Forgive me if I’m wrong, but when a couple goes out to eat, is it not the man who takes up the check most of the time? I’d give it a 9:1 ratio of dudes paying to dudettes paying. Obviously, the woman I served last night didn’t have her little (yes, very little) head wrapped around that little fact as she complained ad nauseum that I didn’t give her the check.

Her: “Ummm…why did you just assume that HE was going to pay for it?”
Me: “Because guys usually pick up the check.”
Her: “EXCUSE me?”
Me: “Ummm…”
Her: “That is soooo sexist!”
Me: “Well, here you go.”

And then I handed her the check. I went to go pick it up a little bit later, ran the credit card through and put the bill back on the table in front of her. Not a minute later, I saw the GUY signing his name because it was HIS credit card.

What a douchette. She bitches me out over principle and then doesn’t even follow through with it. At least the guy was cool. He gave me a 50% tip and a “Sorry my girlfriend’s a b****” on the bottom of the receipt. So, if anyone knows of a Benjamin B. Rossain with a high-strung-for-absolutely-no-reason girlfriend, give him a high-five for me because he 1) has her for a girlfriend and 2) frickin’ deserves it.

Before I begin, did I just put “black people” and “whipping boy” in the same sentence?

Anyway, I’m just wondering why when someone says “bad tippers” their thoughts immediately turn to “black person”? Is it because there’s simply more blacks than in any other restaurant-going minority, thereby more examples to reinforce this stereotype? Is it because whites make up the largest ethnic group in America that it’s easier to compare blacks and whites? Is it something deeper? I really don’t know.

I know that in most of my articles (especially the one where I called out every demographic’s frickin’ downfall) I’ve tried to paint a fair picture. I call out old people who can’t tip. I call out rednecks who can’t tip. I call out finicky asians who can’t tip. I call out teenagers who can’t tip.

But I say the same thing about blacks and the debate gets heated.

I’ve read around and whenever I post an article that involves a black family not tipping well, it’s lauded and supported with emails and comments as “truth”. But when I rail a family of rednecks, bros who listen to way too much Dave Matthews, or teenagers who wouldn’t know good music if it came up and sang “Golden Slumbers” right in front of their face, it gets quiet. No comments. No discussions. No debate. No nothing.

What is it with us? Do we so crave the black vs. white thing so much that we will ignore idiot-bashing until it’s about black people?

I’ve written almost five times as many articles poking fun at white yuppie soccer moms who wouldn’t know how to fill their Hummer with gas if their life depended on it and yet I have TEN TIMES as many comments on the articles bashing idiots who are black.

I even called a 14-year-old girl hot. Two comments. Accidental pedophilia, people!

The title of the website is I Serve Idiots. Not “I Serve Black Idiots”. Not “Black People Tip Terribly”. This is a place where we can come together as a community of people who hate idiots and…well…hate idiots. Regardless of class, gender, race, economic level, etc…

Please, guys. Tell me what’s up. Help me gain some perspective. I’m begging y’all.

Dear ma’am and sir,

I am sorry I had the audacity to say such a stupid fucking thing as “I’ll be right with you all” when you came in.

I am sorry I had three tables already. On a fucking Friday night, no less. Who would have mother-mcfucking thought?

I am sorry you were “disappointed as hell” in the way it took me three (yes, I timed it) minutes from when I said “I’ll be right with you” to “Hi, my name’s Ryan”.

I am sorry that the Diet Coke was not to your “liking”. I know how odd Diet Coke tastes in a Japanese restaurant as opposed to everywhere else in the world.

I am sorry that we do not have “chicken fingers and curly fries”.

I am sorry you didn’t see the Hooter’s right next door.

I am sorry we do not sell Cherry Coke.

I am sorry you “don’t think that cherry juice and coke would taste the same”.

I am sorry that you dress your daughter in baggy jeans.

I am sorry you felt the need to give your daughter a shorter haircut than her brother.

I am sorry you made your daughter wear a ridiculous pair of overalls.

I am sorry your daughter hid her face so well in the FUCKING TRUCKER HAT YOU GAVE HER TO WEAR that all I had to go on were baggy jeans, a short hair cut and overalls when I accidentally said “him”.

I am sorry I go by the same gender binaries as 99 PERCENT OF THE REST OF THE FUCKING WORLD.

I am sorry that you felt my manager, April, did not satisfy your anger well enough when you complained I referred to your “little princess as a him”.

I am sorry that our coupons can only be used once per visit, you cheap fucks.

I am sorry that you didn’t have enough money to leave me more than a $0.46 tip.

I am sorry that you, ma’am, have saggy breasts and you, sir, have a needledick.

I am sorry you are pieces of trash.

I am sorry you suck.

I am sorry you are worthless

I am sorry you will die lonely and miss everything cool.

Kisses,
Ryan

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.