Like I’ve said before, where our restaurant is located, we get a good mix of low-income white trash and high-income, stuck-up bitches that have a taste for Appletinis.

File this one under: “low-income white trash”.

A mother and father come in with their children, all under the age of five. The youngest is no older than one. He’s crying and carrying on and flailing wildly but that’s par for the course with mothers like this one missing teeth and fathers like this one asking if we have “PBR in a can”.

I’m fucking 21 years old and even I don’t drink PBR. That shit is one step above “a horse’s piss after drinking bad beer”.

So the mother and father are sitting there, trading stories about pick-up trucks or whatever it is backwoods parents with Dale Earnhardt t-shirts talk about to pass the time.

And the kid is still crying. The other customers at the table are starting to get a little frustrated. I am praying silently she doesn’t use her breast to pacify the little tyke.

For the time being, I’m relived when she pulls out an empty bottle. I’m getting ready for her to ask me to get her some milk to put in the bottle (which I’ll gladly fucking do to 1. shut that kid up, I have a headache and 2. appease the other customers, I like tips).

She unscrews the top of the bottle. “Good,” I think, “she brought her own formula.”

And then she pours…what is that…is that her Coke? Coca-fucking-cola? She’s putting her mother fucking coke in her infant’s bottle and he’s…Christ…he’s sucking that stuff down. He can’t get more than a couple of seconds worth of coke down his throat before he starts to cough, obviously not having a complex enough digestive system to handle something as corrosive (and disgustingly sugary) as Coke.

I once had a problem with my car battery. There was all this rust and crap on it. Do you know what my mechanic suggested I do? Pour Coke on it. I poured a single can of Coke on the battery and the rust completely corroded. That’s why I can’t (and don’t) drink Coke.

Now imagine that tiny child’s tiny stomach lining corroding from having Coke in his system a half dozen years too early. Yea, makes me wince too.

I’m not an asshole. I see that this child who is still bundled up like a newborn should not be drinking Coke. That he should be drinking something like…I don’t know…milk? Juice? Something other than what I use to get the rust off my car battery when it’s not running properly, that’s for damn sure.

So I walk up to the woman and ask (politely, mind you) if she’d like me to bring her some milk for the child. Her response?

Her: “I don’t wanta hafta pay two dollars for Coke you’ll refill for me for free.”

Holy shit. If there was ever a better pro-choice argument, I haven’t heard it.

Me: “Ma’am, I’d be happy to bring you some milk for free for the child. It’s not a problem at all.”
Her: “Oh…well, then…okay. Can you clean out this here bottle from all da Coke in it?”
Me: “Absolutely. Not a problem.”

The other customers at the table are sharing my sentiments that this lady is not fit to raise a parakeet, much less three children.

Two dollars, ma’am? Is it truly worth two dollars for your child’s health and well-being? Shit, I’ll give you a couple hundred right now for formula to keep that kid healthy enough for long enough to realize that you are a shitty parent and that he needs to go downtown and find some new parents. Pronto.

Every now and again, I’m going to bring back an older post that many of you frequenting my site may not have had the opportunity to read. Here is one of them now:

As I walk into the bathroom, I hear someone talking very excitedly into the phone in the closed-door stall. Curious, I listen in as I use the urinal.

Him: “Listen, baby, I’m here with my wife. How’s an hour sound?…Okay…Yea…Yea…No, that won’t work…Yea!…Okay, see you then.”

The look he gave me as he walked out of the stall and saw me washing my hands was one of first confusion and then fear. My expression nearly matched his as I realized this was the same man who just minutes ago I was serving onion soup and two Philadelphia sushi rolls to. I didn’t know this dude was my customer.

For the rest of the meal, the knot in my stomach made its way up into my throat as I saw this man affectionately kiss his wife, hold her hand with his left and feed his infant daughter steamed rice and cheerios with his right. I wonder if she had any idea. I wonder if their marriage was any good. I wonder if they laid in bed until 2 in the morning talking like my girlfriend and I do. I wonder if when he came back to the house he’d made a home, he showered before kissing his wife hello.

As they left, I heard the man say, “Okay, honey. I’ll catch up with you two at the house. I’ve gotta help Donald with something with his car.” She kissed him, smiled and walked out the front door and into her car. He stayed at the bar a few extra minutes and then jumped into his own car. I guess he’d thought ahead and brought two.

He was smiling too.

John’s wedding was pretty much the most frickin’ amazing thing ever. Here’s a few of the highlights:

1. Only getting three red tickets for one free drink each. Then proceeding to steal blue tickets off of 60-year-old’s tables for unlimited drinks.
2. The YMCA. Trashed.
3. Kissing the hand of a majorly hot mom.
4. Her boyfriend giving me “the look”.
5. Every single one of my friends laughing at me.
6. The groom cracking up at the altar.
7. Me being the cause of it.

I went back to work today and it wasn’t long before I found myself talking to an idiot. The phone at the hostess stand started ringing. Our manager April was nowhere to be found so I answered it.

Me: “[Name of restaurant]. Ryan speaking. How may I help you?”
Voice: “I’d like to make a reservation for ten.”
Me: “Okay. What day?”
Voice: “Thursday, October 18th. Is 6pm okay?”

No, that is not an exaggeration. The douche wanted a reservation for nearly five months from now.

Me: “Uh…sir…did you say October 18th?”
Voice: “Yes. Why? Will that be a problem. It’s my daughter’s birthday.”
Me: “Well…I don’t think we…ummm…make reservations that far in advance?”
Voice: “What?!”
Me: “…”
Voice: “Is your manager there, or are you too incompetent for that too?”

Oh, hell no. Hell. No.

Me: “Sir, if you’re too incompetent to make a five minute phone call to a restaurant in the SAME SEASON as your daughter’s birthday, then I don’t think we can help you.”
Voice: “Why, I…”

Click.

Last week, I had a Russian family of four that looked like they had just jumped off the last potato wagon coming to America. The father had the thickest Russian accent I had encountered in my time at my Japenese restaurant and the mother had an even thicker aroma of vodka coming from lips. The family huddled around their bowls of fried rice like they were bonfires in downtown Moscow on a winter night.

And if this family is indicative of Russian hospitality it’s no wonder Hitler turned his back on those guys halfway through World War II. This family was beyond rude. “Is dis ze only vod-KA you have?! That is incomprehensible!” They rang up a bill of 65 dollars and tipped me two.

Listen, guys. You went to space first. You developed nuclear weapons and built a civilization on a huge sheet of ice. I know you guys can figure that’s no better than a 3% tip.

As they left, my manager April informed me that one of them had left their jacket. My initial reaction was to throw that thing away in the server’s trash can behind the kitchen curtain. But then I had a better idea.

I went outside, tracked down the mother and father, and said:

“When you left your three percent tip you also left your jacket. Have a great night.”

The mother looked confused. The father looked furious. The kids were eating turnips or whatever it is small Russian children do. I just walked inside.

I thought about saying “Don’t tread on me” but I thought that a bit too much.