A table of eight was given to me two nights ago. As I approached the table and asked what they’d like to drink, I was asked a question I’d never been asked before (nor do I believe I’ll ever be asked again).

Her: “Before I order a drink, is your coke carbonated?”

I thought she was trying to ask if our soda was a little flat, so I started to answer when I saw the woman next to her start cracking up. Oh, trying to play a joke on the old waiter, eh?

Me: “No, ma’am, we have non-carbonated Coca-Cola. Would you like a glass?”
Her: “No. You’d better give me the un-sweet tea.”

Now the woman next to her was chuckling even harder. Her face was a bright red and there were tears coming down her face as she tried to contain all the laughter she could.

Me: “Now you know, ma’am. The un-sweet tea is non-carbonated as well.”
Her: “It’s okay. At least now I’m prepared for it.”
Me: “Well, as long as you’re prepared for it.”

For the rest of the dinner, the woman that could not stop laughing talked with the woman who inquired as to whether or not we have carbonated soda. Come to find out, they were complete strangers and the woman was simply laughing because The Carbonation Woman was asking such a ridiculous question.

Whatever, I still got a 25% tip out of it from both of them.

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!

Sometimes, I’m the idiot.

Tonight was incredibly fast and as a result, didn’t have time to think before I said or did things. I was acting on pure instinct and ritual, which with someone like me (see: jackass) is not a good thing.

I was sat a couple. The man was a literal dwarf. He stood three feet high and his feet hung off the chair. The only reason I didn’t think he was a child was because he had 1) the diction of a thirty-year old and 2) a beard.

So I’m running around and I notice the guy is running out of Sprite. I sprint through the server’s hallway, get him a Sprite on my way to another table and drop it off. What I said as I dropped off the drink was neither intentional nor in mean spirit, but for some ungodly, unneccessary reason, in my brain of brains, I decided it would be a good idea to tag on a “Here you go, big guy” to the drop-off of the drink.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

I didn’t turn around as I walked away. All I could think was that I had bought at least six or seven one-way tickets to Hell with that little comment and I didn’t even do it on purpose.

For the rest of their time there, I made sure to put that guy’s needs above everyone else’s as I tried to recoup some sort of dignity from calling the ONLY FRICKIN’ LITTLE PERSON I’VE SERVED “big guy”.

There’s a special circle in Hell designed for people like me.