So here’s the fucking deal.
You left me a tip.
A 7% tip.
If you know you are supposed to tip. Then you know that 7 fucking percent is not acceptable. And just for the record. It’s written in six different languages on the check. Quality service is usually rewarded with an 18% to 20% tip. So I assume that you can read because you managed to get yourself to NYC in the first place. And I assume you can count because you certainly managed to shell out money to cover the bill. So what the fuck is the deal. If you don’t want to tip, buy yourself a fucking blender and make strawberry daiquiris at home. They are stupid drinks anyway. And don’t fucking call me over to tell me that you can’t taste the alcohol. The reason frozen drinks were invented in the first place was so that pussies like you could drink without tasting the alcohol. And by the way, strawberry daiquiris (I don’t even know how to spell the fucking word) are for girls. If you don’t want to taste alcohol then find some other way to get drunk. There are probably 20 servers in shouting distance right now that could sell you anything you want. They probably even have it in their locker. Perhaps shooting up heroin is for you. You don’t have to taste that. Oh and for the server in the kitchen who asked what a gay drink was tonight. There is no such thing as a gay drink. There are drinks that gays drink but since drinks don’t have sex they inherently cannot be gay. And just for the record, don’t assume that just because I’m gay I drink fruity drinks out of a straw. You want to know what a gay drink is. Bourbon. On the rocks. And if I get to choose it’s Bulliet. Never. Never assume that because someone is gay that the only drink certain types of drinks. And just for the record it’s not my job to provide you the customer with toothpicks, headache medicine, band-aids or any other stupidly requested items. There is a Walgreen’s across the street. It’s 24 hours. Go there. I promise they’ll sell everything you need. It’s also not my job to tell you where to go after you leave my restaurant. I’ll tell you where to go if you want, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I don’t go out to nightclubs. No one I know goes out to nightclubs. It’s too fucking expensive. I work in a restaurant. Does it look like I want to spend 50 dollars to go into someplace to pay 20 dollars for a beer. To stand around with people who aren’t nearly as pretty as they think they are, posing in hopes that they’ll get laid. Don’t tell me you want to go to some NYC trendy place. What the fuck does that mean. And DO NOT. DO NOT. DO NOT. Let me give you suggestions as to where to go when you leave my restaurant and then tip me 10%. It almost makes me want to call ahead and tell the bartender not to bother. Oh, and don’t ask me where to go out for a fun night on the town at 8:30. If you are planning on going out in NYC, then at 8:30 you are at home sleeping, or ordering in drugs. Or doing something. You aren’t even going to leave your apartment till midnight. So leave me the fuck alone. Oh, and for all the hicks out there who always complain about homosexuals dressing in pink pants and boas to draw attention to themselves. The ones who say, why don’t you dress like everyone else. Well I say the same to you, fat old men, with the ten gallon cowboy hats on in the restaurant tonight. You are not on the ranch. You are not on the farm. There isn’t a cow within 200 miles of you. Leave the hat at home. And if by chance you HAVE to take it with everywhere you go, for god’s sake take it off in the restaurant. You look like a fool and to quote you, you are only doing it to draw attention to yourself. Except I’d say more people are laughing at you than the gay guy sitting across the restaurant in pink pants and a boa. And I know that I fixed it for you but how stupid to do you have to be to order the wrong drink for yourself. Very I’d say. You ordered Jack Daniels. I asked how you wanted it. You looked at me like I was stupid. I ask. On the rocks? Up? With Coke? You say with Coke. And then two minutes after I drop the drink off you call me over to tell me that you wanted a rum and coke. They are not the same thing. They are not even close to the same thing. One is rum. One is whiskey. Not the same. And it’s not like I didn’t ask you how you wanted your Jack. Daniels. Either you were too drunk to get another drink or you were too stupid. I’ll guess stupid since you and your hooker girl friends left me nine bucks on a 140 dollar tab. Definitely stupid. Oh, and if you have 20 people showing up at a restaurant. And at least five of them are under the age of 18, don’t get upset when you are told they can’t sit at the bar. And don’t get upset when it’s explained to you that you can’t stand in the door to the kitchen. That’s the way food is brought to all the other guests. And don’t complain that you can’t get a table for 20 even though you didn’t call ahead and it’s almost closing time. And then…LISTEN UP FUCKERS THIS IS DIRECTED AT YOU: DO NOT. DO NOT. DO NOT. Tell me that you’ll hook me up if I find a place for you too sit. Do not let me pull four of my five tables together for you and then find 20 chairs for you. Do not then proceed to yell at me that you need drinks now. And do not take up my tables for two hours to only spend 125.00. That’s not hooking me up. That’s fucking me. Without lube. I make money off my tables. And if you fuckers are sitting there, taking up space sipping on your club soda with a wedge of lime and a beer that was warm 30 minutes ago then I can’t really make any money. And I know, I know, I know the gratuity was added. But as I told a co-worker. 20% of not a lot is not a lot. And can I say that I HATE, HATE, HATE girls who act dumb because they think it makes them look cute/hot/sexy. It doesn’t. It makes you look stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Sure you might get laid. You might get laid a lot. But who wants to date a box of hair. If you can’t actually have a conversation with someone about something other than the fucking jeans you are wearing then I’d guess it’s not going to last long. And since you look like you just finished your evening on the street don’t start yelling at me about how thirsty you are. If you need alcohol that badly then let me make a call for you and find you an AA meeting. Anyone who needs a drink so badly that they are yelling at someone about it, has a serious, serious problem. I know about 50 members of AA in New York, surely one of them can take you to a meeting. And if you for some reason you ask for change for a twenty so you can leave the exact amount for the bill, then don’t fucking act surprised when I find you in front of the restaurant and ask you for the dollar you shorted me. I will never say a word about your not tipping me, but I sure as fuck ain’t gonna let you short me a nickel. It’s the principal as they say. And last but not least…Eric, mister service bartender…everyone is talking. What the fuck is up with you. A year ago you were cute, fun, and funny. Now you are an ass, and look like you’ve been on some sort of drug induced binge for a week. And please, please, please wash your hair tomorrow before you come to work.
And that my friends was my evening. None of this was from last night. Or last week. All of it was from tonight.