very much like a joint of marijuana (which was simply rolled copier paper) and lit it, in my office.

Exhibit B: Once I was caught “smoking” in the building, I sprayed enough Coconut Lime Verbena air freshener to force all the coworkers at the opposite end of the building come down to my office and ask me if I was preparing for the beach.

Exhibit C: I took my (very convincing) joint outside to smoke with my boss and stood at the back of the building where cops frequently patrol and chatted amiably while puffing away.

Exhibit D: When a fellow employee asked me what I was doing, I told them my job had given me,a stress related disease and I had, a few weeks ago, been prescribed marijuana for medicinal purposes. The promptly fled.

Exhibit E: The owner stormed out and asked me what exactly I was doing, I calmly informed him I was carefully studying our latest report and absorbing it via smoke osmosis. Didn’t want to miss any scintillating details.

Exhibit F: After reluctantly stubbing my joint out, I crammed a entire milky way in my mouth. When asked what exactly I was doing, I said (through a mouthful of candy bar) “I have the munchies!”

Exhibit G: When I was told I would not be fired because it was obvious I was mentally unstable and because they “had pity on me” I threw myself across my desk, clung to their pant legs and begged them to reconsider.

I was never bothered for trivial chat, extra projects or menial tasks again.

The fourth winner of the weekly contest comes to us all the way from Portland, Oregon. She asked me that I not say her name as she has co-workers that also read the site and she’d rather they not read this as they are (and I quote from her email) “stupid bitches that have tried to get [her] fired several times before. If they knew I wrote this, they’d show my boss and I might be let go.”

The kicker was when she mentioned that it’s not her fault that “their anger probably stems from the fact that I [objectionable sexual act omitted] better than they could ever dream.” Way to go, Ms. Oregon. Here’s her story:

So it’s 8:30 on a rainy Friday night. I should have been let go, but one of the girls had recently slept with the shift manager that for that night, so naturally, it was me who had to stay on.

Typical.

I was real testy that night. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the fact that I’d forgotten my cigarettes at home in my other purse, maybe it was the fact that the balding man at Table 9 kept looking at me as though he were undressing me with his eyes…hell, maybe it was a combination of all of those things. The only thing I know is that I was ready to explode at the slightest touch.

And then Mr. Fucked-In-Half-Drunk walked in. “Good,” I thought. “At least he wouldn’t remember the amount of bitch I was about to unleash on him.”

Him: “Yes, I’d like a bottle of your house Merlot and an appetizer menu. Pronto.”

I thought they only said “pronto” in sitcoms and cartoons. Suppose not.

So I get him his menu and his bottle of wine and get his dinner order. He also ordered appetizers. Now, our dinners come with some soups, some with salads, some with both. He ordered a dinner with both. To spread out all the stuff he was getting before the dinner, I had to give him his soup before his appetizer and then round everything out with the salad. In a perfect world, as he finished the salad I’d bring him his entree and he’d be as happy as a clam.

In a perfect world.

As I gave him his soup, his face turned beet-red and he exclaimed “Excuse me!”

Me: “Is there something wrong, sir?”
Him: “Tell me something, girl. When do the appetizers usually come out?”

Rule #1 when speaking to women. Don’t call them anything except for their first name and/or “ma’am” and always, always, ALWAYS make sure to speak politely or else be prepared to wake up without an appendage.”

Me: “They usually come before the meal, sir. Usually.”
Him: “Well, this looks like my meal.”
Me: “Unless you ordered a soup as your meal, sir, it is not. In fact, your meal, in case you forgot, is a…”
Him: “I know what I ordered. You may leave.”
Me: “I may leave?”
Him: “Yes.”

And here’s the kicker.

Me: “Oh, thank you, oh exalted one! I shall be back with your appetizers at once!”

His ladyfriend laughed and I’m guessing the twenty-spot that was left in the checkbook (after the tip line had a big zero on it) was from her. Thanks, ma’am. Sorry you’ve got an appetizer-Nazi as a companion.

Again, anyone with stories should submit them to iserveidiots@gmail.com and I’ll put each week’s winner up on the site every Monday.

It truly pisses me off when a man acts like an incredible asshole in hopes of impressing his girlfriend, wife and/or mistress. It especially upsets me when that man is a bro, but tonight was not the night for bros. No, no, no…tonight was the night for middle-aged, balding men out with women that could not possibly have secured dates with had it not been for a bottomless checking account and the promises of much jewelry and fine wine.

As the 40-something man was getting drunker and drunker on our completely-over-priced wine and sake, the woman was still nursing her glass of house Merlot. From the look in the guy’s eye and the way he flicked his tounge as if no one was around him, I would’ve been halfway through my second bottle if I was this guy’s date so as to not remember what was to come later that night.

The two were finishing up their meal and the woman was all thank you’s and please’s. That made one of them. The man was nowhere near as cordial.

“Hey, want to pick up these plates now or am I going to have to wait until after I pay?”

“What does it take to get some more wine around here?”

“Boy! Can I have my damned check?”

A quick question before I proceed: Why is it you women hang around men like this? You know it only encourages them to act on their I’m-angry-because-I-have-a-small-penis impulses when you don’t speak up and say something about it, right? My guess is because saying something would result in a black eye or two. Or less jewelry that week. But, hey, what do I know about women?

So the man was an ass because he thought it’d make him look like more of a man when I came by to ask them if they wanted anything else.

Him: “Do y’all have any special desserts?”
Me: “Special desserts?”
Him: “Yes. Special desserts.” (He made air quotes around “special desserts” to make sure I knew he was a douchebag.)
Me: “Well, we have fried ice cream and fried cheesecake which is my fav…”
Him: (interrupting) “No. Special desserts.”
Me: “Sir, what exactly constitutes a special dessert?”
Him: “A. Special. Dessert.”
Me: “…”
Him: “A. Special. Dessert.”
Me: “I heard you the first time, sir. If you’re asking whether or not we put pot into any of our desserts, then no, we do not have special desserts.”
Him: “Just get me my check.”

You can thank Lizzie for this next story. She’s the winner of the third week of my eight-week contest giving you guys a chance to showcase your writing skills. If you think you can do better, email me at iserveidiots@gmail.com and I’ll pick the best story out of this week and post it next Monday.

I worked this summer as a server in an upscale restaurant in a resort that is on the beach. As it just opened about three months ago, there are some kinks that haven’t been worked out yet, one of them being the fact that we have an outdoor patio that is not fenced in. As a result, any random tourist can walk in off the beach in health-code- (and social-modesty-) -defying swimsuits and be covered in sand.

90% of these idiots are also self-seaters. (Fuck them).

After a few weeks we got smart enough to put up a sign that says:

“Please see hostess desk to be seated and served outside.”

We forgot one important thing: people can’t read.

So after getting yelled at enough times by people who had sat themselves and then five minutes later yell at me because nobody had seen them yet, I went straight to
the office to print out a large, easy-to-read sign that spread across two sheets of paper that said very simply:

SEE HOSTESSES FOR OUTSIDE SEATING AND SERVICE.

I thought even if people were too stupid to read them when they sat themselves, they would see them when they came in to demand service, realize their mistake, and go see the hostesses.

No such luck.

Inevitably, we are always understaffed for outside, and on those days when there’s only one person, it’s usually always me. So I began entirely ignoring people who sat themselves, because if they don’t bother to come in to see the hostesses, they obviously don’t want service. Here is a typical exchange between me and any given idiot who can’t read who has come inside to yell at me.

Idiot: “EXCUSE ME/MISS/HEY! We’ve been sitting at that table right there for 5 minutes and we haven’t gotten service.”
Me: (Carrying something heavy or awkward, and thus not in a position to sit and chat) “I’m sorry about that, but we do have two signs here by the door that say to please see the hostesses so that they can give you menus and assign you a server.”
Idiot: Well, can you go get us some menus?
Me: “I’m sorry sir, but my hands are full…if you see the hostesses, they can get them for you.”
Idiot: (Obviously has been thinking about food the whole time and hasn’t
listened to a damn word I’ve said) “Okay, well can you go get the hostess and tell her to bring us some menus?
Me: (Fucking over it) Fine.

If you can’t even read the GODDAMNED SIGNS (PLURAL) that we have NEXT TO THE FUCKING DOOR that you walked in to yell at me, then I am forced to come to the conclusion that you cannot read. And, since we have deduced you are illiterate, I’m curious as to why you want a menu. There aren’t any pictures on it, so if you can’t read, what exactly do you plan on doing with it?

And, not only do I have to then SERVE this jackass (with the tip automatically shot no matter what), but now he thinks that he can still self-seat because I didn’t want to deal with his bullshit anymore and just went and got him the damn menu.

Again, anyone with stories should submit them to iserveidiots@gmail.com and I’ll put each week’s winner up on the site every Monday.