Friday, 26 March 2010
Confessions of a Temperamental Waiter
It’s true I’m back being a waiter. These finely manicured nails of mine were not meant for serving over priced tea and coffee in a branded chain restaurant, they were made to serve tea and coffee at 36,000ft for a dodgy airline with a low safety record.
Perhaps the worse thing of all in my new position is that I can no longer get away with scolding ugly and vile people by simply smiling and saying ‘Opps Turbulence.’ Instead I have to put up with the council masses trying to redeem their Tesco vouchers on a steak and chips.
It’s not the first time I have been waiter, well I say waiter, what I really mean is a man who takes orders forgets to put them through the till, spends all my time skiving on the fire escape and running to my locker every two minutes for a swig of Gin&Tonic from a can; an ingenious invention from the folk at Marks & Spencer. You can also buy Harvey Wallbanger and Vodka and Tonic.
You see I don’t mind serving you as long as you don’t ask for a glass of tap water. Automatically I know you’re cheap and won’t be leaving a tip, consequently you’ll be waiting a lot longer for your food. Also people when I ask you how you like your steak it’s not because I care, it’s because I have to ask you. In all honestly you’ll get it however the chef can be arsed to do it as he’s been in the kitchen since 8am and it’s now 9pm, he’s lost the will to live and is contemplating gassing himself in the electric oven. Nor people do I want to listen to your life story when I’m asking you if you’d like more drinks. I really couldn’t give a shit that your son has just got into Oxford and you’re popping into Selfridges to get him something extra special. In fact madam looking at the photo you’ve just shown me of him may I suggest a muzzle?
What’s that madam you want fries instead of salad? Of course you can, not a problem you fat bitch. Whilst I’m at it why don’t I nip back to Primark and exchange your top for a size 18 as you’re obviously a little uncomfortable having squeezed your back fat in a size 12.
I’m sure you’ll agree that clicking your fingers at a waiter is one of the rudest things you can do, a sure way to make the blood boil. Yet Ladies and gays this happens to me at least once a day and my response is always the same; sorry sir, but it takes more than that to make me cum. Generally they look baffled to what I’ve just said as I mince away.
‘Thanks love, have a nice day.’ No tip. ‘Tight bitch.’
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