Unless by “conspiracy” you mean “I, the customer, am dumb as shit.”

So this lady and her husband/boyfriend/random drunk hookup are at one of my tables and the lady is bitching about how the steak is “too chewy” when

1) she has eaten over half the steak,
2) she’s eating some as she says this and
3) she ordered it “medium rare”. It’s gonna be chewy, ma’am. Next time order your meat a little more cooked and it’ll be cool.

But then the bill comes and the dude takes one look at it and starts fuming:

Him: “Yea, waiter, the price on the bill for my dinner and the price on the menu are two dollars off.”
Me: “Oh, well…let me get a menu and we can clear this right up and I can get you your two dollars back.”

Let me just stop right there. For everyone that reads this website, this should be a punch in the mouth to anyone that says “Well, the only reason he deals with idiots is because he’s a crappy waiter.” Did you just read what I said to the guy? It’s 8:00pm on a Friday evening and I’m going to all this trouble for two dollars. Hell yea. Go me. Anyways:

Him: “No no no…don’t do…well…okay. Bring the menu.”
Me: (I bring the menu) “See, sir…you must have thought this said $16.95, but your Filet Mignon dinner is $18.95 just as it is on your bill.”
Him: “Go get another menu. I think mine was different.”
Me: “Ummm…sir…they’re all the same.”
Him: “Oh, I see what’s going on here. Whatever. Someone else will catch it and be more of an asshole than I was.”

No, sir. No one is else is going to “catch it” because there’s nothing to catch. Unless, of course, you’re talking about the obvious herpes on your lady-friend’s lip. Then yea, someone else is going to “catch it”.

Another manager is the winner of the Monday contest, this time her name’s Margaret and she managers a self-described “high-end restaurant”. That means no microwaves to reheat grilled-cheese sandwiches. No bottles of Hershey’s chocolate syrup to pour over bowls of cheap ice cream. In other words, not my type of restaurant, but probably good nonetheless. It’s short and sweet, but it’s such a common occurrence in the restaurant industry (and I had a boring week of emails from you guys). Enjoy!

A family of six are seated – and the father at the table looks at the menu and says very loudly and with a heavy southern accent:

“I can’t eat here, they ain’t got nothing fried!”

He then proceeds to ask the waiter if we could deep-fry something for her. She couldn’t believe that we didn’t have a deep-fryer. They ended up leaving, but not before informing the waitstaff that they were now in search of a restaurant that knows “how to properly cook food”.

Sad, really.

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.

Usually when a group of stupid women get together, my penis dies a little. Last night was no exception.

I’ll spare you all the details of their actual dining experience as it makes my head hurt just thinking about it. What made me lose most faith in humanity was when I brought them their bill.

The woman who shouldered the responsibility of paying waved me over after staring at her bill for a good ten minutes. Assume that her dialogue is spoken by a monkey with down syndrome and you’ll have some idea of the mental capacity of this broad.

Her: “Umm…sir…I don’t think the bill came out…like…right.”
Me: “Oh. Well, what’s wrong, ma’am?”
Her: “Well, I bought a side of salmon with the vegetable dinner.”
Me: “Okay.”
Her: “And the side of salmon was…like…nine dollars, right?”
Me: “Yes…”
Her: “And the vegetable dinner is $13.95, right?”
Me: “Yes, ma’am.”
Her: “Then why is the dinner coming in as $23?”
Me: “Umm…well…uh…the salmon is $9 and the dinner is $14.”
Her: “Yea…so why are they $23?”
Me: “Because 9 + 14 = 23.”
Her: “No it doesn’t.”
Me: “Yes it does.”

She then whips out her cell phone, does a quick calculation and puts the cell phone back in her purse, face red.

I hate little kids. Somehow, when you are a small person without manners you are allowed to ask any variety of probing questions. And for some odd reason, parents never feel the need to police their diarrheal mouthes.

Yesterday morning’s customers were no exception. The parents (the clients) were absently flipping through our products, so the little girls of the parents crowded around my desk, stole my pens, asked me a variety of questions and gazed in wonderment at an adult who didn’t give them their undivided attention.

As they clustered around my chair like so many tangled phone cords, allowing me to get absolutely no work done, one of the little ankle biters shoves her pudgy face in mind and suspiciously demanded to know “What is wrong with you face?!”

I thought about telling her I have allergies, that I am really, really tired or the unforgivable truth that I had been up all night working for their Mommy on a “really important” project. But I did a very horrible thing, I leaned over to them and whispered:

“I was run over by a truck on my way to work.” They laughed openly at me. I tried to shoo them in the direction of their parents but they came back like tourists to a car accident.

So I tried again: “I was mauled by a bear.”

They again screamed with laughter until they almost cried. Crikey. These were morbid little children. I tried a second time to buzz off, even tried bribing them with candy. But they were not to be moved.

I tried one last time: “Your Mommy hit me.”

At which, they nodded knowingly. One of the placed a dimpled finger to her cheek and asked sagely “Did you steal the remote?”