Years back, I may, or may not, have worked with someone who rubbed a person’s toothbrush under the rim of the toilet as payback. While I’m not explicitly admitting to it, I’m not denying it…actually, I’m not at liberty to say who did it…but I can categorically state that the victim deserved it.
I’m not generally a vindictive person, and half of the time I can’t be bothered holding a grudge. It takes a lot of effort to hate, you know. But there is something irresistible about taking the karmic balance into your own hands every now and then. I was working in a bar when I was 19 and a group of bullies from high school came in. I made sure I served them all night. I wound up overcharging them about $70 in total for their drinks- a pretty good effort, I think. Despite the fact that the “jocks” usually wind up fat and unfulfilled while the “nerds” go on to create Facebook, there is something I still find delicious about that story. It warms me on a cold day. I may have no world changing computer program lurking in the dark corners of my brain, but I can scam a small amount of cash out of a dickhead years later. Score. Hey, you were a douchebag! Remember? No? Well, thanks for the new shoes, buddy. Sunrise. Sunset.
Besides, I’m not that bad. I once knew a chef who jerked off into someone’s béarnaise. See, you always thought that was an urban legend, didn’t you? Nope, it happens. I’ve met him. And in the decade that has passed since that conversation, I’m sure many more sauces have been contaminated. Possibly some soups, too. Cream jokes aside, I learnt two important things that night- there is no such thing as constructive criticism to a chef, and if you upset the waitress, she will tell the chef to fuck with you. This is especially true for closed kitchens. Heed my word, or you may have some extra protein in your next meal.
I used to work for a hotel that was so shitty, 7 out of the 8 hours of my shift was spent repeating the mantra, “On behalf of the hotel I would like to apologise for…” The other hour was spent ignoring incoming calls whilst poring over The Sartorialist and stealing stationary supplies. The rest of the time was shit. I apologised more than the Catholic Church. I apologised more than the premature ejaculator. I apologised more than John Howard didn’t. Eventually, after intoning the phrase, feeling the last vestiges of my soul seep through my glazed eyes, something in my head snapped, and I decided to go rogue. If a customer was rude, I would smile through gritted teeth, and then, I would fuck with them. It was often just random, petty stuff, setting wakeup calls for 3am, cancelling their pay per view movie in the last fifteen minutes, pretty tame, really. Staying in that hotel was like walking into my dank little lair of revenge, a lair which often smelt like the dizzying mix of sewerage and garbage frying gently in the sun.
Actually the worst, or possibly best, thing I did was to a British lady who stayed there. This woman is, to this day, possibly the biggest bitch I have ever encountered- and I’ve worked in P.R, ZING! She came up from the gym one night and was greeted by the usual sight which lay in the lobby: a lone flustered receptionist, three phone lines ringing simultaneously, two on hold, and a small queue of people. She breezed past the people, slapped the counter three times to get my attention, and demanded fresh linen to be sent to her room. When I told her I would bring them up in a minute, she slapped the desk again and said- still managing to sound dignified- that she didn’t want them in a fucking minute, she wanted them now. *click click* Like right *click* now. Did I get that? Did I under-fucking-stand?! Fucking Australian’s.
So I farted on the towels. And I rubbed my ass over her face washers. Truly, I did. I hope I gave the bitch conjunctivitis.
I mean, aren’t workouts meant to give you an endorphin buzz? I don’t know what her fucking problem was. Who clicks their fingers at service staff, anyway? Please don’t do it. You will always look like a wanker, I promise you. You are no better than the ass clown who yells “TAXI!” when someone drops something in a pub. And while I’m on the subject: Garçon. Seriously? We have only heard it a couple of gajillion times already, and it just keeps getting funnier each time! Honestly, do you think the word garçon is a magical phrase that can be intoned in order to hypnotise someone into making the ultimately tragic decision to shag a completely unimaginative, generic, unamusing, and boring toad pole? No, really, please don’t say it. Loser.
As a waitress, you have to deal with rudeness a lot. I served one yuppie scumbag, who was obviously on a date. He was a rude, dismissive prick to me, but fawningly loquacious to his lady friend. Funnily enough, I still remember his order of, “the steak, exactly medium rare, with twice cooked chips and fresh sliced tomato covering only the steak, not the chips, and put on last so they don’t warm up.” No, that wasn’t on the menu. When I told him that I would have to check with the kitchen, he reminded me that as a paying customer he was not only allowed to order anything he wanted, but he was also always right. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t always right. I’d walked up as he was telling his date that Australia avoided the GFC because we weren’t in the United Nations. I’m pretty sure he was thinking of the European Union, which, I suppose, is an easy mistake to make when you are a self important moron. I pondered correcting him, but then figured that a far greater punishment would be to look like an idiot around people more important than the outspoken waitress with the messy hair. I almost suggested a side of béarnaise, or perhaps a warm towel, but decided to be professional. And I didn’t work with that chef at this place.
After complaining about the wine, the service and the music, his meal was finally ready. In between trying to send his date subliminal ‘run now, you fool’ messages, I was busily fantasising about slapping him in the face with his medium rare steak, covering his eyes with his cool, sliced tomatoes, and sticking twice cooked chips in each and every orifice. Yes, every orifice. My head is a scary place at times…but it would have been the best restaurant scene since that guy exploded in The Meaning of Life. Later, he called me back to tell me the steak was putrid, something that only became apparent after consuming eighty percent of it. Shortly after this, his date excused herself, approached me, apologised for him, generously tipped me, and ran. I may be telepathic.
You see, when I’m on a date, I can tell almost everything I need to know about the person by how they treat the workers. It’s true. You see, he HAS to be nice to me, he’s trying to prise my legs apart, but does this make him a nice guy? You don’t know, do you? You just don’t know. BUT if he’s rude to the waitress… See you don’t often get nuggets of wisdom amongst the vulgar outpourings of this blog, but ladies, take that one with you. It works.
Also, fuck a nice guy every once in a while. Really, you should. The bastards of this world get plenty of minge. Put out for a good guy every now and then. I campaign on behalf of all of my nice, single male friends. Thank me later, guys. There should be National Fuck a Nice Guy Day. I’m writing to Rudd after I post this.
And fellas, Fuck a Nice Guy Day will fall immediately after National Eat a Girl Out Day. Just so you know.