How not to wine & dine…

restaurant customers from hell

I truly stand by this!

In fact, I have personally refused to be in the company of those who, for no apparent reason, are overly aggressive and rude to the waitstaff. To be polite to someone who is there to serve you & nothing else speaks a lot about your character.

Now trust me, the sarcastic b*tch in me has surfaced on a few occasions where I felt I was ignored, mistreated or disrespected by a waiter while not guilty of instigating such behavior. Even then, I’m so scared of being spiked by sh*t in my food, I choose to just keep my mouth shut. And make a point of never going back to the restaurant. As blogger Mark Mason suggests in his article The Subtle Art of Not Giving A F*ck, “if we could only give a few less f*cks, or a few more consciously-directed f*cks, then life would feel pretty f*cking easy“! Right?! So I now have a “reserve” of all the f*cks I shall give and I play the card conservatively.

So imagine my reaction when I came across the article Restaurant Customers From Hell posted in Kitchenette by C.A. Pinkham. It’s an amalgamation of truly horrible real tales of restaurant customers submitted by waiters themselves. If you are curious to see how pathetic some people can be, please read! It’ll open your eyes to real-life sh*t people are forced to encounter and bear, and if anything it may make you appreciate and treasure your own present circumstances.

There are a number of stories in the article, each piece worthy of your attention, but I wanted to share this one submitted by a Mike Karlson:

I have never had a lower opinion of humanity than on this day.

During the summer before my senior year of college, in sudden, desperate need of a job, I found myself employed at a small, seasonal restaurant in a popular Southern California animal/theme park best known for being the only place where the guests sometimes get to watch apex predators never meant to be kept in swimming pools savagely maul the performers during shows. We served exclusively chicken strips, hot dogs, fries, and beer.

This is exactly as horrible as it sounds. Between the grease coating every imaginable surface, the pervasive dead fish smell, and the angry, confused drunk assholes, every day was lesson in hopelessness. Somehow, despite all this, I made it through that first summer mostly unscathed.

Unfortunately, at the end of the next year, having just graduated with a BS in neuroscience and preparing to enter pharmacy school in the fall, I found myself once again in need of money and too lazy to seek out a “real” job, I went back to a place that I knew would hire literally anyone, especially a seasoned vet.

About halfway through that summer, on a day I was particularly beginning to regret my decision not to get a “real” job (you have no idea how useless a solid foundation in neuroscience is when frying a batch of chicken sticks every three-and-a-half minutes), I met the undisputed King of the Dickwalruses.

It was an especially busy day, and the supervisor asked me if I could head out to empty the trash cans on the patio. Above being “too good” for anything, I headed out with the little wheeled dumpster and a fresh roll of trash bags. Halfway through this process, a man comes up to me and asks if I could come over and wipe down his family’s table. “No problem!” I say and follow him over.

Arriving at the table, I pull out a towel and a squirt bottle and get to work. This is when it happens. As I’m dutifully wiping the table (probably thinking about neurons and receptor binding affinities or some such), where he’s sitting with his wife and pre-adolescent son, he says it; he says perhaps the most presumptuous, asinine, Republican thing anyone has ever said.

He turns to his bright-eyed eight year old, sitting but two feet from me, and says, “You see son? This is why you should stay in school.”(FFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU)

I dropped the towel on the table and walked off. Fuck him.

Can you believe that? *smh*


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