When it comes to blows at a job that blows

Last night I paid for my sarcasm when an angry bar customer grabbed me by the back of my head and almost slammed my head into a table.

I'd been waiting on a group of slutty ladies just looking for some dumb guy from the bar to come sit with them (and buy their drinks). The ladies, though friendly, settled on a boarish Persian man with an obvious penchant for impressing people by humiliating others. My divine purpose, though temporary, was to put him in his place. Or at least try.

I noticed the ladies' drinks were low, so I asked if they'd like another round. The man, who'd already purchased his drink from the bar and didn't mind taking up space at my table, told me they'd like two glasses of wine. The ladies both said they'd prefer strawberry margaritas. The man objected, insisting I bring a bottle of our "finest" merlot to the table (I work at a Mexican restaurant. Perhaps in the Middle East, Mexian cuisine is equated with fine wine. Not so in Los Angeles). I waited for some sort of general agreement as to what the ladies would drink as the three debated.

"What the fuck are you waiting for, are you deaf?" my new friend inquired. "Do your job, waiter, and get their drinks."

"Such language," I replied. "I can tell I'm dealing with real class tonight. Impressive!" I walked off and ordered two strawberry margaritas for the ladies.

Minutes later, as I walked by the table, one of the sluts asked for the check, her panties moist at the thought of not having to pay for her food or drinks.

I dropped off the check. As I did, the man grabbed my arm, said, "Excuse me, but you..." I glanced at his hand on my arm, pulled back and walked off.

Now I know I was setting myself up for a bad tip. I anticipated that, and almost hoped for it, because I knew that it would give me the chance to humiliate him in front of his neurologically challenged conquests

True to stereotype, the man left me $1 on a $74 tab. I watched the table as the man excused himself to go smoke on the patio. With as innocent a face as I could muster, I approached the table and asked, "Ladies was everything satisfactory tonight? I hope I didn't say or do something to upset you!"

"Oh no, sweety, why?"

"Well, and I hate to even bring it up, but your friend only left me one dollar."

"Oh no! Here, take this (lady hands me $20)!"

As this exchange took place, the man walked back to the table, sat down, and said, "You'd better not be giving him money. One dollar is all he's worth."

The ladies made some feeble attempt to stick up for me. Like I needed their help.

"Don't worry, sir, one dollar is about all I'd expect from someone like you," I said.

"Someone like me, you little shit? For your information, I am millionaire. I would have left you $100 if you hadn't given me attitude. That's why I left you a dollar. Because of attitude."

"No, you left me a dollar because you're cheap and trashy," I countered.

And with that, the man reached up, grabbed me by the back of my head and pulled me close to his mouth so he could shout in my ear. But he didn't even get the chance to speak.

The nice thing about my section is that it's situated immediately in front of the bar. Because it was a slow night, my two, strong bartender friends witnessed these events. And before you could say "Last call," they both came to my aid. I barely even remember what happened. All I know is that I regained my composure, looked up and saw the man being literally thrown out of the bar.

Everyone came rushing to my side. My manager bought me a meal. I was allowed to sit and drink water while everyone else worked. And as the icing on my little cake of an evening, the man left without his credit card. As I was leaving last night, I dropped his Mastercard on the sidewalk on Ventura Blvd. And that's why I'm smiling this morning.