Last call

This could be a post I delete in the morning in light of the fact that it will be mean-spirited. But I can't help myself. I just got home from another restaurant shift in which stereotypical bad tippers solidified their reputations.

I'll break it down for you. I'm not a racist, but the rules of prejudice change in the service world. Despite the best efforts of a minority of these minorities, I can't help but cringe whenever they're sat in my section. Lately I've been tempted to tell them, "No one wants to wait on you because you're _______ and we know you're going to leave a bad tip!" It's scientifically proven.

Tonight's three instances did nothing to change my beliefs.

1. The slave-driving blacks

I'll try to approach this one carefully, because most blacks are friendly, generous tippers. However, as is the case with any group of people, some perpetuate a stereotype that does nothing for the rest. So I must say I find it ironic that a select group of people who resent the white man for what his ancestors did in the civil war era feel justified in mistreating people.

But believe me, the subjugation ends when they leave the restaurant. If these angry people were to run into me in public not at a place of my employment, they wouldn't treat me with such disrespect. So why, at my job, do they feel they have ownership of me because I'm their server? Believe me, I have no problem playing the smiling idiot when I know the tip's going to be worth it. But don't expect me to run all over the restaurant accommodating your bizarre demands and modifying every single thing on the menu just for your pitiful 10 percent. You're not worth my time. I'm a waiter. Not a housekeeper, not a personal chef, not a delivery man. A waiter.

Tonight I served a couple who DIDN'T SPEAK UP OR ENUNCIATE OR EVEN LOOK AT ME when they ordered. Each time I asked a question ("What would you like to drink," "Would you like a salad with that?"), I was met with a drop-dead glare. When I politely asked the male to speak up, he said, "You deaf or something?"

No brother, I'm not deaf, I just don't have ESP and didn't bring my translator so SPEAK THE FUCK UP.

Thus, they did not receive their order as they'd hoped. I didn't mess up their order intentionally; I truly couldn't understand them when they ordered. So when the female of the couple asked to see my manager because of the "horrible" service, I muttered "I wondered what took you so long" and informed my equally bitter manager, who basically told them he didn't give a rat's ass if they were unhappy with their dining experience.

When you don't have the common courtesy to even look at your server because you think you're so much better than him/her, don't be surprised when no one in the restaurant takes your side. I doubt your job is much more glamorous than runnng food or drinks. Would you treat a black server with such disrespect? Probably not.

So enjoy your 30 minutes of superiority. Relish the fact that you saved a bundle on tip because your server was "some white dude." You're just as much a racist as the entire race of people you so quickly accuse.

2. The hateful lesbians

Oh, poor lesbians. So misunderstood, so mistreated. Why, then, when I go out of my way to be polite to you, and refill your drinks before they're 3/4 empty, and ask if everything in the sequence of your dining experience is perfect do you elect to look at me with such disdain?

Ever been to a restaurant before? That guy who keeps coming up to your table? Yeah, that's your SERVER. Without him you'd be dining in a cafeteria. So quit giving me those fucking glares of inconvenience when I approach your table.

Trust me, I don't come to you needlessly. I'm not taking a fucking survey or inquiring about the weather. I'M DROPPING OFF THE FOOD THAT YOU ORDERED! When I ask, "May I bring you anything else?"," ANSWER ME!

I know you're going to leave me a shitty tip from the second you ignore me when I first say "Hello." I tolerate your behavior because, unlike you, I'm a professional and I was born with certain social graces. For instance, you'd never know from the insincere smile that carries all of my sentences that I'm secretly wishing you and your buzz-cut bear of a girlfriend would spontaneously combust before my very eyes.

Do you leave me a shitty tip because I'm a straight male? Well now. What's the word for that? Oh yes. DISCRIMINATION, you tacky, sapphic hypocrite.

3. The entitled Persians

I can scarcely put together enough coherent words to discuss my loathe for the least considerate of all dining types. Namely, anyone with a sense of entitlement. No other group has such a backwards impression of service than Persians.

That tip you are theoretically going to give me guarantees few things. It means I am going to work hard for you and serve as your representative to the kitchen. When the grumpy chef does not want to make your ahi tuna with oil instead of butter, I am the one going to bat for you. When the bartender makes a shitty drink, I'm the one who tells him to add a little more liquor.

I am not your babysitter. Keep your nasty Persian rugrats away from me. The other tables are not a gymnasium. I am not your child's friend. If the little shit gets in my way while I'm hot-footing it to a table, and I step on the little shit's hand because he/she was rolling around on the floor, I am not going to apologize. I am not responsible for watching after your 12 biggest mistakes. Either hire a babysitter or go eat somewhere with a playpen full of plastic balls to occupy your wretched offspring.

Also, I am not the menu. The menu is the menu. Don't ask how much something costs. Don't ask me what's in the whatever. That convenient piece of paper the hostess gives you is chalk-full of useful information. And once I've told you the specials, it's like a message from God. There is no repeat option. I don't have all day to recite recipes because you were too busy chatting on your cellphone when I was talking. My patience for you is already limited because I hate your children. I am briefly at your disposal. Make the most of your time.

I am not your personal assistant. You want cigarettes from the bar next door? Better put the leashes on those children of yours and high-tail it next door, because I sure as Shakespeare am not running all over the block to placate you.

I am not a bank. Asking me to break a $100 bill for a $19 tab is not showing off. It's showing me that you are a pretentious piece of crap with a penchant for large bills and small tips.

Okay. I've said my peace. And I must say, the truth has set me free.