Ever worked in a restaurant? I have. Ever thought you knew someone only to find out that a family friend is actually a flaming asshole? I have. In fact, I found out at the restaurant I work at. Coincidence? Nope. On a similar note, have you ever, in your wildest desires wanted random strangers to rape your ears and penetrate your mind with reckless abandon? No? What about having a ten hour and twenty-two minute soul train on your ear canal? Jonesin for personal anecdotes you really could just give a fuck about? If so, come on in and fill the vacancy that I just left.
I mean really, these motherfuckers are crazy. Fucking crazy. Well, maybe not all of them, but a lot of the time, he or she or it is a self important, know everything, tip-you-a-penny, ungrateful douche. They're not just any douches, they're the stand-atop-the-frat house-beating-their-chests-like-retarded-monkies kind of douches found within the phylum "theirmothershouldhavedrankmorewhenshewaspregnant." And what does the patience of Jobe, that bible guy, get you after you spent ten-motherfucking-minutes of your life trying to help said individual decide which type of diet soda is the healthiest choice? Two years off your life and a sudden desire to punch every old person who walks in the door and tries to order items not on the menu.
You know the old saying, “when it rains, it pours”? Well, that’s the golden rule when you’re working at a restaurant. Especially concerning crazy people. Sometimes it’ll start off light with a wide-eyed flower child who seems to have stepped out of a time machine, sat down at your table, and is struck deeply by the wonderment of the new millennium. A little later in the day, a really cute girl might try to order an uncooked hotdog with only half the bun and a two inch squirt of mayonnaise on the side and it makes you notice that her glasses are crooked just so and her right eye has the faintest twitch. And after that it just gets worse.
Steep crazy curve, I know.
So last Friday I had to go into work extra early. Why extra early? Because our lunch menu, for whatever reason, had become extraordinarily popular the past week. Normally I’d be stoked for this. More hours + more tips = more money. But this kind of early pushed my shift close to twelve solid hours. Ten of which I spent standing in front of a counter and the rest was spent running up and down a set of rickety ass stairs. Oh, and more time in front of the counter means more opportunities for those crazy motherfuckers I was talking about earlier to ravage my ears without my consent.
I blame my eventual prison/asylum stay on whoever went home and got on their little Wisteria Lane listserv. And fuck the guy who invented the listserv too. Fucking listserv.
So, as per the usual, the flower child came in. She was followed much too quickly by the girl who’s cute but fucking crazy. After her, a family straight out of a Tyler Perry movie came in. Only character missing was Medea. I love that crazy bitch. Then Peter Griffin came in. I swear to the Jesus that this person must have been to living incarnation of a one Peter Griffin, father of three.
Only difference was he was a she and she wasn’t funny. And she just wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak. Yeah, that’s ten yaks. It took that lady twenty five minutes and 57 seconds to order a cheese steak without the onions.
After she left, all I could really do was text my girlfriend. It read:
(678): This woman just came in and told me how she bought a clock for her cat so her cat can know when she's coming home... that and now I have an in depth knowledge of the U.T.I.