A conversation from earlier this morning. I’m on the phone with a customer who thinks “customer” means “free-for-all to try and get in my panties” who has let me know that I don’t have to treat him like a “regular” customer because he is “special”. I can be “myself” with him.

Great. It’s going to be one of those days.

Customer: “Okay, so I will be in D.C. on Sunday…”
Me: “How lovely for you. Unfortunately we are closed on Sundays so you can’t stop by the office to pick up those products you ordered.”
Customer: “I was thinking that on my way home I could stop off to see a good friend. Namely…you.”
Me: “Um, sir, did you fail local geography?! Oh wait. you’re from Jersey. I can’t hold it against you, I suppose. Or, I can and will and you can’t do anything about it.”
Customer: “What do you mean? That wasn’t nice either. I’m the customer! I’m always right! You can’t make fun of me!”
Me: “Darling, no matter how badly you want to marry me, I will never stop making fun of New Jersey. It is in my blood! And it’s my full-time hobby. Whenever I have to fill out those stupid things to be introduced into new community events, etc. I put under the hobbies section ‘Mocker Of New Jersey’ or ‘Personal Representative Of Death To All New Jersians’.”

I pause and laugh at the term “Jersian” and silently applaud my clever word skills.

Customer: “Okay, enough!”
Me: (brashly soldering on) “I even have a little speech prepared regarding what I think New Jersey is good for. Oh please, don’t tell me you have fond feelings that run deep in your heart for New Jersey, the fair Garden State! Your one true love?
Customer: (in a very injured tone) “I now live in Philly. Doesn’t that count for something?!”
Me: (thoughtfully) “Not really. You see, my hate for New Jersey runs deep. It is just as much a part of me as my perfect breasts!”
Customer: (laughing nervously) “You are silly, and yes, you do have those.”

I have him right where I want him now.

Me: “I mean, seriously, how the hell can you claim that as your home state when the state dance is the square dance?!”
Customer: “ENOUGH!”
Me: “And when you have a STATE DINOSAUR!”

(They have a state dinosaur. Look it the fuck up.)

Customer: (groans) “Let’s talk more about your breasts!”
Me: “No, this is more fun.”
Customer: “Send me a good morning Monday picture of yourself!”
Me: “Delaware has wisely chosen to avoid mockery and not have a state dinosaur. We have better things to do than elect extinct creatures are representatives of ourselves. I mean, can you imagine chartering that bill?!”
Customer: “Uhhh…”
Me: “‘Hello, New Jersians. I clearly have too much time on my hands, in between my busy schedule of killing people, overly gelling my hair and being obnoxious, so I thought I’d introduce a bill so we can proudly talk about our state dinosaur over dinner.’ Now, doesn’t that sound lovely? And don’t you respect me more as a public servant and leader?!”

Customer: (through tightly clenched teeth) “That is nice.”
Me: “I think if I ever run for office, that will be my first bill for sure. A NATIONAL dinosaur. So, in foreign policy we can remind people just how badass we are. WE HAVE A NATIONAL DINOSAUR and they DON’T. So they should be quaking in their very boots. Fuck nuclear power! We’ve got dinosaurs!”
Customer: “I just wanted a nice Monday morning chat with my favorite customer service representative and maybe even a picture?”
Me: “How does a picture of a dinosaur sound?”

This is Part I in a four-part series designed to inform servers on how they’re fucking up. You can read Part II here, Part III here or Part IV here.

Last March, I wrote a four-part series informing the public how to be better customers and filling them in on societal laws that govern the restaurant industry that they’re either blissfully ignorant of or just too fucking stupid to follow.

I took some time off from being a waiter to work on a lot of things. It’s my senior year of college and I’d raise my GPA, build a portfolio for when I go out into the “real world” and just plain have fun with my friends before I’m…well…never going to see them again.

I’ve got a lot more free time now, so I tend to eat out a little more frequently than before. And I’ve noticed one thing:

A lot of servers have no fucking clue how to serve a table.

So, just as I felt convicted to explain to the meathead-customers how to act in fucking public, I feel an onus of responsibility to inform some waiters and waitresses that some (or all) of what they’re doing is wrong. And some things they’re not doing, they should.

This first part focuses on physical appearance and what it means to the restaurant industry. (Hint: Almost everything.)

And I know that sounds a bit superficial. Let me explain. I’m not saying you need to look like pre-pregnant Britney Spears when getting a table their cheeseburger. God knows I wouldn’t have lasted very long if that were the case. What I am saying is that you should look presentable. Being hygienic and well-kept is the key.

Universal Server Rule #1 Hygiene is the single most important thing in the restaurant industry.

I’ll delve into this a bit more in future parts, but I cannot stress enough how important it is to have proper hygiene when serving tables.

If people are comfortable, they’ll be prone to be happier. If you didn’t take a shower that morning and pull an oops-I-forgot-to-put-on-deodorant before you come into work, how are your customers going to be comfortable? In terms of hygiene, treat your table like your boyfriend or your girlfriend. You need to smell nice, you need to wash your hands, you need to comb your hair.

If you haven’t the social awareness to get clean for your boyfriend or girlfriend, you need deeper help than a stupid guide to servers on a website can give you.

For guys, pretend going to work is like going on a date. If you can, take a shower. If you can’t, wash your face. Soap is a plus. Shave. Brush your motherfucking teeth. Christ, I don’t care if you think you have immaculate gums, you brush your fucking teeth. Halitosis and halibut dinners do not mix. Comb your hair.

For girls, physical appearance is even more important because of social binaries and societal pressures put on women to concentrate on outward appearance.

Yea, yea, yea…bitch, bitch, bitch.

But do you know what the difference between making $80 in a night and making $150 in a night is? Good-smelling hair. White teeth for smiling. A laugh that doesn’t expel disgusting fumes my way. I think women have this down better than men though. I hope.

Universal Server Rule #2: For the love of God, learn to dress yourself.

(This rule applies to restaurants. If you work in a cafe for hippies or a coffeeshop downtown somewhere, rules are going to be a bit more lax.)

Some things I would suggest:

1. If you’re wearing black skate shoes to work with holes all over, something is wrong. Do you know how gross it is to be greeted by a server where you can see his socks through his shoes and you can tell exactly how wet it is in the server hallway by how many chicken guts and dish water are attached to the sock? Your customer is now sufficiently grossed out.

2. Tuck in your shirt. If you type up an argument, I’d like to point out that it takes less time to tuck that shirt in than it did for you to bitch me out on MY blog.

3. If you’ve got a bunch of tattoos, wear long sleeves. Not everyone likes tattoos and the majority of people 30 and over fall into that category. The majority of your customer base are people 30 and over. Commutative property, bitches. Look it up.

Universal Server Rule #3: Things like blowing your nose and washing your hands should be motherfucking automatic you sick sons of bitches.

I have had servers with dried, crusted, forest green snot on their upper lip and that shit is NOT kosher. If there’s not a mirror in the server’s hallway and you know you’ve got a runny nose, go to the bathroom and check that shit out. I’d trade being dealt with two minutes later than thinking of that shit on your upper lip as I’m eating my pesto.

And speaking of bathrooms, wash your hands. Wash your hands, wash your hands, wash your motherfucking hands. I have had servers refill my drinks and have the glass coming away smelling like piss. Thank God I don’t drink Mountain Dew or I’d be scarred.

Friday, specific advice on hygiene and some of the most disgusting servers I’ve ever had the “pleasure” of encountering.

This is Part I in a four-part series designed to inform servers on how they’re fucking up. You can read Part II here, Part III here or Part IV here.

I consider myself a reasonable man. That’s why when I bring out TWO plates of sushi for TWO customers and one of the customers asks for two plates, I get them two EXTRA plates. No questions asked, no funny looks.

But the other day I brought these two douches their two extra plates when the dad says, “Do you have any smaller plates?”

Me: “No, sorry. These are the only plates we have.”
Dude: “Are you serious?”
Me: “Yes. Why?”
Dude: “Well, my wife and I are REALLY in the mood for smaller plates…”

Here are some acceptable things people can (and should) get “in the mood” for:

1. A movie featuring jets and/or lasers
2. Star Wars
3. Chocolate anything
4. Teri Hatcher and/or pre-coked out Lindsay Lohan.
5. Music made between 1960 and 1979.

Here are some UN-FRICKIN’-ACCEPTABLE things people can and should get “in the mood” for:

1. Smaller plates.

A few weeks ago, a small, spoiled and overly-groomed creature came tripping into the dealership.

Tripping.

Apparently, the week before her parents had bought her a vehicle worth far more than the median income in the area. What was this momentous occasion? Why, graduating from high school of course! Way too go, sweetie! Maintaining that C- average! Passing high school! Such a accomplishment! And you’re not even knocked up!

As I passed her talking to one of our salespeople, I overheard her say:

“Yes! I’m getting ready to go to college and I want to study business!”

As she says this, she tosses her hair and laughs an annoying sort of bray, like a donkey on crack. And even though she is inside, she is hardly using her inside voice, littering all her sentences with exclamation points. Like! She just won! The lottery! And is giving! Her! Class! Campaign! SPEECH!

“Oh. What do I want to do?! I want to be a pharma… pharma… pharmaceutical rep!” (She bravely pushes herself through a five syllable word!) “Mhm! Yes! They do make lots of money!” And with that, she manages to bray, exclaim and shimmy her boobs in this odd sort of victory dance.

I was just happy she made it through an entire sentence without crying.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. I wanted to walk over to her and say “Honey. Could you do me a favor and say barbiturate? That’s right B-A-R-B-I-T-U-R-A-T-E.”

I have a special place of loathing in my heart for women who want to get into this particular line of business not realizing how much work sales is; women (see: girls) who think they can show some skin and be great at sales. Thus leaving the women who are actually in sales-related jobs to fight the stereotypes and sexual harassment suits. I kind of want to hunt them all down and rip out their ovaries.

But, I digress.

So, I was in my manager’s office telling him this story and we were laughing at it, quite hard I might add. At this moment the salesperson chose to bring her in the office and introduce her to the manager. The manager strikes up friendly conversation with her, asking the same questions and getting the same answers. Then he says “Oh! So when you’re a pharmaceutical rep, you can bring us barbiturates!”

He kept trying to goad her into saying “barbiturates” by asking a few different questions, several different ways. I stood there, trying so very desperately not to laugh, but occasionally, I would let up this sort of strangled choking noise, while repressing the tears of mirth that were rising to my eyes.

Collegiate Barbie is getting more confused by the minute. The laughter, the big words, they are all too much for her. With a very puzzled look on her face she askes:

“Bar–whats?”

I couldn’t resist any longer, so I jumped in and said helpfully “Nothing, dear. Just a fancy word for a bar. You know, jello-shots and beer! The places wherein you find any amount of alcohol reason enough to take your shirt off!”

A look of dawning passed over her face and she started prattling on “…so this one time at band camp…”