When I was eight years old I was rightfully told I was well versed in the art of bullshit. I can, with little effort, sound intelligent on almost any subject.

With the exception of airplanes and science fiction movies.

As time has passed, I have realized the value of such a gift. I have honed my craft and polished my arrows of verbal destruction. This has not been in vain.

A customer walked into my office and seated himself in front of my desk. He didn’t knock. Didn’t ask if he could sit. He just planted himself front and center for maximum harassing purposes.

He was a middle aged librarian type. Tweed jacket, leather elbow patches, gold rimmed glasses, crisp in his words. Vaguely interesting fellow, however, highly pretentious. In short, a Grade-A bag of douche.

Sitting behind my desk on my counter is an iron cast statue. I bought it off the sale rack of Ikea. It is pretty, fits nicely with my decor and garners the occasional compliment and conversation.

However, with this customer (see: douche) it wasn’t going to simply start a conversation; it was going to provide deep and meaningful conversation for his entire duration of the visit in my office. It was going to provide him with the fodder he needed to show just how wise and worldly he was.

He started off with a barrage of questions regarding it:

Name of statue?
Name of artist?
Significance?
Era?
Did it have that balance of a circumference big enough to feel good in his ass and yet small enough not to bruise?

He started guessing a few of the answers, trying to draw me out and figure out just how uneducated I was. Like he was some kind of expert who went around educating people as to their inferior knowledge of five dollar statues from Swedish furnishing companies.

A little background: He informs me he’s an art professor at the local college. I tried to put on my caring face, but it was wearing thin.

At first, I cringed. Another two hours with some yuppie who found their significance in life by harassing customer service professionals about their office decorations. Then, it dawned on me, he wants answers?! HE’LL GET ANSWERS! Once the bullshit started to spew, it couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. See if you can spot the bullshit in what I told him. It’ll be like a “Where’s Waldo” or something:

“This statue, entitled “Life”, is a beautifully simple portrayal of the childlike desire to embrace the moments we have and dance. It was crafted by a African child named Muesaka Zwibi whose warrior king father was killed by warring rebels. Muesaka was brought to London where he is currently studying at the Royal College of Art. He hopes to be a generational influence for peace and a advocate for the simplistic beauty and joy that art can bring to the classroom. His collection will be debuted fall of 2007.”

He left. Quiet and commentless. If only airplanes and science fiction were that easy.

Dear ma’am and sir,

I am sorry I had the audacity to say such a stupid fucking thing as “I’ll be right with you all” when you came in.

I am sorry I had three tables already. On a fucking Friday night, no less. Who would have mother-mcfucking thought?

I am sorry you were “disappointed as hell” in the way it took me three (yes, I timed it) minutes from when I said “I’ll be right with you” to “Hi, my name’s Ryan”.

I am sorry that the Diet Coke was not to your “liking”. I know how odd Diet Coke tastes in a Japanese restaurant as opposed to everywhere else in the world.

I am sorry that we do not have “chicken fingers and curly fries”.

I am sorry you didn’t see the Hooter’s right next door.

I am sorry we do not sell Cherry Coke.

I am sorry you “don’t think that cherry juice and coke would taste the same”.

I am sorry that you dress your daughter in baggy jeans.

I am sorry you felt the need to give your daughter a shorter haircut than her brother.

I am sorry you made your daughter wear a ridiculous pair of overalls.

I am sorry your daughter hid her face so well in the FUCKING TRUCKER HAT YOU GAVE HER TO WEAR that all I had to go on were baggy jeans, a short hair cut and overalls when I accidentally said “him”.

I am sorry I go by the same gender binaries as 99 PERCENT OF THE REST OF THE FUCKING WORLD.

I am sorry that you felt my manager, April, did not satisfy your anger well enough when you complained I referred to your “little princess as a him”.

I am sorry that our coupons can only be used once per visit, you cheap fucks.

I am sorry that you didn’t have enough money to leave me more than a $0.46 tip.

I am sorry that you, ma’am, have saggy breasts and you, sir, have a needledick.

I am sorry you are pieces of trash.

I am sorry you suck.

I am sorry you are worthless

I am sorry you will die lonely and miss everything cool.

Kisses,
Ryan

Before I begin, let me say it has been a pleasure reading each and every one of you all’s stories. I’ve gotten well over a hundred stories during the course of the eight-week contest. I’m still taking submissions for the Reader’s Idiots page. Go on over to the Do You Serve Idiots Too? page to read how you can get on that.

The eighth and final contest winner is a guy by the name of Tony. If you like his story, go on over and visit his site called TonyDine.

The restaurant was having one of our “Chef Dinners” - you know, special menu, special ingredients, all that. It’s a night that is almost always balls-to-the-wall busy. Crazy busy — no time for bullshit, no time for one table of assholes to fuck around and get you in the weeds.

I get the first table of the night. As the hostess is coming to tell me I’ve been sat, I think I notice a certain look she’s giving me, trying to give me, but I can’t confirm it. No time - more customers are coming in and she can’t sidle up discreetly and whisper what I am sure is information I need.

I already can tell by her wide eyes and tired sigh what her look is trying to tell me. Servers know this look. In fact, all restaurant staff know this look - it’s the look that tells you the table you are about to approach is going to get you seriously wondering if you wouldn’t mind trading your server job for the momentary joy of shoving a dinner roll so far down some fuckers throat that his prostate gets covered in bread flour.

I walk up to the table hoping I had misread the hostess’ body language. There are three of them - one guy sitting across from a man and woman.

So I say, “Hi, I’m Tony. I’ll be your server.”

I continue, blah blah, tell them about the specials, blah blah, end by asking if anyone would like a drink.

Before I begin, let me explain something: In your head, please do a deep southern white trash accent for this next guy’s dialogue. Why is it, no matter where in the U.S. you are, if someone is a dumbass redneck, they talk with some pseudo-southern accent? We’re in Wisconsin, but this guy talks like fucking Bubba from the block.

“I don’t know,” says the dude. “Depends how much a beer cost in this place. What are they like $10 a bottle?”

In my head, I’ve already stuck my wine key into his eye.

I say, “Just typical prices – three dollars for a domestic, three seventy five and up for imports.”

The two men order beer, and when the lady begins to order a wine, Bubba from the block stops her.

“I’m already paying enough for the beer, I’m not paying another five dollars for a glass of wine.”

Of course you’re not, I think. In my imagination I’m now turning the corkscrew of my wine key into his eye.

I bring the beers and do my best to seem good ol’ boyish to the fine gentlemen. One of my strengths has always been my chameleon-like ability. Without trying, I seem to know how to talk to almost all social groups. I am able to fit in with whomever. So the dude seems to get along with me. When he jokes about his wife (I’ve been told by now they are married) having a big butt, I give him a “nothing wrong with big butts as long as there nice ones” response. Then a wink, wink, nudge, nudge. He guffaws and she actually looks please by the compliment. (Compliment? Weird.)

It’s a tedious table to wait on. Every interaction becomes a complicated middle-class struggle. He doesn’t know what to order because all the descriptions are too damn fancy (”If it’s a sweet and sour like sauce why can’t it just say so?” for example). The beer has a different label one time (God only knows why, but of course it had to happen with this douche bag), so this now becomes a scam we are trying on him. Apparently there is a cabal of label switching desperadoes bent on world domination. His wife warms up to me in a big way, and he tells me she’ll be here next Tuesday with her friend for lunch – her friend is a real horny babe, so they will “treat me good.” Christ.

Finally they are reaching the end stage of dinner. I’ve bantered my way through classless remark after classless remark. I’ve done my best self-deprecating laugh with each “there goes your tip” comment. I’ve feigned laughter when he asks about a waitress, and after finding out she’s barely eighteen, says it’s okay, she won’t feel weird calling him daddy. Let me repeat: she. won’t. feel. weird. calling. him. daddy.

The crowning bon mot – that he was disappointed we had no bathroom attendant to hand him towels, or at least shake off his dick. I’ve redirected the energy of each stupid remark like a verbal judo master. I’ve gritted my teeth, ground them to nubs really, created a permanent cramp in my jaw muscles.

But now the end is here. Check dropped, payment received.

Mercifully, the trio leaves. Assuring me they’ve taken good care of me with the tip (turns out that means a giant 15%, which is probably more than they’ve ever tipped), the wife winks and looks me up and down. Bubba laughs and grabs her around the waist.

“See you Tuesday,” she says as they push through the door and are finally gone.
Finally, I can breathe again.

I immediately tell the floor manager I will burn the place down if I’m ever scheduled to work another Tuesday ever.

The sign I posted in the public bathroom after one afternoon of seeing one crumpled bit of bath tissue too many on the floor:

To Those Who Use This Bathroom,

We live in a rather advanced day and age of medicine.

Realistic prosthetics have been developed. Every day they are coming closer to a cure for cancer. We no longer have rampant debilitating diseases like…oh, I don’t know, polio? Small pox, the black plague and other sickness that brought certain death have not reared their ugly heads in years.

Do you know why this is possible? Anybody? Bueller?

Because people learned HYGIENE!

Not just the basic washing of hands and soap usage, but the THROWING YOUR PAPER TOWELS INTO THE TRASHCAN!

Think about it: Do you REALLY want to pick up someones germy paper towel with little creepy-crawly things and only God-knows-what on it? NO! And no one wants to pick up yours. So, we have a simple little request:

AIM. And if you miss, pick it up.

The trashcan is waist high, two inches from where you are standing now. If you miss and are incapable of trying again and AGAIN until you get it, you should really think about what the words “PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING” mean and if they’re applicable to YOU.

If you find all this insulting, just clean up after yourself and you will save yourself from being the person I’m writing this sign for.

Thank you,
Mgmt.