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Dear Lottery Players,
This is your irritated, frustrated, and increasingly disgruntled graveyard waitress. Yes, I am stuck with you idiots all night. This is not an excuse to continually drain me dry with your snappy commands of, "I want a refill!"and "Where's my cappuchino, waitress!?" If you continue talking to me in that condescending and rude tone, I promise you I will find a way to get even. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, but rest assured: I will find a way.
Likewise, because I am stuck here all night, that doesn't give you the excuse to join me in my all-night marathon of suffering. I know it's fun to watch me run about fetching and toting for your Lotto Cohorts, but when all my little gambling addicts decide to depart for the night (because the machines have blessedly turned off for the morning) and you see me cleaning up the mess they left behind, it is TIME FOR YOU TO GO. Please. Pack up your loose tobacco and discarded cigarette papers and just leave. You will make my existence a thousand times better. With your departure, I can safely vacuum up all the ashes left behind by hundreds of angry gambling and tobacco addicts.
However, that would require you to GET A CLUE. I still want to punch you for every time you casually lift up your legs so that I can somehow shove the vacuum under the table and clean up a space that is just going to get ruined when you brush your crap off the table and onto the nice clean floor. Let me reinterate: I want to hurt you.
To anyone back there who is a "regular customer"and thinks it's okay to reach behind the counter to get whatever the hell you need: if I see you do it again, I will break your fingers. Every time you reach your slimy hands into the silverware holder to get a spoon for your crack, I have to dump everything in there. Everything. It has to all be rewashed because of something called the Health Code. I know for a lot of you it's hard to figure out exactly what that is, so I will explain: it's a shiny, shiny book of rules that say you can't touch anything in Employees Only areas. You will give someone hepatitis with all your insensitive fondling of the silverware. Hell, you will give me hepatitis trying to clean up after your childlike mess.
Also, my dear Lottery Pals, could you quit waggling your tickets at me? Please?! Yay, you won money! However, I really couldn't care less. If you waited ten more seconds, maybe I wouldn't be as grouchy. If you didn't nag at me while I'm taking an order at another table, maybe I wouldn't ignore you. And maybe, if you happened to get up off your butt and calmly walk to my till rather than reaching out to me like you would a rock star at a concert, I might actually want to help you. Instead, I wait for you to fall out of your chair because of your despiration. It's actually pretty amusing, I must confess.
And please, when I cash out your tickets, do NOT ask me for $150 in five dollar bills. There is no way in heaven or hell that anyone needs that many five dollar bills, let alone that my till has the capacity to honor such a request. Don't throw a tissy when I can't honor such a stupid request. Just shut up, take your money, and go throw it all away at the .25 cent machine behind you. The Lottery will thank you appropriately. I will be happy to watch karma kick you in the wallet.
If I tell you once that I do not have ten dollar bills and will not have them the rest of the night, don't come back to me an hour later asking if you can "have those tens now?". Why did I open my mouth in the first place? I do not like repeating myself ten thousand times in one eight hour shift. I was counting on your limited mental capacity to at least trap the idea that I have NO ten dollar bills. I'm not asking for you to remember it the rest of your life, but I thought you might manage for a least the six hours you sat at a machine gambling. Alas, I give you too much credit.
To the jerkface who decided to whistle at me: you're a prick. Just thought I'd let you know again. You know, in case you didn't hear me tell you that the first time. You ordered a crappy beer, sat in the corner all night, and accosted me to cash out your tickets. All night, I wanted to accidently give you a papercut on your nearest vital artery (preferably with your tickets). Instead, when you demanded your beer, I muttered under my breath a simple "asshole" just loudly enough for you to hear it. Due to the fact you knew you had been an asshat all night, you knew you couldn't complain. Ha ha.
Essentially, my little Lotto Babies, shut the hell up and gamble and leave. Don't make a scene, don't throw a tissy, don't be a prick, don't whine at me when the machines eat all your money, and please don't provide the irony of talking about how crappy the economy is. All of these simple things are very easy. Don't reach into my silverware drawer or my cabinets either...or I will be forced to use the bottle opener to break your fingers.
Love and hugs,
Your disgruntled waitress, cloudiko.
This is your irritated, frustrated, and increasingly disgruntled graveyard waitress. Yes, I am stuck with you idiots all night. This is not an excuse to continually drain me dry with your snappy commands of, "I want a refill!"and "Where's my cappuchino, waitress!?" If you continue talking to me in that condescending and rude tone, I promise you I will find a way to get even. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, but rest assured: I will find a way.
Likewise, because I am stuck here all night, that doesn't give you the excuse to join me in my all-night marathon of suffering. I know it's fun to watch me run about fetching and toting for your Lotto Cohorts, but when all my little gambling addicts decide to depart for the night (because the machines have blessedly turned off for the morning) and you see me cleaning up the mess they left behind, it is TIME FOR YOU TO GO. Please. Pack up your loose tobacco and discarded cigarette papers and just leave. You will make my existence a thousand times better. With your departure, I can safely vacuum up all the ashes left behind by hundreds of angry gambling and tobacco addicts.
However, that would require you to GET A CLUE. I still want to punch you for every time you casually lift up your legs so that I can somehow shove the vacuum under the table and clean up a space that is just going to get ruined when you brush your crap off the table and onto the nice clean floor. Let me reinterate: I want to hurt you.
To anyone back there who is a "regular customer"and thinks it's okay to reach behind the counter to get whatever the hell you need: if I see you do it again, I will break your fingers. Every time you reach your slimy hands into the silverware holder to get a spoon for your crack, I have to dump everything in there. Everything. It has to all be rewashed because of something called the Health Code. I know for a lot of you it's hard to figure out exactly what that is, so I will explain: it's a shiny, shiny book of rules that say you can't touch anything in Employees Only areas. You will give someone hepatitis with all your insensitive fondling of the silverware. Hell, you will give me hepatitis trying to clean up after your childlike mess.
Also, my dear Lottery Pals, could you quit waggling your tickets at me? Please?! Yay, you won money! However, I really couldn't care less. If you waited ten more seconds, maybe I wouldn't be as grouchy. If you didn't nag at me while I'm taking an order at another table, maybe I wouldn't ignore you. And maybe, if you happened to get up off your butt and calmly walk to my till rather than reaching out to me like you would a rock star at a concert, I might actually want to help you. Instead, I wait for you to fall out of your chair because of your despiration. It's actually pretty amusing, I must confess.
And please, when I cash out your tickets, do NOT ask me for $150 in five dollar bills. There is no way in heaven or hell that anyone needs that many five dollar bills, let alone that my till has the capacity to honor such a request. Don't throw a tissy when I can't honor such a stupid request. Just shut up, take your money, and go throw it all away at the .25 cent machine behind you. The Lottery will thank you appropriately. I will be happy to watch karma kick you in the wallet.
If I tell you once that I do not have ten dollar bills and will not have them the rest of the night, don't come back to me an hour later asking if you can "have those tens now?". Why did I open my mouth in the first place? I do not like repeating myself ten thousand times in one eight hour shift. I was counting on your limited mental capacity to at least trap the idea that I have NO ten dollar bills. I'm not asking for you to remember it the rest of your life, but I thought you might manage for a least the six hours you sat at a machine gambling. Alas, I give you too much credit.
To the jerkface who decided to whistle at me: you're a prick. Just thought I'd let you know again. You know, in case you didn't hear me tell you that the first time. You ordered a crappy beer, sat in the corner all night, and accosted me to cash out your tickets. All night, I wanted to accidently give you a papercut on your nearest vital artery (preferably with your tickets). Instead, when you demanded your beer, I muttered under my breath a simple "asshole" just loudly enough for you to hear it. Due to the fact you knew you had been an asshat all night, you knew you couldn't complain. Ha ha.
Essentially, my little Lotto Babies, shut the hell up and gamble and leave. Don't make a scene, don't throw a tissy, don't be a prick, don't whine at me when the machines eat all your money, and please don't provide the irony of talking about how crappy the economy is. All of these simple things are very easy. Don't reach into my silverware drawer or my cabinets either...or I will be forced to use the bottle opener to break your fingers.
Love and hugs,
Your disgruntled waitress, cloudiko.
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