Warning: another bitchfest about the woes of being a waiter

As I've said before, Monday nights at the restaurant are particularly trying because of the genius 30% discount given to all customers on everything on the menu (Meanwhile, servers still enjoy a degrading 25% discount -- yes, let me say it again, the CUSTOMERS get a better discount than the servers on Mondays).

Until two weeks ago, servers had to manually add the discount by pressing a button on the computer. This provided an opportunity to scam customers by not adding the discount, hoping they wouldn't realize, collecting payment and THEN adding the discount and pocketing the excess.

Most customers caught on because the check used to say "30% discount" on the bottom with the amount they saved.

Because certain other, dumber servers (read: not me) got caught not adding the discount, management decided that the discount would automatically be added. And as a result, the check no longer mentions the discount or the amount saved.

Out of the 20-odd tables I had last night, 18 of them said upon looking at the check, "Uhmmm, excuse me, you forgot the discount," as if to say "You just sodomized my child in the men's restroom" or "You just performed a coat-hanger abortion on my daughter in the freezer." That is, apparently, how reprehensible I was for allegedly forgetting their precious 30%.

Those incidents paled in comparison to the Satanic army of fat, thuggish, ghetto, hillbilly trailer park trash that invaded my section and didn't have enough teeth among them to voice any complaints about menu prices.

"Where's ma ench-e-lada?" asked a woman who could clearly grow a beard faster than me.

Her question would have made more sense had I actually finished taking the rest of the table's order and had the time to enter it in the computer. But no, I was in the middle of taking the person's order next to her when she asked me, clearly serious about the question.

I informed Grandma Clampett than unless I was omnipresent, she'd have to wait 30 more seconds for me to turn in her order. Then, once her food arrived, she devoured that poor enchilada like Jabba the Hutt going down on slave Princess Leia.

Then, I had a fat bitch with a clear sense of entitlement who mistook the scowl on my face for being impressed when she told me it was her birthday and that, "Like, ALL the bartenders want to buy my drinks." The bartenders where? Fatburger? Because I know our bartenders, and they'd have little interest in getting anything from the barnyard liquored up.

She'd order drinks from me, tell me which bartender to ask (we don't "ask" bartenders...we ring up drinks on the computer and the order is printed up behind the bar) and to MAKE SURE I mentioned that the drink was for Alexis. I obliged, letting her believe that I was getting her free drinks. Then I dropped the check, knowing she didn't except to be charged for all those doubles. A little bit of my soul rose to the Heavens while watching the shock on her face as she looked at the check.

After Ricki Lake left, three non-English speaking people from unknown regions of the Middle East came in for "just drinks." I was so close to being cut that I didn't bother being an asshole about the "dinner only" policy for restaurant tables. In fact, I was so repulsed by the man's offensive cologne smell that I looked completely to my left when taking their drink order.

He informed me that he wanted his beer served cold.

I informed him "No shit."

No sooner had I been cut and transferred the table when I noticed them trying to walk out on their tab. The server to whom I transferred the table got in a quite a screaming match, which was a nice way to end the evening.

That, and coming home and getting completely shit-faced.