Last night at work, there was this little douchebag kid who looked like he’d been home schooled by an equally douche-y mom. (Not to say home schooled kids are bad as I have really good friends who were home schooled from kindergarten to 5th or 6th grade and they’re cool as hell…they’re all just much paler than the rest of my friends).

Anyway, this kid had little to no social skills and went absolutely crazy when he downed his first soda. Does anyone remember in “The Simpsons” when Bart gives Flanders’ kids some pixie sticks and they taste sugar for the first time? That’s what this kid was like. Except it wasn’t a cartoon and I couldn’t punch this kid in the face like Homer does to Flanders. Frickin’ cartoons.

A little background before I go on: At our restaurant, the chefs come out to the tables and grill right in front of you. We only had two chefs last night to cook for the tables and there were three servers, each with one table. You do the frickin’ math.

And guess who was odd man out? Yea. Me.

So they’re waiting, and I’m apologizing to everyone at the table about the wait and explaining the situation when this kid, out of nowhere, looks me square in the eye and asks:

Him: “Yes. Waiter. When exactly will our chef be coming out?”
Me: “Oh, well…I’m sorry, but like I said…there’s only two chefs and as you can see, there’s three…”
Him: “I didn’t ask for excuses.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Him: “Are we going to have to cook this meal ourselves?”

I look at the mom, but she has a look on her face like she agrees with this little punk. Well screw her too. This kid couldn’t have been older than eight years old. I’m not gonna take crap from someone a decade and a half younger than me.

Me: “Ma’am…”
Her: “When is our chef coming out?”
Me: “Goodbye.”

Life Lesson #1: Talking back is a frickin’ learned behavior. And it seems this kid his had fill of homework from his overly-snarky mother.

After the chef came out and the kid had eaten his fill, he asked for another soda. The mom didn’t want him having sugar or caffeine, so she asked he have a Diet Coke. After emptying about six packets of sugar into that kid’s cup, I gladly obliged.

Thanks goes out to James VanMeter from Ohio for sending the following story.

I have been in the service industry from the age of 15, starting out hosting and then bussing and so on. Now, 11 years into the industry, I’m 26 and a bartender at the hottest bar in Ohio.

It’s a humungous club that frequents at least a 1,000 patrons on a slow weekend. Our club sits right on the boundaries of campus. Thus, everyone with a really good fake, or just barely over the age of 21, crawls into our bar to let loose.

It often gets out of control as we have this insane happy hour that involves dollar wells and dollar drafts. These idiots have the audacity to ask dumbass questions like “What’s a well?” or “What’s in a rum and coke?” My personal favorite is always “Can I get a double for a dollar?”

…idiots…pure idiots…

Anyway, on a dumbass night (Thursdays) this guy comes up like he knew what he was talking about and orders two vodka cranberries and two raspberry vodkas…

Yes, a raspberry vodka.

Me: “What?”
Him: “You know…two raspberry vodkas…”
Me: (As I bite my tongue) “First of all, I assume you want it for a dollar right?”
Him: “Yeah.”
Me: “Second, there is no raspberry-flavored vodka in our well selection.”
Him: “No, I don’t want raspberry-flavored vodka.”

(Here’s where it gets great)

Him: “I want vodka and….raspberry juice.”
Me: “Let me ask you something: In your whole entire life…and I mean whole life…have you ever had raspberry juice?”

(Wait for it)

Him: “No. I guess I haven’t.”
Me: “Then what fucking makes you think I got it here?”

He got short-poured four vodka cranberries.

Recently, in a nearby town, there was a “Biker Week”. Think what would happen if you sold bar-b-que and Harley products outside of a Wal-Mart and you’ve got the kinds of people who showed up to this thing.

And as a result of the “Bike Week” we had some interesting men and women show up to the restaurant last week.

After serving a couple who looked like they hadn’t paid more than $4.95 for a meal in their life, I handed them the bill. I left, came back a few minutes later to retrieve the check, and to my surprise found only a ten dollar bill inside for a bill well over $40.

Husband: “We’re not payin’ how much it says on the bill.”
Me: “Um…I don’t know if you can…do that?”
Wife: “It was way too much. We’ll give ya ten bucks for it.”
Me: “I think I’ll need at least thirty more dollars. Sorry.”
Husband: “Forty is way too much fer some fish and rice. I could’ve made that at home for five dollars.”
Me: “I still think you need to pay the whole bill. That’s why we have menus with prices next to the items.”
Husband: “Can we trade you fer it?”
Me: “Uh…no.”
Wife: “Go get yore manager.”

Suffice to say, the manager got the rest of the thirty out of them, but not without a triumphant “That’s the last you’ll see of us!” as they exited the building and a big, yellow glob of spit in our ash tray.

I was going to write a great post about how for the last week I’ve been giving people who ask for Coke, Diet Coke, and vice versa, but I’ll save that for later. Here’s a post about the type of lady who probably voted to get Hilary the wins in the Texas and Ohio primaries yesterday. Can’t you ladies do ANYTHING right?

Me: “Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?”
Woman 1: “Yes, I’d like an ice water.”
Me: “Alright. I’ll be right out with that.”

(A few seconds later)

Woman 1: “What is this!?”
Me: “Umm…an ice water?”
Woman 2: “Why does it have a lemon in it!?”
Me: “Uh…”
Woman 1: “When I ask for an ICE WATER I don’t expect a LEMON.”
Me: “Sorry, ma’am. I guess it’s just because I’m so used to getting people lemons with their…”
Woman 1: “No excuses.”

Is this frickin’ high school football practice? “No excuses”? What’s next, calling me by last name from across the restaurant? How are you going to get all bent out of shape over a lemon wedge on the edge of your glass of water when that’s how 98% of the rest of the world drinks their water. That’s like asking for a house salad and then throwing a temper tantrum when they put tomatoes in it.

Sorry, ma’am. Next time you come in, I’ll ask if you want silverware with your meal, chicken with your “Chicken Dinner” and a straw with your drink. Screw you and your little fake breasts too.

P.S. Yea, that’s right. We all know your breasts are fake. Don’t flaunt them like they’re your own personal gift from God. Unless, of course, by “God”, you mean a “depressed, middle-aged, sexually frustrated husband who’s married to a frigid woman that snaps at waiters for putting lemons in their waters and whose only source of sexual excitement stems from the half-assed attempts of a plastic surgeon that, by the looks of things, flunked out of medical school twice.”

P.P.S. Go Obama!