It's Not Delivery, It's A Porno

I've mentioned my friend Luke previously in a couple of stories, such as They Call It Mellow Yellow and Kill It With Fire; Luke and I have shared some crazy adventures and they haven't stopped yet. The two of us have always been as close as brothers and we have been roommates at various times over the years. This story goes back a long, long way, to the very first time that we were roommates. We were living in North Miami, Florida, at a huge apartment complex called the Hamlet Estates. I'm not sure how they made the jump from apartment to estate, but whatever. Aside from a few moral degenerates, meaning us, the community had a very large and eclectic population, but for the most part, it was full of young singles and we had many friends that were also neighbors. It was a great place to live and a lot of great memories were made there.

We even had a friendly neighborhood cop that lived down the hall from us, Dan worked next door in North Miami Beach. He was such a nice guy and such a great neighbor that he was kind and thoughtful enough to stop by one day and knock on our door, just because he wanted to be a good neighbor and do us a neighborly solid. Luke and I had been sitting around, trying to smoke a week's worth of pot in an hour, when we were startled by an abrupt and authoritative pounding on the door. I looked at him, he looked at me and we both knew that we wanted the other to get the door, mainly because we were both lazy, stoned fucks. The pounding started again and I sighed and went to answer the door.

I really, really need to get in the habit of looking through the peephole, before I open a door, because, as I opened the door, a large and very visible whitish wave of Jamaica's finest wafted out (talk about watching the clouds roll by) to engulf the police officer who was standing before me,

I nearly shit my pants, but not before I noticed that his badge read North Miami Beach and not North Miami. No worries, I wasn't in his jurisdiction, so fuck that guy. My sphincter relaxed a bit. My gaze travelled from the badge to his face and I recognized our neighbor.

"Hey Dan, what's up?" I asked him.

"Mind if I come in?" he asked.

"Nope. Can I get you a drink or something?" I asked as I led him into the apartment.

"No thanks," he said, "I just wanted to talk to you and Luke for a second."

"Sure, dude. What's up?"

Dan explained to us that we were really stinking up the place. Literally. Evidently, we smoked so much pot that the smell and the smoke filled the hallway like a cloud. Walking to and from his apartment, he said, was like running the gauntlet in a Colombian sauna and he blamed us for the contact buzz that caused an increase in his doughnut intake and the subsequent widening of his waist.

Dan suggested that we stuff a towel under the door to help block out some of the smoke and the smell, because he thought that eventually someone was going to complain and that he didn't want us to get in any trouble.

He told us that he liked us, thought we were nice guys, good neighbors (he knew we did everything under the sun to help out the little old lady who lived next door) and that he'd hate to see anything happen to us. We thanked him for his kindness and advice and then he was on his way. I turned around and there was Luke with a rolled up towel. A towel that was headed directly for my face,

"Catch!." Luke said and turned away.

The towel smacked me in the face. Fucker. He hadn't even stopped to admire his handiwork. I think that was the bigger insult.

Fucking asshole. Payback, motherfucker payback. We've been playing this game for thirty fucking years. As a matter of fact, I owe that bastard one. I'm glad that I remembered. You just can't let these motherfuckers get away with shit, ya' know? You don't fuck with a thug like me and get away with it. I shall demand justice in the most passive aggressive way that I can. #winning

I threw the towel under the door and then we went back to getting high.

Back in those days, cable television was still a toddler and satellite television was in its infancy. Our apartment complex had contracted with a company that would provide satellite television programming, a package that included everything that we currently had, along with a few extra channels, but at a fraction of the cost of cable. Since saving that much money on the cable bill would mean that we would have more money to blow on women, drugs and booze, it was very easy for us to cut the cord and make the switch. The twisted logic that you can use to justify stupidity is a wonderfully enabling thing when you're young. We signed right up, of course and were given an appointment. We were good to go.

On the day of our appointment, both Luke and I had taken the day off from work. Back in those days, their customer service was even worse than it is now. I know how hard that is to believe, even more so, if you're a Comcast customer. For example, if you had an appointment for a cable or satellite television installation and it was scheduled for 9:00 am, you might be lucky if the tech arrived by 5:00 pm. You couldn't do anything all day, except wait for the cable guy. You sat and you stared at the door. And you waited and waited and stared and stared and you checked the time, a lot, and you slowly went out of your fucking mind until the guy got there, You couldn't even pee, because if you did, it would be guaranteed that the guy would be knocking on the door while you've got your dick in hand and faster than you can shake and stuff, the fucker would be gone and you'd have to go through the whole rigamarole all over again. With the two of us there, we could still do other things; one of us could cover the door if the other one had to pee and we wouldn't miss the satellite guy. We were pee buddies. #peebuddies

As Luke and I were waiting for the satellite guy to get there, we broke out the weed and started getting high. It was a veritable bonghit bonanza and a great way to kill time.

Our appointment time came and went. Still waiting. Still smoking weed, too.

The fucking pizza we ordered arrived on time.

We caught the delivery guy a buzz as a bonus tip.

Those guys are my fucking heroes, putting their lives on the line, every single fucking  day, to deliver manna from Heaven in thirty minutes or less. Respect, bros!

 I even wrote you guys a little poem/song to show the love. I stole the music from Sesame Street, but you can sing-a-long with me!

Ready?

He's my hero, pizza guy,

Comes to save me, when I get high

That's as far as I ever got with it. What did you expect from a pot head? I hope your expectations weren't too high. Who the fuck am I kidding? If you're reading this, I suspect that your expectations are pretty fucking low as it is.

Why is it that I am always early for everything in life, but not one goddamn thing can ever happen on time for me? That's some bullshit, right there.

Almost three hours after our anointed appointment time, there's a loud knock on the door. A cop kind of knock. We panicked and spilled the bong. Fuuuuuck!

I carefully hid the bong on the side of the couch and went to answer the door. I opened the door and there was the satellite guy in all of his homeless man looking glory. Finally and thank goodness. Another five minutes of smoking weed and I'd have no longer had the ability to function as a human being. I could barely stand as it was. As I staggered to the door, it felt as if I were walking through quicksand. Luke was even more useless than I was. He was barely coherent and glued to the couch.

The installer apologized for being late, we showed him where everything was and he went right to work. We asked him questions while he was working and he patiently explained everything that he was doing. All in all, we thought he was a pretty cool dude. We wanted to hook the guy up and give him a tip, but since we were young and stupid, we tended to spend all of our spare money on necessities like weed and alcohol, so we were both broke and the only thing that we could tip him with was weed.

I popped the question.

"Do you smoke weed, man? Do you wanna' catch a buzz?"

He looked at me as if I were retarded. People do that a lot. I don't get it.

"That's a stupid question," he said. "This is Florida, dude, everybody gets high,"

He did have a point. Maybe I was retarded, after all.

Well, Luke and I sat that motherfucker down and we got him stoned. No, it was much more than that, we got that guy light years beyond stoned. We broke out the weed, we broke out the bong, we rolled joints and huffed and puffed away, but then Luke drastically upped the stakes by pulling out the coup de grace; our own little personal Death Star. It was a thing of beauty, it was and I loved that thing all the way up until the day that it exploded in my face. Luke had this oxygen/gas mask abomination that was attached to a piece of PVC, that had a bowl attached to the end of it and a carburetor hole at the front. It looked like something out of a bad BDSM nightmare, but it got you freaking baked. In the end, that was all that really mattered. One of the best things about this contraption was that the carburetor hole was the perfect size for the nozzle on my whipped cream maker, which was the kind that took nitrous oxide cartridges. Basically, this setup enabled us to do nitrous oxide bong hits and very potent ones at that. We put the satellite guy into the fucking twilight zone. That poor guy was orbiting the planet and could barely stand upright, by the time that we were finished with him.

When it was time for him to leave, we packed him up a little care package to take with him.

He was one happy motherfucker, let me tell you.

Satellite man told us that he needed to get one last thing out of his truck and that he'd be right back. He left the apartment and returned a few minutes later, carrying a small black box.

"I thought we were all set?" I asked him.

"You guys just needed one last thing," he said.

"What's that?" Luke asked.

He asked us, "Do you guys like porn?"

I looked at him as if he were retarded. Dumbest fucking question ever.

"Dude," I said. "We're guys. Of course we like porn."

Porn. That magical elixir of life. Back then, long before the Internet, porn wasn't as easily accessible and private as it is today. It's freaking everywhere, these days. Hell, I'll bet that there isn't one innocent thing that you can Google without turning up at least one result that's porn. Which, when you think about it, is quite an indictment of the society that we live in. But back then, if you wanted porn, you were limited to the porno theater, the video rental store. soft core Cinemax, magazines and places like this:

On second thought, that's a fucking lot. And none of that porn was free. :(

The satellite guy walked over to the television and put the little black box on top of it, plugged in some wires, fiddled around behind the tv, doing some kind of mystical satellite guy voodoo magic, plugged in the box and hit a button on the remote and magic happened.

Hardcore porn filled the screen.

It was beautiful. It was breathtaking, I wanted to drop to my knees and cry. I almost did. I even thought that I heard Luke stifle a sniffle from somewhere behind me. I turned around and I saw the look on Luke's face; he was mesmerized and excited. So excited, that I thought that he was going to jump up and hug the satellite guy.

He did. And he did it with tears in his eyes.

"I love you, man," Luke told the satellite guy. "Thank you, this is the best day of my life,"

Satellite man told us that we were the coolest customers that he'd ever had and that he wanted to thank us by showing his appreciation for how nice we were to him. He showed his appreciation by hooking us up with a free converter box for the hardcore porn channels.

Free porn.

Free fucking porn.

And this was decades before the Internet, mind you. Free porn. Holy shit. Are you fucking kidding me? For two guys that had just turned twenty, this was like we had both just had our birthdays, celebrated Christmas, won the lottery, found a bag of weed and gotten a free fucking ice cream cone, all at the same time.

Holy shit! I couldn't believe our luck.

Holy shit!

We thanked the satellite guy profusely. Luke hugged him again and I could have sworn that I heard him whisper, "I love you," once again, to the satellite guy, but Luke denies it. Maybe it was just the porno that was playing in the background. I know what I heard, though.

The satellite dude went off on his merry little way, bag of weed in hand and a big ol' smile on his face.

We now had a twenty-four hour backdrop of hardcore porn to accompany everything that we did in the apartment. Eat dinner? Porn. Catch a buzz? Porn again. Wake up in the middle of the night to go pee? Where's my pee buddy when I need him? Even more porn. I think I got a little jaded. Nah, I'm just fucking with you. Who could get tired of free porn? Nothing beats a full-time backgound of hardcore porn to lessen the banality of your mundane existence. Yeah, existentialism wrapped in shit is still shit. Porn was always there; omnipresent. We never turned it off. I'm not sure that we ever really watched anything else, either. Who the hell wants to watch television when you can watch free porn?

Hell, I haven't even told you the best part, yet. I know, right? You're sitting there, asking yourself, "What could be better than free porn?" You'd think that getting free porn would have been the best part, but it wasn't. I know that it's hard to believe, but it's true.

So what's the best part?

The best part is that we got not one, not two, not even three, but four, count 'em, four channels of free hardcore porn. That's more porn than you can shake a dick at, Stick, damn it, I meant stick. I hate fucking cliches...

Free fucking porn! Woohoo! Calling it fucking porn does seem a bit redundant though, doesn't it? Then again, that moniker does help to distinguish it from oral, anal and homosexual marriage equality and polygamy porn, because, you know, The Gays.

Once word got around that we had more porn than we knew what to do with, Luke and I became immensely popular with all of our friends and those jerkoffs started dropping by the apartment at all hours of the day and night. Hell, we even caught a couple of assholes trying to steal our converter box. Dickheads. Friends don't steal porn from friends. Thankfully, we were able to hang on to that magic little box and we were able to enjoy the fruits of our kindness over the next few years.

In closing, I'd just like to make the point that you should always treat people with kindness and consideration. Also, you should always remember to tip well for a job that is well done. Finally, and this might be the most important part, get that motherfucker high as fuck and maybe, just maybe, you'll get hooked up with some free porn of your own, but I doubt it.

You'll just have to go fuck yourself.

Thanks for stopping by. If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one:

If The Shoe Fits

Looking for a more serious read?

O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

Bonus pics below.

I wonder if they deliver?

Fondue You

When I was a child, there weren't as many restaurants around as there are today. Casual dining was unheard of; going out to dinner was always a special occasion and you were always treated sumthin' fancy. You'd get all gussied up in your Sunday best and hit the town. The choices were pretty limited when it came to dinner and it usually came down to the steak house, the Italian restaurant or the Chinese place. The US in the 1970's was pretty lame when it came to food. It was a lot like television before cable came along.

These days we have every type of theme restaurant that you can imagine and it seems as if every ethnicity is represented. Casual dining and chain restaurants dot every strip mall and fast food franchises churn out their swill on virtually every corner. Competition for your dollar is fierce and many corporate restaurants will go to absurd extremes in the name of guest service while other, smaller mom and pop places can be known for having a fuck you attitude. Good service runs somewhere in between the two.

I have worked in the restaurant industry for entirely too many years. Long years, brutal years, and yes, painful years of suffering, hustling and kissing ass for cash. I have worked high end and low brow, mom and pop, corporate and fine dining. I have mixed cocktails and concoctions for the fancy pants crowd and tossed beers down the bar in smoke filled dives. I've loved it and I've hated it. There have been moments where... Well, best not to say anything that might or might not one day be used as evidence against me. I have always been happy to escape the clutches of the business and yet, I keep getting sucked back in, like an aging lot lizard that can't live without the glory hole and the limelight. It's a crazy, fast-paced and stressful business that takes a special kind of special to not only endure it, but to thrive. Seriously, you just can't even begin to imagine the shit and shenanigans that go on behind the scenes in an industry where most of the employees are just a quick diagnosis away from being institutionalized.

I'm not kidding.

I've seen it all in this business, or at least I think I have, but it seems as if every time that I say that, I then see something even more fucked up than the last most fucked up thing that I saw and you know what? That's really fucked up. I say the same thing about the Internet all of the time and yet I still get surprised. Horribly surprised. The things I've seen that can never be unseen. I live my life a haunted man.

Hold on, I need a tissue. And meds. Oh yes, meds. Yes, lots and lots of meds.

And then some more.

Let me tell you a little story...

Many, many years ago, I worked at a small fondue restaurant in Florida that is a locally owned franchise of a small national chain and it is known as the ultimate romantic restaurant. There is just something about this place that gets a woman primed. It is intimate, romantic, discreet and expensive. If you can't get laid after a dinner at this place, there is something seriously wrong with you, like you have visible signs of leprosy something wrong with you, or maybe you're a Little Richard (for my foreign readers, Richard is a euphemism for dick which is a euphemism for penis, but let's just say cock, because Tourette's) with a tiny, two inch penis, or perhaps you're a chicken fucker or something else that is way the fuck out there in left field, because we both know you're a freak. What I'm trying to say is that it's just about impossible not to get laid after a romantic dinner like that and you would have to go to extraordinary lengths to screw it up.  And yet screw it up they did; I saw so many guys go down in flames. No chutes. No survivors.

Sealing the deal; it's not for everyone.

Flinging fondue was a great job, the restaurant was conveniently close to my apartment, the owners were awesome, it was staffed by lunatics, the clientele was super cool and somewhat strange, but most importantly, the money was great, as in cocaine and strippers great. That's not what I really spent my money on, it's just a comparison. I'm way too cheap to spend money on strippers. If I wanted to pay a woman money to pay attention to me, I'd get married.

I really loved working there and to this day, it remains one of my favorite jobs.

One of the few drawbacks about working there (other than the fact that my apartment had the aroma of a fondue restaurant, which is to say that it smelled like burnt peanut oil) was that every time that I met a girl and she found out where I worked, she always wanted to go there for dinner on our first date, so I ended up eating a lot of fondue, but at least it ensured a sure thing and nothing beats a sure thing except for maybe two sure things, but since I know I'll never get two sure things, I'll settle for one. I can't tell you how many times I have had the exact same date; dinner at the fondue restaurant with the same first date conversations, flirting and copious amounts of wine, followed by a short trip to my "special spot", the stone jetty at Haulover Beach and a romantic walk in the moonlight where I'd pull one of my signature moves and then finish it up with a quick drive back to my apartment to seal the deal. It was nice and it was a little something special for both of us; a nice romantic evening for her and another hash mark in the win column for me. Too much of the same thing though, even a good thing and I hate to say it, even too much of a sure thing can start to get a little boring, which it did and after a while it became my own personal Groundhog Day.

Click on the link above to watch the full movie on YouTube.

Fondue is a very time consuming meal where you actually have to cook your own food and pay for the privilege of doing so.

 To be honest, the only thing that you actually end up cooking yourself are the entrees.

I can make an amazing cheddar cheese fondue. If you'd like me to post the recipe, leave a comment below.

The cheese fondue is actually made tableside by your Waiter/Waitress.

Most of our customers would order the standard three course Combination Dinner for two which consisted of a cheese fondue appetizer, salads, and an entree platter that was a mixed bag of meats and seafood (chicken, steak, salmon and shrimp). Chocolate fondue for dessert was an a la carte item that was a must have and everyone ordered the chocolate fondue.

An intimate setting, lots of wine and some sweet, warm chocolate will get her motor running, even if you can't.

Romantic, isn't it? Meet my next ex.

The length of time spent on dinner in the restaurant would usually range from two to three hours, limiting the amount of tables that you could work in an evening and having an impact upon the tips you could earn and while the food was fairly expensive, we also pushed wine and that's where the real money was. Selling wine would pump up your check average and more importantly, your tips. If you could sell two or three bottles of wine to the majority of your tables, you were sure to go home with pockets full of cash (actually, you would make it to the bar with pockets full of cash, how much you'd still have left when you got home would be a different story and staying drunk can get pretty expensive). The only other way to make money there was by relying on your personality and by engaging with your customers, meaning that you had to be personable and, well, a little weird. You were a part of the experience, part of the entertainment, like your own little one man Off-Broadway Show. Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me fucking sing and dance for you. A little shuffle and fucking jive. Yeah, I can just picture myself getting all jiggy with it. I'll get started on choreographing a routine right now.

I got moves, mothafuckaz! I got mad fuckin' skillz.

And personable? Me? Whatthefuckever. Hell, I took a personality test once and the results came back negative. I think That I'm more of a curmudgeon than a personable person and I'm also pretty much convinced that I'm just a fucking asshole more than anything else. Have I ever mentioned that I also have the honor and the privilege of being the most well adjusted person that I know? And I could never be considered weird, right?

Shut the fuck up, it was just a rhetorical question.

So, while I might not have much in the way of a personality, I've certainly got bullshit in abundance. Bucket loads of bullshit, that is. Yes, yes indeed. Shit Slingin' Steve, that's me. It has a certain je ne sais quoi to it, don't you think?

One late afternoon, it was my turn to come in early to help open the restaurant up and get it ready for dinner service (we only served dinner). Coming in early was good, because it meant that you would be the first person to start making money and it also meant that theoretically you would be the first person out the door and headed home. I say theoretically because the reality of the situation was such that you could theoretically be the last person out the door and headed home as well. It would all depend upon when your last table chose to leave and if they decided to camp out, well, you were screwed. That's just the hazards of the business, life isn't fair and all of that shit, but if I'm making money, I'll stay until the end of time.

As an aside and in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that the term "headed home" was really just a euphemism for going out and drinking all night.

As I was clocking in and getting ready to start setting up the restaurant, there were a rapid series of loud knocks at the front door, which was quickly answered by the owner, Dan (not his real name). He spoke to someone at the door for a few minutes and then he walked over to me and asked me if I felt like taking an early table, further explaining that they only wanted to order the chocolate fondue. Dan said that that the decision was completely up to me, he didn't care and that I didn't have to take care of them if I didn't want to. It didn't take me very long to set up the restaurant and I could certainly wait on a dessert table while taking care of everything else. Besides, it was extra money in my pocket with very little effort on my part and it was good customer service. I told Dan that it wouldn't be a problem. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Dan walked back to the front door and returned with a party of five in tow. Strutting like preening peacocks through the empty restaurant were three generations of the same family; an older couple, a younger couple and their cute little three year old son who was literally bouncing down the aisle howling chants of, "Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!" over and over again and he definitely wasn't using his inside voice. His father began chanting along with him.

Seriously?

A three year old doing that is obnoxious enough, but a thirty-something year old grown man jumping up and down and screaming, "Chocolate!" at the top of his lungs belongs in the theater of the absurd.

Don't get me wrong, I've always done silly, stupid, funny and cheesy stuff with my kids, but this...

This...

Twenty years later and I still don't have words.

My waiter early warning system began to twitch. Bad. Really bad. Like when your balls really itch something fierce and you're with a bunch of people and you just can't scratch your fucking nuts and that makes the itch even worse type bad. Glory be.

It was pretty obvious that they were going to be a bit difficult.

I began to question the life choices that led me to this moment as my ever present and delightful smile began to crack and crumble.

It was also pretty obvious that they were rich. You could just smell the money on them, they absolutely, positively reeked of it. I hoped that because we were going out of our way to accommodate them that I had a pretty good chance of getting a nice fat tip. So far it looked like mostly shaft.

I'm not exactly sure whom they were showing off for in an empty restaurant, but after the spectacle of their grand entrance, Dave tried to seat them in one of the booths on the main aisle but they would have none of it, complaining that the table might be good enough for the common riffraff, but it certainly wouldn't do for them. Y'know, because they were exalted royalty and shit. After flitting from seat to seat like Goldie Locks looking for the perfect chair that felt just right for her big, fat ass and after a few extra minutes spent fondling different tables, they finally found one that was deemed worthy of their greatness and just as they started to settle themselves in they realized that the little one was missing.

The mother freaked out.

"Where's my baby?" she shrieked. "Has anyone seen my baby?"

Well... maybe the dingo ate your baby...

Burp...

Great. Nothing like having to wait on arrogant, rich, entitled assholes who can't be bothered to take care of their children. This was going to be fun. Lots of fun. Lots of fucking fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Fuck me.

We split up into search parties and everyone fanned out through the restaurant searching for the kid. After a few minutes, his mother found him hiding underneath one of the tables in the back and she actually bribed him to come back with her. This just kept getting better and better.

The elder gentleman, obviously the patriarch of the family, barked at me and ordered me to bring a booster seat for his grandson. I think he said something along the lines of, "Hey you, we need a booster seat over here."

Yeah. Sure. Fuck you, buddy.

I went to go fetch the booster seat like a good little bitch and then returned to the table, handing it to the child's father. Nobody bothered to thank me. Pretty fucking rude, if you ask me. Assholes.

I started to introduce myself, but the older guy quickly interrupted me. Dick move, buddy.

The older guy then proceeded to explain to me that they were on their way to the airport to drop off their son, daughter-in-law and grandson and that they were in a rush. He told me that he and his wife were regulars and that I must be new because I didn't recognize them (I had been there a year and I had never seen them before and Dan hadn't recognized them either). He and his wife had told the younger couple about how wonderful the fondue was and had promised to take them to dinner but had then never bothered, but figured they were at least entitled to have some chocolate fondue on their way out of town. Oh, and they were in a hurry, so could I, you know, hurry things along?

Okay, you're in a hurry, I get that, so shut the fuck up and order and stop wasting everyone's time by running your fucking mouth.

While he's droning on to me and I'm mentally picturing myself choking the living shit out of him, I look at the table and notice that his darling little grandson has dumped the contents of the salt and pepper shakers onto the table and he now has two little piles sitting directly in front of him. The little bastard looked at me, smiled smugly and shoved the piles of salt and pepper all over the table. That little shit. No one corrected him or said a word.

That's total bullshit. 

I bit my tongue. What the fuck did I get myself into this time?

I assured them that I can get them out of the restaurant quickly and believe me, all I want to do is get them the fuck out of the restaurant. I ask them if I can get them started with something to drink and they all ask for water with lemon and they want one for the kid, too, because of course, five glasses of free. Free work that I won't get tipped on. Plus the old guy, who also asked for coffee, because of course he needs a drink for both hands and because of course I haven't had a chance to make any coffee yet and when I informed His Majesty that I would be making a fresh pot and that it would take a few minutes he mentioned something about my being incompetent under his breath.

Fuck that motherfucker. I wanted to punch that arrogant sonofabitch in his arrogant pompous fucking pie hole but I kept my cool, did an about face and went off to get their drinks. I wanted to poison them and I would have, but that's a lot of bodies to hide and I drove a motorcycle. The logistics weren't looking good.

Oh, and we didn't have any fucking kids cups, either, but that was just too bad now, wasn't it? We just weren't that kind of restaurant. Contrary to popular belief, children and large pots of boiling liquids aren't always a very good mix.

I returned to the table with their drinks, passed them out, took their order and turned it into the kitchen. By this time the coffee was ready and I poured a cup and brought it out to the table where I noticed that the little bastard had gotten his filthy little hands on the sugar caddie and had torn open all of the sugar and Sweet & Low packets, dumped them out and scattered them all over the table. It was like he was playing in a sandbox of sugar. That shit was everywhere. Again, no one corrected him or said a word.

That's some great fucking parenting skills right there, folks.

I was perilously close to the edge. No amount of money could make up for this shit.

The old guy asked me if I had any straws for the baby to play with.

Oh shit... Oh no, you din't...

All rational thought went out the window. I fucking lost it. I snapped. Before I even realized what I was saying, I had blurted out, "What's the matter? You can't afford any toys?" 

I thought this guy's fucking head was going to explode; like he was going to have an aneurysm or something, His face turned beet red, veins popped out all over his forehead, his mouth fell open and then he freaked the fuck out. I mean he really freaked the fuck out.

"You sonofabitch," he spat at me, "You motherfucker. I demand to speak to the owner. I demand to speak to the owner right fucking now!"

"Yes, sir. I'll be more than happy to get him for you," I said with an evil smirk. Dude should have been thankful that I hadn't stabbed him through the eye with one of the fondue forks. Not only am I Italian, but I know people that know people who know other people that have some friends who might or might not know someone who may or may not be in the mob. but his cousin has a neighbor who knows someone that says he probably might be but he's not certain. 

I went to Dan's office in the back and I explained the situation to him. I think he may have been a little pissed off at me and I wasn't completely sure if he had believed my side of the story, but he had to at least half believe me because he already knew they were assholes. I started to worry about losing my job. I liked my job. I liked my job a lot. Not only did I like my job, but I made an obscene amount of money at my job and I really wanted to continue making that money which enabled me to not only ay for my basic necessities, but enabled me to live a fairly lavish lifestyle of expensive booze and cheap women. I decided that I did not want to lose my job.

Dan stormed out of the office and into the dining room. As he approached the family I could see that he was starting to get angry as he took in the full extent of the mess that covered the table. Better yet, the people had now switched tables, because the little bastard had managed to spill his glass of water, leaving a nasty, sticky paste of a mess, so they had changed tables and given the nasty little shit another sugar caddie full of "toys" to play with and which said little shit was currently in the process of tearing open and dumping upon the table.

Dan was so angry I thought his hair plugs were going to pop out. I swear I saw them bulging and ready to fly off like mini mortars on the Fourth of July. I'd never seen him this angry. 

I felt a tingle in my mangina. I wish I'd had some popcorn.

The rude, pompous and arrogant old fucker started to yell at my boss, but Dan cut him right off.

"Shut up and get out," Dan said. 

The old guy looked confused and then angry. His face wasn't red anymore, it was positively purple. He started to open his mouth to say something, but Dan cut him off before he could utter a word.

"Get out," Dan repeated. "Get out now. Take your things and take your brat and get the hell out of my restaurant. Now!"

I swooned. Dave was my hero. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to make his babies.

All of them started to shout at once but Dan would have none of it.

"Get out. Get out now, or I'll call the police and have you arrested." Dan was pissed. Go Dan! You sexy motherfucker.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" screamed the cranky old fuck.

The old man threatened to sue Dan and Dan laughed in his face. The old man threatened to ruin him, the restaurant and little ol' me. 

I did a double take.

Who? Me? Huh? What the hell did I do? 

They mumbled and muttered and acted indignant and violated all the way to the door, but they got out. We never heard from their lawyer and we never heard from them again, either. Dan's business didn't get ruined either. As for me, I'd been ruined long before and frankly, I had no fucks left to give.

Bye, bye motherfuckers.

After they left, Dan and I looked at each other and we just shook our heads and laughed. He helped me clean up the mess that they had left and we were able to get the restaurant open on time.

The point that I'm trying to make here is that if someone bends over backwards to accommodate your ass, be gracious, thankful, well-mannered and appreciative instead of being rude, demanding, ill-bred and a complete douchebag. Make sure your children behave. If not, karma is going to turn around and bite you right in the dick and I'll be the one laughing about it.

If you liked this story, please give this one a chance:

Slide It In

Or, if you'd like to read something a bit more serious and with no foul language, check this out:

In My Father's Footsteps

Email Me: ramblings.from.the.short.bus@gmail.com

Thanks for stopping by!

One last thing, please leave a comment on the post, here on the blog, Stroke me ego or I swear I will find where you live, get naked and stand outside of your house.

Btw, what happens when you inject human DNA into a goat?

I got kicked out of the petting zoo...