It's been a while since I've last posted, mainly due to writers block. There are so many ideas running through my mind, and I can't decide which one to write.
I finally decided to share with you another white trash story. I'm in the Midwest, so you can bet your ass that there's a wiiiiiiide variety of different types of white trash (there are many different types, but that's another entry).
They seemed normal enough. Fat white mom, trashy kid, and I think there was a husband..or some sort of guy. I don't know. I've tried to forget this memory, but like herpes, it keeps coming back to me.
Their meal went innocently enough. We gave each other shit, joked around, talked about the weather and some current TV shows. They were hilarious. When they asked, I dropped off their check, and chuckled to myself. I worried that I had made an error in judgement about the type of people they were…but that thought was short lived.
I'm standing at the server station, putting in my credit card tips into the POS (funny thing- it's actually called a POS. The name serves it well), when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and it's the fat lady, holding out her receipt, and it's obvious that she wants to pay. I'm in the middle of saying "I'll be right th--", when she reaches her hand down the front of her shirt…into her bra…and pulls out a wad of money. She counts it out, and hands me the wrinkled bills. Oh, and they were wet.
The look on my face was probably priceless. I don't remember if I stood there in shock, but I'm pretty sure I recall her saying to keep the change. After I realized that I was holding sweaty boob money, I ran to the cashier's register, and switched out the money, and stayed away from getting change from them for the rest of the night.
I washed my hands profusely after that; however, my soul will forever be tainted.
Wet money is one of the most revolting things on this earth. We all know dirty money is, containing anything and everything, such as blood, fecal matter, urine, cocaine, and probably ebola. Why would you want that anywhere near your body? Also, why carry it in your bra, of all places? Why not pockets? Purse? Clutch? Jesus, give it to someone else who you're with, instead of traumatizing your poor server.
The lady had balls of steel for doing that in front of me, though. If she would've done it at the table and I never knew, I would be a much happier person. Thanks for ruining my life, lady.
Word to the wise: do not keep money in any crevices (everyone who knows me know how hard it was for me to type that vile word) that you wouldn't want people touching. This includes inside your goddamn bra.
October 13, 2011
October 3, 2011
Poop tables…why?!
If you're an avid reader of this blog (I actually think that I am the only one, so far. Well, my fiance also; mainly because I make him read each and every entry after I post it), you will know that my previous entry was about some white trash family letting their kid shit all over a chair. Kind of. More, or less. Anyways.
There are so many things I could say about white trash tables, but I don't have all night. I'll just bitch about something else they do that irks me.
The restaurant I worked at has a changing table in the bathroom. Both bathrooms, actually. Let me repeat. Changing tables. Used for changing a diaper or other types of bottoms that are worn over the genital and asshole region. I'll even break it down for you:
Am I correct by saying that this isn't a hard concept to grasp? Honestly. If you're a woman, you carried this child within your body for 9 (or close to) months, and then you pushed the kid out of your vagina (or got it removed, like a tumor). I assume that you feed the child, bathe him or her, dress them, etc. You should know how to change a diaper.
Some people just simply cannot grasp this idea. They leave the dirty diaper on the changing station, or leave numerous paper pads all over the place (did they throw a goddamn party? What is this?), or a combination of both. Sometimes, if the server who has to check the bathrooms is lucky, they leave the diaper and the dirty wipes. This is not pleasant for anybody.
But, at least they're taking their kid into the bathroom. The thing that people do, mainly white trash tables, that bother me so fucking much is change their kid at the table. At. The. Table. The same table that you are eating off of. What if the table busser/whoever the hell wipes the table down did a shitty job (no pun intended)? Because of some jackass who can't figure out how to change their child in private (because nobody wants to see that shit [once again, no pun intended]), there very well may be fecal matter on that table. The same table that we put the silverware on; chances are that silverware is wrapped in a napkin for your convenience. Now, imagine taking that silverware roll up that has been sitting on an infected table, and wiping your mouth with it. You just literally wiped your mouth with shit.
I don't care what the fuck you do at home. Change your kid on the counter while you're preparing dinner, for all I care. You're not risking anyones health but your own (unless you're throwing a dinner party). Risk your health all you want. Then again, you're risking your child's health, if you put the bottles on the counter. Thinking about this pisses me off.
I've seen posts on this website about annoying and shitty parents (with Facebook statuses. It's hilarious). One of them was a mother being like "(this restaurant) didn't have a changing table, so I changed (kids name)'s diaper on the table! LOL!" Yeah bitch, that's hilarious. Why don't you go lick an outhouse seat? Because that's pretty much what people are doing after you leave. Fuck you.
Yes, I understand that some restaurants don't have changing tables in their bathrooms (which is ridiculous). If you don't like it, changing your kid's diaper on the table top isn't going to change that. Every corporate restaurant has a website, and on the websites are ways to contact the higher ups. This is where you say how much bullshit it is, and how you'll never return, and how you'll tell all of your friends and family and they'll never go back, etc. Not spreading dookie all over a table.
If a zombie apocalypse happens because of some weird mutated poop germ, it's your fault.
There are so many things I could say about white trash tables, but I don't have all night. I'll just bitch about something else they do that irks me.
The restaurant I worked at has a changing table in the bathroom. Both bathrooms, actually. Let me repeat. Changing tables. Used for changing a diaper or other types of bottoms that are worn over the genital and asshole region. I'll even break it down for you:
- Pull on the handle at the top, pulling towards you. This folds down, so there is a shelf, if you will, that you can balance the baby on. Make sure he or she doesn't roll off.
- On the back of the changing table (the part that is against the wall), there is a little compartment in the middle. These have paper pads that you can place down to try to avoid fecal matter/urine/vomit/blood/whatever other bodily fluids to seep out on the changing table.
- Change your kid, as you would.
- Pick up the child, and the paper pad that you put down. Most importantly, pick up the damn dirty diaper that you just took off, and hopefully rolled up.
- Close the changing station. Basically, you do what you did to open it, but opposite. Push the shelf thing up. It folds up, and closes.
- THROW THE DIAPER AWAY. There are trash cans in the bathroom for many reasons, this being one of them.
- Wash your goddamn hands before touching anything else. Make sure to scrub.
- Dry your hands, and get the hell out.
Am I correct by saying that this isn't a hard concept to grasp? Honestly. If you're a woman, you carried this child within your body for 9 (or close to) months, and then you pushed the kid out of your vagina (or got it removed, like a tumor). I assume that you feed the child, bathe him or her, dress them, etc. You should know how to change a diaper.
Some people just simply cannot grasp this idea. They leave the dirty diaper on the changing station, or leave numerous paper pads all over the place (did they throw a goddamn party? What is this?), or a combination of both. Sometimes, if the server who has to check the bathrooms is lucky, they leave the diaper and the dirty wipes. This is not pleasant for anybody.
But, at least they're taking their kid into the bathroom. The thing that people do, mainly white trash tables, that bother me so fucking much is change their kid at the table. At. The. Table. The same table that you are eating off of. What if the table busser/whoever the hell wipes the table down did a shitty job (no pun intended)? Because of some jackass who can't figure out how to change their child in private (because nobody wants to see that shit [once again, no pun intended]), there very well may be fecal matter on that table. The same table that we put the silverware on; chances are that silverware is wrapped in a napkin for your convenience. Now, imagine taking that silverware roll up that has been sitting on an infected table, and wiping your mouth with it. You just literally wiped your mouth with shit.
I don't care what the fuck you do at home. Change your kid on the counter while you're preparing dinner, for all I care. You're not risking anyones health but your own (unless you're throwing a dinner party). Risk your health all you want. Then again, you're risking your child's health, if you put the bottles on the counter. Thinking about this pisses me off.
I've seen posts on this website about annoying and shitty parents (with Facebook statuses. It's hilarious). One of them was a mother being like "(this restaurant) didn't have a changing table, so I changed (kids name)'s diaper on the table! LOL!" Yeah bitch, that's hilarious. Why don't you go lick an outhouse seat? Because that's pretty much what people are doing after you leave. Fuck you.
Yes, I understand that some restaurants don't have changing tables in their bathrooms (which is ridiculous). If you don't like it, changing your kid's diaper on the table top isn't going to change that. Every corporate restaurant has a website, and on the websites are ways to contact the higher ups. This is where you say how much bullshit it is, and how you'll never return, and how you'll tell all of your friends and family and they'll never go back, etc. Not spreading dookie all over a table.
If a zombie apocalypse happens because of some weird mutated poop germ, it's your fault.
October 1, 2011
White trash…how we love thee.
You see them walk in the door, and you pray that the greeter does not seat them in your section. The stained pajama pants. The stained shirt that is two sizes too large. Hair thrown up in a scrunchie. Dear God…no. It's the white trash table that we all fear.
The greeter sends you a look that's mixed with pity, sorrow, and fear, as she sits them in the booth that they will undoubtedly occupy for a good two hours. There goes your table turn over.
We've all had these tables, right? I've had a couple golden ones that stick out in my head. Most of the time, it involves an overweight mother, skinny, strung out male figure (oldest son? Boyfriend? Husband? Meth dealer? We'll never know), and usually, I see the teenage daughter. The Kurt Cobain shirt looks dumb as fuck on you, by the way. The crack your mom was on when you were conceived hadn't been made yet when that CD came out.
I'll give her props. Her grill was slightly jacked up, and the gap wasn't that noticeable. From a distance. In fact, from a distance, she was remotely pretty. As I got closer, I realized that she was a Monet- good looking from far away, and a hideous mess up close. You could've fit a Tic-Tac between those things. Her bad box dye job was fading away fast, as was apparent by her abundance of roots showing. Sweetie, you can tell you're not a natural blonde. Bleach blonde and dark bushy eyebrows don't go well together. Don't worry, I've seen worse. You're still the prettiest girl in the trailer park.
There's also a younger child here. I'm not sure if it's the teenager's kid (I wouldn't doubt it), or the fat mess of a human sitting there, in Mountain Dew pajama pants and a shirt that appears to have been used to clean car tires. The kid is young enough to belong to either of them. Neither of them shout out motherly instincts, so it's hard to tell.
I have nothing against kids. In fact, I love them. I would willingly take tables with children, because I love interacting with them, and the parents love seeing that. I make a minimum of 20% off of tables with children. But, this kid…
For one. Please wash your kid! This poor little guy had the remnants of something sticky on his face, perhaps from earlier in the day. Or yesterday. Who knows. Not only was his face dirty, his hands were disgusting. I don't know where the hell his hands had been. They looked like he had used them to hand wash (or warsh, as they say it) an oil rig. Whatever, though. He's not my kid. In fact, at this point, I'm still not sure who the hell he belongs to.
They ask about beer, so I look at their IDs. I see that they're from a small town close to here, so I automatically tell them that we have Busch Lt. (the hillbillies Cristal). Boom, sold. Their food is put into the computer, beers are set down, and I am on my merry way to bullshit with my other tables.
Towards the end, I drop off their check, and tell them to have a good night. I had been putting off going to the bathroom for the entire night, and now that I had a chance, I was going to pee. FINALLY. I'm sitting in there (because I'm a lady), feeling euphoric almost, until I hear two familiar voices. The two women at the table.
They're talking to the little boy, who had apparently shit his pants. Well, whatever. Kids do that. I listen as the younger one chastising the little guy, and who am I to judge? The kid was old enough to talk, so he could've asked to go to the bathroom. I've always found it awkward to walk out of the stall while people from my table are in the bathroom, so I sit and linger in the stall until they leave. It gives me time to check my Facebook and read some FMLs before I have to get back to work.
They do whatever they're doing, and I hear them say something about how he won't be able to wear 'big boy underwear' anymore, if he keeps pooping his pants. Seems legit. They finish up, I hear the diaper station close…
no water running…
door closes.
THEY LEFT WITHOUT WASHING THEIR FUCKING HANDS. They better be gone, and they goddamn better of left cash on the table before they went to the bathroom. Fuck that. Money is dirty enough, and I know for a fact that one of them, if not both, changed a dirty….wait a minute.
They said that if he didn't stop shitting his pants, he wouldn't be wearing big boy underwear… anymore. Does that mean he was wearing them WHILE he shit his pants? Where did they go? Did he shit on the chair? Dear God.
Thankfully, they had left money on the table (around 10/%, of course), and naturally the floor around it was the mess. I kept eyeballing the one chair that he had been sitting in, looking for any trace of disgustingness, and thankfully didn't see any. I refused to sanitize that damn thing, though. A manager took care of it after I explained what I had heard, and that I refused to touch the chair until it had been cleaned. Who knows if that kid dropped a deuce when he was sitting in that chair, and how long had he been sitting in it? As far as I know, there were no traces of little boy boom boom. I'm not taking my damn chances, though.
That was a close one.
The greeter sends you a look that's mixed with pity, sorrow, and fear, as she sits them in the booth that they will undoubtedly occupy for a good two hours. There goes your table turn over.
We've all had these tables, right? I've had a couple golden ones that stick out in my head. Most of the time, it involves an overweight mother, skinny, strung out male figure (oldest son? Boyfriend? Husband? Meth dealer? We'll never know), and usually, I see the teenage daughter. The Kurt Cobain shirt looks dumb as fuck on you, by the way. The crack your mom was on when you were conceived hadn't been made yet when that CD came out.
I'll give her props. Her grill was slightly jacked up, and the gap wasn't that noticeable. From a distance. In fact, from a distance, she was remotely pretty. As I got closer, I realized that she was a Monet- good looking from far away, and a hideous mess up close. You could've fit a Tic-Tac between those things. Her bad box dye job was fading away fast, as was apparent by her abundance of roots showing. Sweetie, you can tell you're not a natural blonde. Bleach blonde and dark bushy eyebrows don't go well together. Don't worry, I've seen worse. You're still the prettiest girl in the trailer park.
There's also a younger child here. I'm not sure if it's the teenager's kid (I wouldn't doubt it), or the fat mess of a human sitting there, in Mountain Dew pajama pants and a shirt that appears to have been used to clean car tires. The kid is young enough to belong to either of them. Neither of them shout out motherly instincts, so it's hard to tell.
I have nothing against kids. In fact, I love them. I would willingly take tables with children, because I love interacting with them, and the parents love seeing that. I make a minimum of 20% off of tables with children. But, this kid…
For one. Please wash your kid! This poor little guy had the remnants of something sticky on his face, perhaps from earlier in the day. Or yesterday. Who knows. Not only was his face dirty, his hands were disgusting. I don't know where the hell his hands had been. They looked like he had used them to hand wash (or warsh, as they say it) an oil rig. Whatever, though. He's not my kid. In fact, at this point, I'm still not sure who the hell he belongs to.
They ask about beer, so I look at their IDs. I see that they're from a small town close to here, so I automatically tell them that we have Busch Lt. (the hillbillies Cristal). Boom, sold. Their food is put into the computer, beers are set down, and I am on my merry way to bullshit with my other tables.
Towards the end, I drop off their check, and tell them to have a good night. I had been putting off going to the bathroom for the entire night, and now that I had a chance, I was going to pee. FINALLY. I'm sitting in there (because I'm a lady), feeling euphoric almost, until I hear two familiar voices. The two women at the table.
They're talking to the little boy, who had apparently shit his pants. Well, whatever. Kids do that. I listen as the younger one chastising the little guy, and who am I to judge? The kid was old enough to talk, so he could've asked to go to the bathroom. I've always found it awkward to walk out of the stall while people from my table are in the bathroom, so I sit and linger in the stall until they leave. It gives me time to check my Facebook and read some FMLs before I have to get back to work.
They do whatever they're doing, and I hear them say something about how he won't be able to wear 'big boy underwear' anymore, if he keeps pooping his pants. Seems legit. They finish up, I hear the diaper station close…
no water running…
door closes.
THEY LEFT WITHOUT WASHING THEIR FUCKING HANDS. They better be gone, and they goddamn better of left cash on the table before they went to the bathroom. Fuck that. Money is dirty enough, and I know for a fact that one of them, if not both, changed a dirty….wait a minute.
They said that if he didn't stop shitting his pants, he wouldn't be wearing big boy underwear… anymore. Does that mean he was wearing them WHILE he shit his pants? Where did they go? Did he shit on the chair? Dear God.
Thankfully, they had left money on the table (around 10/%, of course), and naturally the floor around it was the mess. I kept eyeballing the one chair that he had been sitting in, looking for any trace of disgustingness, and thankfully didn't see any. I refused to sanitize that damn thing, though. A manager took care of it after I explained what I had heard, and that I refused to touch the chair until it had been cleaned. Who knows if that kid dropped a deuce when he was sitting in that chair, and how long had he been sitting in it? As far as I know, there were no traces of little boy boom boom. I'm not taking my damn chances, though.
That was a close one.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)