Waiter, There's a Lap in My Soup

Every now and then, I like to tell stories about my time in the restaurant industry. I grew up in the business. Literally. My parents owned several bars and a restaurant over the years.

When I was eight years old, my parents opened a restaurant in Pompano Beach, Florida. The eponymously named "Marandola's" served a somewhat more upscale fare, but was still home to many Italian favorites. The restaurant was frequented by a great many tough looking Italian men who came in singly or in variously sized groups. All of these men seemed to be friends of my father's and all of them seemed to have come from New York, New Jersey or Philadelphia; their accents reminiscent of Brooklyn and South Philly. My parents used to think it was cute to have me take baskets of bread out to the tables, where I would get tipped a dollar or five and then the dago bastards would always tousle my hair and call me "Stevie". For a little kid, it was a pretty lucrative racket, but I really despised having my hair tousled and being called "Stevie". As time went on, I started doing more and more around the restaurant; hosting, bussing tables, washing dishes, even a bit of cooking, here and there, but I never waited tables and I never wanted to.

Eventually, my parents sold the restaurant, but my experience there paid off and enabled me to land a job bussing tables at another restaurant. The skills that I learned working for my parents and what I have added to my skillset over time have come in handy many times and served me well, over the years.

When I was around seventeen, I had a job in the kitchen of a restaurant at a motel named The Colonial Inn, located in Sunny Isles, Florida. The motel and many others like it were a haven for all of the snowbirds who would flock down from the Northeast US and Canada, escaping the cold and spending the winter months in sunny South Florida. Depending upon the time of day, I would either be cooking, bussing tables, washing dishes or cleaning the kitchen. The pay was shit and the owner, Jeff, was cheap as hell and a complete douchebag to work for, but I got back at him by fucking his daughter Penny, who worked as the hostess and cashier. Quid pro quo, motherfucker. Quid pro quo.

As we moved into our busy season, Jeff hired another part-time cook to help out with the heavier volume. This was great for me, because it took some of the burden off of my back and I had to do a lot less of the shit work, because we had a new guy.

One day, the restaurant was packed and two of the waitresses hadn't shown up for work. There was a huge line at the door, the kitchen was slammed, we were out of clean dishes on the line and I ran back to the dish area to get the dishwasher going. Suddenly, Jeff walked up to me and I'll never forget the words that he said to me, "We're short in the dining room. I need you to start waiting tables. You're cleaner and more presentable than the other guy is and you know what goes on in the front of the house."

Jeff thrust some shit at me.

"Here's a pen and a pack of checks. Penny will tell you which tables are yours and she'll help you as much as she can. Don't fuck this up."

I was stunned. I stared at Jeff, bewildered.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Jeff asked me. "Get the fuck out there and start taking tables. You're gonna' fuck this up. Don't fuck this up."

Asshole.

I walked out into the dining room and it was complete pandemonium. Penny walked right up to me, grabbed my arm and pointed at a table.

"Start with that one," Penny said. "Ask them what they'd like to drink, write it down, get their drinks and take their order. Now! Go!

With that said, Penny smacked my ass and pushed me toward the table.

I nervously approached the table and introduced myself. Sitting before me were three older ladies and an older gentleman. They all had thick Germanic accents. I knew the type and knew that they were going to be very demanding. Great, just fucking great. They ordered three hot teas for the ladies and coffee, for the gentleman. Moments later, I discovered just how much I hate making hot tea for other people; it's a huge pain in the ass, incredibly time consuming and it's the bane of my fucking existence. I've always said a silent prayer at tables with old people, "Please don't order hot tea. Please don't order hot tea."

The power of prayer...

I pray and I pray.

The power of prayer, my ass. It never fucking works. They always order hot tea. There is no god.

People who order hot fucking chocolate are even worse. Hot chocolate? Seriously? What are you, five years old? Seriously. If you're an adult and you want hot chocolate, stay the fuck home and make it yourself, you entitled fucking asshole.

Unless you are under ten years old, don't even try to order that shit from me. If you're a kid, I'll happily make hot chocolate for you. If you're an adult, I'll either tell you that we don't have it, or I'll put the water in the cup, dump in the powder and cover that shit with whipped cream. There's no way in hell that I'm stirring that shit for you, I'm not your bitch. Hot chocolate. Fuck you.

Now you know two things that will really piss your server off. Wield this knowledge wisely.

I brought their drinks back to the table, took their dinner order and then dropped the check off in the kitchen.

Jeff looks at me and says, "Don't fuck this up."

Gee, thanks for the vote of fucking confidence, douchebag.

I walked back out into the dining room and Penny tells me that I have three more tables and that I need to hurry, because she's about to seat me more. I started to panic a little, because I totally wasn't ready for that shit. This was a sink or swim moment and I wasn't ready to drown just yet. My entire attitude changed to "Fuck it", an attitude that I've managed to carry with me up until this very day and one that I expect to serve me for years to come. I calmly went about my business, as long as you define calmly as me, running my ass off and trying to figure out just what the hell I'm supposed to be doing and somehow, in supposed to be doing all of this on the fly. Yup, sounds like complete and utter calm to me.

Thankfully, I'm a lazy fucker and laziness need breeds efficiency and makes for great organizational skills. I stayed afloat and managed not to screw anything up too badly. I was all like, "I got this shit," and shit and I was starting to feel a bit cocky about it.

By this time, the old folks had finished their meal and I cleared away their dirty dishes and took those back to the kitchen. I returned to the table and I offered them dessert, which they declined. They did ask for more coffee and hot water for tea, which, as I'm sure you can tell, had me absolutely jumping for joy. It's a good thing for Joy that she jumped first.

As I was pouring the coffee and hot water, the older gentleman asked me to bring a large bowl of hot water with lemons to the table. I was a little confused by his request and I asked him to be a little more specific. He became very agitated and he told me, in a very rude and demeaning tone, to just bring him a large bowl, full of boiling water and to throw in some lemons,

I walked back into the kitchen, still a little confused, but I did as he asked. The only bowls that we had in the restaurant were these big ass soup bowls, so I took one, filled it with boiling water, tossed in a few lemons. set it all on a tray and carried it out into the dining room.

As I approached the table, I stumbled and I watched in slow motion horror as the tray flipped over, the bowl of hot water went flying, upended and landed directly in the old guy's lap.

I recovered my balance and stood there, mortified.

There was about two seconds of complete silence and then all fucking hell broke loose.

The old guy jumped up and the bowl took flight once again, crashing to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces of flying shrapnel. I looked at the old man, horrified, but then I noticed that he looked as if he had pissed himself. I couldn't help myself; I started laughing. And laughing. I had completely lost it.

The old guy turned his evil eyes upon me and started screaming, "You stupid son of a bitch; you dumb bastard. Look what you've done, you idiot. You don't belong out here, you don't deserve to be a waiter. You're not a waiter! You should be the dishwasher."

Funny, I was doing that just about an hour ago...

"Yeah, about that..." I thought to myself, "Tomorrow, when I'm cooking your food, I'm going to poison you, you motherfucker. At the very least, I'm going to rub your fucking pancakes all over my balls."

I was still laughing. I couldn't stop and the old man just kept getting angrier and that only made me laugh harder.

I tried to apologize, but the old guy shut me right down. He was royally pissed off and throwing an epic temper tantrum. Not knowing what else to do, I walked back into the kitchen, composed myself and told Jeff my version of what had happened, which was, of course, the unimpeachable truth.

"Jesus Christ," Jeff said disgustedly, "I told you not to fuck it up and here you went and fucked it up."

Jeff ran into the dining room and went to the table.

Yeah, fuck you too, jefe.

I don't know what it was that Jeff said to the old bastard, but when I went back to the table to drop off the check, the old man apologized to me for his outburst, said that accidents happen and that a change of pants didn't mean the end of the world. He thanked me for my service, paid the check and told me to keep the change, To my complete shock, he had left me a twenty dollar tip on a fifty dollar check. I was elated.

The rest of the day went smoothly and I ended up making a lot of money. Jeff was so pleased with my performance that he permanently made me a waiter and gave me all of the best shifts and my income doubled. I'm still not sure if that was a promotion or a demotion, but I do know that night, a legend was born, even if it was just in my own mind.

I kept fucking his daughter, too.

I love a job with benefits.

Thanks for stopping by!

If you enjoyed this story, why not another?

Kill it with Fire

Looking for more restaurant mayhem?
Get Thee Behind Me, Satan

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...