VILE SMILES

“No, no, no. You go grab the server and you tell her you are a paying customer and that she needs to seat you asap. You shouldn’t have to be standing around!”

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I was walking to the gym yesterday and some pot-bellied, flat assed, weird looking boobed, with crappy bangs, 30 something of a woman was yapping this into her cell phone. Not a particularly harsh example of cuntish banter by any stretch, but it strikes a chord with someone who spent the better part of two years after college trying to find themselves (working 25 hours a week, drinking gin, eating saltines, getting up at 4pm, wearing girls pants complete with their eyeliner, and not showering for days as to not mess up my hair) waiting tables and bar tending in this city. I know, I know-the service industry is a tough racket and you need to have thick skin for hot messes like this human urinal cake but in the same breathe, just because you are paying—which is customary I might add, doesn’t give you free range to slap me in the face with that low hanging peen which is your douchey self righteousness.

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Surprisingly, Philadelphia is known for it’s restaurant regulars who are pretty savvy when it comes to etiquette and tipping—-I mean there are the obvious exceptions; like if you get a table that is showering their predominantly seafood meal with half a gallon of hot sauce, whilst downing Mudslides, Mai Thais, Apple Martinis, Heinekens, and Courvoisier’s with coke; it’s a safe bet that they won’t be helping you keep the water running. However, If you deal with enough pleasant patrons who know the drill and tip you well, and so long as you have the wherewithal to correctly judge the shrimp cocktail-crews from the beginning, as to not get disappointed when they stiff you in the end, you can still have a lucrative enough night to spend the three hours after you are done your shift marinating your liver in Tanqueray and smoking Parliaments. It actually shakes out to a nice little existence.

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But ever so often there is an abomination like the one I walked past yesterday; just full of spite for a million reasons (including aforementioned ass, belly, and hair) and in attack dog (a non attractive, overweight, looks older than it is-kind of dog) mode, waiting to complain about her salad that isn’t completely bathed in lard. They always catch you by surprise too because one would assume they would be more in awe about how you managed to squeeze into your girlfriend’s pants, or despite the fact you smell like garbage and cigarette butts; how your hair looked so tits, than to be oblivious and start bitching right off the bat.

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Waiter Me: Hello, how is everything going tonight, my name is Ryan- I will be your super server (swear I used to say it. The one girl I worked with had a tattoo of a cat on her vagina and if the table was cool enough, she would flash it a few times during her intro. They would be all like, “Oh my God, did that hurt?”  She would be all like, “Yeah it did, but not as much as this one”—Then she would get closer to them and show them the inside of her lower lip that read “cocksucker.” So what are you bitches having to drink?” You really can’t hold a candle to that so I just kept it simple) would you like to hear our specials? (arching my back and pushing out my ass)

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Somebody Stupid- (not checking out my butt) “No, I want what I had last time. It’s the thing with the sauce on the bottom.

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Waiter Me: Yeah I don’t quite follow….hey does it wear tee shirts sometimes too? Haha.

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Somebody Stupid: Excuse me?

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Waiter Me: Forget it. No seriously, what you are describing is a bit vague. Why don’t you take a look at the menu to see if something jogs your memory?

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Somebody Stupid: Actually, why don’t you grab the manager wise guy

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Waiter Me: Maam, is that really necessary? (inaudibly say “suck my ass”)

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Somebody Stupid: Suck your what? Are you out of your mind?

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Waiter Me: Uh…do you want to see my friend’s tattoo?

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It’s been awhile but dealing with the sporadic assholes has left me with a streak of vigilantism where I feel an obligation to stick up for waiters and other service people that have to bite their tongues.

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Waitress: Hi folks how are you? What would you like to drink?

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Dude: She will have Absolut Cosmo. And I will have a Miller Lite

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Waitress: Is Bud Lite okay?

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Dude: Actually do you have any other lite beer?

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Me: (two tables over watching shit go down) You bro. Don’t be such an asshole. This girl is trying to make a living.

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Waitress: Seriously, it’s no big deal.  I think you misunderstood

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Dude: Hey guy, relax.  I’m getting an Amstel instead

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Me: Shut up and chew your gum.  I’m the fucking hero.  Got it guy?

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Dude: Whatever my man.

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Me: You’re whatever guy. (smirking bc I was the man)

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There is a good chance that I could be overreacting and the person on the phone with that woman could have had a legitimate gripe with whoever they were dealing with at the restaurant. But if there is one thing I have learned in my years is that dopey, loud mouth, goofy tit’ed retards like this prize keep comparable company.

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Then I went and wailed on my abs