Beav Has To Choke A Bitch

pro·jec·tion ( P ) Pronunciation Key (pr-jkshn)n.
8. Psychology.

a. The attribution of one's own attitudes, feelings, or suppositions to others: “Even trained anthropologists have been guilty of unconscious projection of clothing the subjects of their research in theories brought with them into the field” (Alex Shoumatoff).

b. The attribution of one's own attitudes, feelings, or desires to someone or something as a naive or unconscious defense against anxiety or guilt.

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I am not a fighter. I do not get in fights. I have never been in a "real" fight, and I do not seek fights. As nearly as I can tell, there are only 3 reliable ways to get me to take part in any violent goings-on.

1) Directly (and physically) attack me.
2) Directly (and physically) attack my friends or family.
3) Flagrantly disrespect a lady.

It's debatable as to whether consistent acts of jackassery over the course of a night or maybe longer are sufficient to have me ready to throw down...but I'd say they have more of a priming effect than a causal effect.

I've been truly ready to fight about twice in my life. The first time it was method 3 of getting me pissed off. Last night, it was method 2.

7/24/05 11:00 PM

I am on my way to hang out with a bunch of people from work. One of my co-workers, let's call him BirthdayBoy, is turning 25 and we're going to the Villager hotel to celebrate. I'm looking forward to this because I work with cool people (for the most part) and also some hot girls, so those make for good partying. When I get there, lots of the people I work with are sitting around in a little bar and drinking. Nothing especially noteworthy happens in the couple hours that we're all there other than us starting to get drunk.

7/25 1:20 AM

It's time to leave the little tavern where we've been hanging out. We've gotten some kind of ridiculous break on our bar tab, and we've hooked the bartender, who is a friend of BirthdayBoy up for his troubles. Now we're getting a room to have after hours.

3 people are shitty by the time we leave:

1) BithdayBoy (because people keep buying him shots)
2) His girlfriend (because she's small). Let us call her TheGirlfriend.
3) My douchebag co-worker (because he has low self-esteem), who I will call Redneck

Backstory: I haven't liked this kid since day one. Here is a kid who (to the best of my knowledge) has lived in Lincoln all his life, yet talks with a trace of a southern twang, isn't a very good worker, and is generally dumb, ugly and obnoxious. He's that guy who puts a little bit of one-upsmanship in everything he does, because he's ragingly insecure at his core, and it shows. He's that guy who thinks he's an expert on every subject, even though anyone with three brain cells stuck together can tell he's full of shit. I take one look at how drunk this toolbox is and I just know something more will come of it later. In a related story...I'm frequently right.

1:30 AM

TheGirlfriend has rented a hotel room for after-hours. She is shitbombed. She first tells me that we're going to room 443, then proceeds to take us to room 435 and wonder why the keycard won't work. I let her try it about 5 times and then kindly remind her that she told me we had room 443. She proceeds the wrong way down the hall to rectify the situation. I decide to go the right way and wait for her. She comes back down and tries the correct room, and while the card is working, she's having a hard time operating the door. Finally the one sober guy in the whole group does it for her, and we're ready to party.

1:40 AM

Here we go. We have about 12 people hanging out in a room at the Villager, and we're ready to party like rockstars. Everybody has been having a good time up to this point, but things are about to take a turn.

Redneck has been flagrantly hitting on the new girl, but she is obviously unimpressed. He takes this as his cue to step up his attempts to make himself look important. His method of choice up to this point has been bragging about his dubious merits and drinking a shit ton, but now he decides to pick on one of our mild-mannered guy employees (who we'll call 'Son) so that he can look macho in front of the girls. To give you an idea of the physical comparison between these two, Redneck is maybe 5'11 and looks like he goes somewhere in the 160 lbs. range. He isn't fat, but isn't muscular either, and he doesn't look to be in good shape. 'Son is around 6'2, probably about 185 pounds, and is muscular. He played high school football and clearly is in good shape. Personalities aside, this is an unwise choice of persons with whom to fuck.

Reckneck starts slapping 'Son in the chest and shoving him, and then following it by professing that he's "just playing". This is obvious bullshit to any guy who has ever witnessed a fight. The look in Redneck's eyes clearly indicates that he's looking for a throwdown, but he's using the "just playing" line as an alibi so he can avoid being pegged as the instigator. He makes a habit of following his comments about how he's "just playing" with remarks on how if he wasn't playing, 'Son would "know it" because various bad things would happen to him. This continues for around 5 minutes, while everyone in the room grows increasingly uncomfortable.

'Son is a nice guy, and about the last person you'd expect to be involved in a fight, but at the same time, he is not about to be punked by some dipshit in front of the 3 hottest girls we work with. Call it a guy thing, but I don't blame him. He keeps it friendly, but doesn't for a second back down from Redneck's threats, nor does he miss an opportunity to throw Redneck about 10 feet backwards on his ass with one hand during some 'play fighting'. Redneck's own friend repeatedly mocks him for getting tossed. I've been sitting in a chair, sipping my beer and watching this scene play out, but I can see that this particular tinderbox is getting hotter and hotter, and we're a mere spark away from flashpoint. I take my watch off and get up because I'm anticipating Redneck starting a fight and his one remaining friend who came with him jumping in on his behalf, leaving me to back up 'Son to make things 2-on-2. Somehow, though, it doesn't happen.

I decide to go stand in between Redneck and the girls, because if a fight does break out, I'll be damned if I'm letting them get hit in the fray. I'll take one for the team. Redneck now starts up with me, and decides that he's going to make fun of my shirt. I'm wearing the t-shirts made by our improv troupe, The Huge Embarassing Failures. It is a chocolate brown t-shirt that has pink lettering that says "I'm A Huge Embarassing Failure" on in. This shirt speaks for itself, and there's really not a way to make fun of it, but drunken assholes seem to like to try anyhow. All they ever seem to be able to say is "Dude...you're a huge embarssing failure. Your shirt says it all. You're wearing it...so it must be true." It's tough to stand strong in the face of such well-structured and intelligent arguments, but somehow I usually manage. Redneck grabs me and roughhouses a little bit. I push him back and give him a warning look.

"Just playing, right?"
"Yeah man, I'm just playin'."
"Good."

At this point, Redneck goes outside, and I go to the bathroom.


Things stay calm for a while and I drink beer while attempting to reassure 'Son that there's no need to prove that he could wail on this dipshit; it's already obvious to everyone. He is willing to be peaceful, but is obviously agitated, as well he should be. Meanwhile, BirthdayBoy is intermittently vomiting while TheGirlfriend tends to him, my flamboyantly gay co-worker ($3 Bill) and my melodramatic co-worker (BrownEyes) are off having some sort of profound talk about whatever is slightly wrong with her today. The next time I go to the bathroom, $3 Bill and BrownEyes are in there trying to dry his phone off because he dropped it in the courtyard pond and she had to wade in and get it. They decline to leave the bathroom while I go, and somehow I am not bothered by the notion of having my cock out in front of my gay and female co-workers, respectively. This must mean I'm getting pretty well buzzed.

7/25/05 3:00 AM

The girls have left, and 'Son is on his way down to the courtyard area to make his peace with Redneck so that we can all drink and have a good time. I, for one, see where this is headed. BirthdayBoy is down there, but he's so faced that he can't hold a thought, let alone intervene in the fight that will likely begin. Only the 4 of us are down here. 'Son tries to make peace, and Redneck starts again about how he's just playing, and how 'Son is lucky that he's just playing, etc. 'Son isn't hearing any of this bullshit. He is now openly standing up to Reckneck and basically waiting for his cue to fuck him up. More play fighting ensues, but really it's more like the beginnings of real fighting in 5-10 second bursts. During one of these skirmishes, 'Son's head gets turned down and away from Redneck. Redneck rears back and throws a drunken haymaker, which misses.

Oh fuck no.

No fucking cheap shots.

I rush in, grab Redneck's left arm from behind with my left, rip him backwards, lock my right arm around his throat, lock the choke hold in by securing my right hand into the crook of my left arm, shove his head forward with my left forearm, and drop him to the concrete all before 'Son has stood back upright.

Redneck hits the ground with a grunt and starts looking around in complete bewilderment. It takes a good 5 seconds for him to decipher that he is on the ground, and that I am the one who did it. He fails to understand that I could end his life if I wanted to, but I'm being merciful.

Redneck's face increases by about 5 shades of red with each passing second, but I've only got the choke on him at about half-strength. I'm willing to give him a chance to knock it off before I end him.

"You need to settle the fuck down."
"What the fuck? What's your fuckin' problem?"
"You need to fucking settle down, that's my problem."
"Man, me and him was just playin', but you're fuckin' trippin' now. You're fuckin' trippin'. Let fuckin' go of me!"
"You gonna knock it the fuck off?"
"Let fuckin' go of me!"
"I'll let you go, but if you don't knock this shit off, I'll choke your ass out."

The comedy of him having to grunt his threats at me because my bicep is pressing on his larynx is not entirely lost on me, nor are his flailing attempts to hit me with the arm I don't have pinned down. It reminds me a lot of restraining a toddler having a temper tantrum.

I let him up, and he swings at me. This kid is so shithoused that he's about 3 seconds behind the action. His swing doesn't even land in my same zip code. I catch a glimpse of 'Son, and he's grinning from ear to ear. He clearly wants to see me stomp this jackass out...but I just stand my ground. Sometimes I wish I were more violent, but honestly, this is too easy. I step back a few paces into the center of the grass. While relocating, I look to see where BirthdayBoy is.

Somehow in the fray, BirthdayBoy has found the 5' X 5' pond on all this real estate with his right foot and is now calf-deep in mud and staring, utterly baffled, at the muddy, broken flip-flop in his right hand. This spectacle saps most of my rage, and it's all I can do not to bust out laughing then and there, but I'm still aware that I might be attacked by a drunken hick.

Redneck is now attempting to whip himself into a rage, and is propagandizing me with all sorts of information about what I'm in for if he decides to come after me. I inform him that I'm not trying to start fights, but I broke things up because I saw him take a cheap swing at 'Son. He continues to remind me that I'm trippin', and I extend my hand and offer to shake. I'm not gonna ruin my friend's birthday just because somebody needs to be on the losing end of a 2-hit fight so he can learn not to be a dick.

'Son, also negotiating for peace attempts to force Redneck to shake with me, but he won't do it. 'Son gives up after a bit and decides that if Redneck won't show any class, he isn't opposed to watching him get his ass kicked. Redneck resumes talking shit, and says "I ain't shakin' that bitch's hand." I reply with something to the effect of him being the bitch because he's a big enough piece of shit to start fights on his friend's birthday, and probably also add that I've never liked him because he's an idiot. I'm unsure about the details at this point because adrenaline is detrimental to the memory. What happens next is the sort of pure entertainment that only true morons can provide.

Redneck stops, ponders the situation a moment, then looks at me squarely and says, "You know what, man? You got an alcohol problem!"

I break out laughing at this, because I'm in full control of all my capacities, while this twit can't even walk straight. The psych major in me just can't let this one go.

Beav: You know what, (Redneck)? You have a projection problem.

Redneck: Projection problem? What is that, some kind of drama term or something?

Beav: Yeah. Yes it is. Projection is a drama term. You hit the nail right on the head with that one. Wow, you're really smart, (Redneck). Have I ever told you how smart you are?!?

Redneck is able to figure out at this point that I'm mocking him, and I can't remember what he says, but by now I'm tired of standing around and listening to idle threats. I decide that I'm ready to fuck this moron up, and I'm not damaging my favorite shirt in the process. I pull my shirt off, throw it down, and call him out. Seeing this, BirthdayBoy jumps up to intervene, and steps in the pond again. I wish I could be a casual observer watching all this, because it's gotta be quite the spectacle. BirthdayBoy uproots himself from the pond mud a second time and comes scurrying over to me.

"Please don't dude, please don't fight."

These prove to be the words that extinguish my fuse. Redneck or no, BirthdayBoy is one of the nicest guys I've ever hung out with, and if he asks me not to fight on his birthday, I'm not gonna fight. I may be pissed off, but I've still got some class. I walk off down the hallway and the rest of the people left at the party arrive on the scene to remove Redneck from the courtyard. BirthdayBoy begins a campaign to calm me down despite my repeated assurances that I am calm, I was just acting in defense of my friend and then of myself.

Redneck comes around the corner to press the issue, but 'Son steps into his path and BrownEyes takes Redneck by the arm, informs him that he's not fighting anyone, and starts pulling him back toward the hotel room. Redneck shoves her off of him and she reels backwards into a door. I grab BirthdayBoy by the shoulders, turn him around and tell him that he needs to go tend to his boy over there because if he hurts her, I'm giving him a free ticket to the ER. Several of the bystanders take Redneck and drag him off, and I decide that it's probably time put my shirt back on.

In the debriefing that follows, 'Son and I explain to BirthdayBoy and TheGirlfriend what happened. 'Son thanks me for backing him up, promises to do the same for me, and expresses his shock that I of all people would attack somebody with such swift, precise ferocity. Somehow people are always shocked that I'm capable of getting angry, and even moreso that I'm good at it. I guess we all learn something new every day.

SO what did we all learn from this? Well, I learned that next time I've got the choke on some deserving asshole, I might as well squeeze. As it is, I won't have to deal with his stupid ass ever again because, fittingly, he's leaving today to move to Alabama. The general consensus has been that he'll fit right in there.

So This Is How It Feels...

It’s amazingly hot out, and I’m in an amazingly terrible mood. As I drive toward campus every pore in my skin opens up to buffer my body temperature from the 100 degree heat. I’m driving with the windows down because in the span of 5 minutes, my air conditioning won’t make a dent in the radiating heat of leather in the mid-July sun. I’m on my way to campus because I’ve got to burn some energy. I can’t keep bottling, or there’ll be a price to pay sooner or later.

I get out and make my way toward the Union post office to mail off my health insurance forms. As I stride deliberately through the upstairs hallway, a slender Japanese girl looks at me as though I may very well cross and do her bodily harm at any moment. Heart must be on my sleeve again today…what else is new? I consider my appearance, and I am forced to conclude that I am a picture of unpleasantness. Black shorts, black sleeveless t-shirt, shoulders high and tight, head down, eyes clear and intent on the ground 5 feet in front of me, brow furrowed under a red bandana. The clothes are for the gym. The gym is for the other stuff. Through the halls…down the stairs…close to you…

You’re there somewhere, I can feel it. Somehow I just know, but my eyes are still fixed on the ground so I can’t be sure. Through the door to the market…I can feel eyes on me, but my gaze still doesn’t waver. Up to the counter of the post office, where a haggard-looking girl on a stool looks at me with protesting eyes. Her look says it all. “Don’t make me get up…go away.” I don’t make her get up, I drop my mail and wheel around to leave. Back through the doorway that separates the two parts of the bookstore…I can feel eyes on me. Now it burns. Now I can’t ignore it. My mind gives a sharp command: “Look.” I obey. There you are.

Tabula raza.

I am dumbstruck, and suddenly there isn’t a thought in my mind. I’m still walking in spite of myself. You’re usually—

“Hi.”

Your voice is cold, and suddenly I can’t feel that I’m sweating any more. I’m not aware of any physical sensation, I just feel your eyes burning into me. So this is how it feels to be resented.

You didn’t mean it to sound that way, I know you didn’t mean it…but I’ve been there before, it just happens that way and regret is saved for later.

“Hi.”

My voice is guilty. I want to say something else. I want to tell you I’m sorry, but you gave me clear instructions the last time we talked to stop saying that. I want to ask how you’ve been. I want to tell you I laid awake last night feeling sick about what I’ve done to you. I want to be able to look into your eyes and not see pain.

You look away, and it’s the same principle as somebody just awakened by a blinding light…you want to see, but it hurts to look. There are a hundred things you could say, but I needed a good two seconds of looking into your eyes and I could see a thousand things cross your mind at once, and thousand words almost said, and a thousand possible reactions all drowned in a flood of regret.

My feet are still carrying me away from the encounter, much though I want to stop…but you’re not looking any more. Your co-worker and I are suddenly looking at each other the way two male strangers look at each other when one knows the other broke his friend’s heart. More instructions: “Just go. You’re upsetting her. There’s a time and place, and this is neither. You were the one who quit. Don’t you dare drag her along for your pathetic roller-coaster ride through confusion.”

Head back down. Shoulders higher, tighter. Heart back on my sleeve, or lack thereof. I can’t keep doing this. Something’s got to change today. I need to get my point across and then let you do what you need to do. I need a distraction…I need to get the hell out of Nebraska…I need to shut up and relax and stop over-thinking.

You were right, I was scared.

I still am.

3:00 AM

I want to call.

I want to hear from you.

I miss you.

I want to know how you are.

I want to be able to be friends.

I can’t. I hate that. I fucking hate that.

I could call you and step back into your life to make myself feel better, but I know that every step back in just steps on your definition of who I am. It’s not fair for me to do that. I know that you need to have nothing to do with me so that you can get back on your feet and get what you deserve. I know that it means I have to be the bad guy. I need to be vilified, not because you really hate me, but just because it’s a step in the process. I could reach out, and blurring the lines would be fine in theory, but blurry lines are too easily crossed. I will not cross you. I will not hurt you more. I will not toy with your emotions so that I can feel better about myself. I have to throw my own desires behind me because I want what’s best for you. What’s best for you somehow became letting go.

I want to be there for you.

I want to protect you.

I want you to know you are cared for.

I want to feel the way that you felt.

There it is. There’s the realization that breaks down my façade of cool indifference. I want to feel the way you felt. Let me rephrase that: I want to feel the way I felt. The sting of defeat is still here. The memory of intense moments where I felt really alive in your arms still stays with me. Those moments come rushing back and the tears well up in my eyes. What the hell happened? Why did it stop for me? What is wrong with me? It scares me to look back because now doubt hangs in an ominous shadow over everything we had. The disconnection took place, and now I can’t seem to reconnect even the pieces of what was good so that I can understand what was genuine. It makes me wonder if everything I felt was a desperate grasp at having the kind of love I used to know. God, tell me I wasn't just stealing reality from you the whole time. I can't decide which is worse: having had something genuine and losing it, or never having had something genuine at all. It makes me wonder if I’m still capable of really being in love, or if I’m just trying so hard that I’ll talk myself into it at the drop of a hat. It makes me afraid to approach someone new. How do you explain that to somebody? “Sorry, it isn’t that you’re not attractive or nice or intelligent, it’s just that my heart was broken once, and I’m not sure I ever put it back together quite right. Nice talking to you.” Here’s where I come to understand people who labor under that old cliché, “It’s not you. It’s me.” Nothing was so irreconcilably wrong. Nothing was shattered. Nothing was beyond repair. Something inside me just stopped. What the fuck?!? Why not be head over heels? What is it in me that is so Goddamn insatiable? Why am I sitting alone, writing about ‘what’s best’ instead of happily curled up the way we used to be? Why did I have no choice but to break your heart?

I wish I could undo it…but undo it honestly.

It wasn’t too much to ask. I wish I’d been willing to grant it…but grant it genuinely.

I wish I knew what happened.

I wish I could fix it.

You deserve that.

You deserve better than this.

You deserve better than me.

Great Ways To Piss Off Your Server

Well, it's mid-summer, and I'm bored. I spent 45 minutes at work today before I was sent home because nodody wants to sit on the patio and eat when it's 90 and humid outside. For some completely asinine reason, management insists on scheduling a server to show up for lunch and stand around in the bar while secretly hoping nobody sits out on the patio. Sometimes somebody does, and it pisses me off. They should sit in the damn bar because the heat index is 110 out there and it's not worth it to me to sweat off 5 pounds because you couldn't go half an hour without a parliament menthol. "But Beav," you say, "how are they supposed to know what not to do in a restaurant if they've never worked in one?" Well, I'll help everyone out by listing some things that people often do in restaurants that drive servers up a fucking wall:

1) Order without saying hello.

If I had a dollar for every time I've had this conversation:

Beav: "Hi, how are you folks today?"
Crotchety Old Guy (not looking up): "Iced Tea, no lemon, and water. She'll have water. Lemon."

I'd have enough money to skip work so that I don't have to deal with assholes who do this.

First of all, when somebody says hello to you, say hello. I think this was covered in pre-school. If you're too much of an antisocial ass to pay people the most basic of common courtesies, then cook your own fucking food. Secondly, I asked you a question, and it's customary to respond with an answer to the question "How are you today" and not to the unasked question "What would you like to drink, you contemptable old scrotum-face?" Don't start our interaction by treating me like an indentured servant. I'm going to be handling your food, and I'm creative. I know of a lot of things that could "happen" to it that you'd never know about, so smile and say hi back and let me do my job the way I'm supposed to.

2) Order two drinks simultaniously

There are two exceptions to this:

A) You are drinking coffee (which is acceptable only before noon, after you've had dinner, or when you are hung over)
B) You are drinking alcohol.

Otherwise, don't be that guy who gets a pop and a water. What are you, a camel? Do you need 40 oz of beverage on the table at all times? The last thing I need is to make 3 trips to get drinks for 5 people, so pick a beverage and go with it. Refills are free, you don't need to stockpile.

3) Ordering a diet pop with your 3,200 calorie meal.

This is a pet tactic of the morbidly obese, and while it might not irritate most people, the psych major/logical human being in me can't stand the irony. Picture the following order:

"I'll have the rib and meat combo (4 large spare ribs) with rib tips (18oz), and for my sides I'll have fries (12 oz) and a baked potato with everything (butter, sour cream, cheese and bacon on a potato that weighs about a pound) and can I get an extra muffin (in addition to the one muffin and corn on the cob already included with the platter), and can I just have a diet coke to drink?"

Yeah, you can "just have" a diet coke to drink. Way to use the word "just" to emphasize what a keyed-down move it is for you to drink diet. Let me guess, you're gonna lose the extra 150 pounds that forced you to sit at a table instead of a booth one diet soda at a time, right? Or is it that you're already a Type-II diabetic because you have 70% body fat? You just ordered enough food to feed a normal sized human for at least 2 days, you might as well have the coke too. I know damn well you're gonna drink 3 "just diets" and ask me for more butter for your muffins when I come back anyway.

These are the same people who proudly order a salad because salad is considered healthy, even though we load ours with cheese, eggs and bacon and then ask me for an extra side of ranch to drown it in, thus making it approximately 150% more unhealthy than a Big Mac.

Don't get me wrong, I love having fat people at my tables because they order a lot and they love you for bringing them food and will thus be happy and tip well, I just wish they had the honesty that my 300+ pound manager has when he carries his meal to a table to eat and tells me, "Move it or lose it, fat kid needs to eat."

4) Say they're ready to oder without actually reading/understading the menu

This seems to happen exclusively when 3 or more of my other tables need something. If you have questions, that's fine. I'll answer them for you. I'll even suggest menu items, but don't claim to be ready and then start your investigation, especially when I'm clearly busy. He's a sample of conversations that I've not only actually had, but have actually had many times:

Beav: "Are we all set to order, or do you need a couple minutes?"
Moron: "No, we're ready. Now...what's a California burger?"
Beav: "It's just a burger with lettuce and tomato. Just a regular burger."
Moron: (Stares blankly)
Beav: "It's just a normal hamburger like you find anywhere. I honestly don't know why they call it a California burger."
Moron: "So it's got, like...cheese?"
Beav: (Pointing to cheeseburger on menu) "No, our cheeseburger is right here, you can have that with your choice of cheddar, jack, or pepperjack cheese."
Moron: "Oh, no I don't want that, I was just curious as to what a California burger is."
Beav: (Tangibly mustering more patience) "Yeah, it's just a hamburger with lettuce and tomato. Okay...well what would you like?"
Moron: "I'll have that two meat combo." (Long silence)
Beav: "Alright, and what two meats did you want on that?"
Moron: "Well, ok here's my question: Can I do like...ribs on that?"
Beav: (Pointing to Rib & Meat combo on menu) "Yeah, we can do a rib and meat combo for you. What did you want for your other meat?"
Moron: "Oh, ok, I didn't see that. (Long pause) Umm...gimme the chicken."
Beav: "Did you want BBQ, or roast chicken?"
Moron: (Looking at me like I'm stupid) "BBQ."
Beav: "Ok, and that'll come with your choice of two sides."
Moron: (Picking up menu) "Oh, really? Where are all those?"
Beav: (Pointing to any of the 3+ places the sides are listed on the menu right below where it clearly states all platters and what comes with them) "They're right here, you can have fries, baked beans, coleslaw, potato salad, apples..."
Moron: "Uhm.......let's see here.........now...what are drunkin' apples?!?"

This is a question that routinely baffles me. What the hell could they possibly be? There are about 3 total ways on earth to prepare apples, and ultimately they all taste about the same. What fucking difference does it make? Either you like apples or you don't. Don't worry about the stupid buzzwords that were made up when corporate outsourced the menu design to some marketing firm in Minneapolis. Along with this question always comes "What are Wilbur beans?!?" They're one of a jillion possible variations on baked beans that comes out tasting 99% similar to any other baked beans you ever had. Either you like beans or you don't. Don't ask me stupid questions.

Beav: (Gives lengthy description of how apples are prepared) "...they're my favorite, I recommend them."
Moron: "No, I don't want that. Umm.....uhhhhhh....Gimme potatah salad and...a biscuit."

Idiots always pronounce it "potatah". Never fails. However, using this pronunciation does not make one an idiot, it just so happens that all idiots use this pronunciation. Also, we do not have "a biscuit". We have a cornbread muffin, which other than being baked and of similar texture, is nothing like a biscuit.

Beav: "Actually, the platter comes with cornbread muffin and corn on the cob right with it, so would you like to choose another side?"
Moron: (Showing signs of mental exhaustion, turning to idiot wife) "Uhm....will you eat more corn if I get it? Do you want it? Well...wait, I guess you'll get corn with yours too...do you want more corn? Uhm.......just gimme 'slaw I guess. And can we get some extra napkins?"
Beav: "Yeah, actually there's a roll of paper towels on your table there for you, so that should take care of it."

I stand and twirl my pen while looking expectantly at my order book while this all goes on. I should try to act like I don't mind, but if you tell me you are ready, then this means that you understand what you're ordering and what comes with it, and what that entails. If you don't, you ask first and decide on your own time so that I don't have to stand at your table for 5 minutes when I could have spent 20 seconds and gotten back to serving the other 15 people at my tables. When in doubt, read the Goddamn menu. Funny story, restaurants are required to tell you what you get when you order your meal and how much it costs, and they write this all down and give it to you. Don't be fucking lazy and don't waste my time because you can't bothered to do 30 seconds of light reading.

5) Ordering outside the menu

This is probably the most common and most overlooked of all the dick moves in restaurant patronage. There is one exception to this rule, and it's food allergies. Unless you are going to drop dead of anaphalactic shock right there in my section, you can choose to manually exclude the tomato from your cheeseburger yourself, jackass. Pick it off, it takes you 2 seconds of your own time which is clearly not at a premium since you're at a sit-down dinner. It takes me at least 5 times as long to type it in, and if the cooks don't read the ticket right you're gonna take it personally and snidely remind me that you didn't want tomato when your food arrives, either that or I have to send your food back to be remade and you're pissed because it takes 25 minutes.

Here's some tips to help you know if you're making an obnoxious order:

You start your oder with the words "Could I possibly...", "Is there any way to do...", "Would it work to..." or "Is there anything else I could get instead of..."

Find something you like on the menu and order it. If you want to invent food items, open your own restaurant. If you don't like anything, go somewhere else, don't make me spend half the night typing your order in one letter at a time on a touch screen and then going back to explain to the cooks not only what the hell you want, but my theories as to why.

6) Running the server

If you need a side of ranch, another water, a clean fork to replace the one you dropped, and another 4 saltines for your toddler to distribute around the table and floor, you probably know that all at once. Don't ask me for them one trip at at time, because it's fucking annoying. If your drink is empty, say something when I'm on my way to get your friend's drink, don't take a couple gulps while I'm gone and decide that you need one too when I get back with his. Ideally, anticipate your own needs and tell the server when you order. Stream-of-consciousness is for therapy sessions, not lunches.

7) Paying your 4 separate checks with 4 separate credit cards

Assholes. Thank you for not monopolizing both my time and my pens. If you're only paying for yourself, you're gonna pay me $10 even anyhow. Find a way to procure a $10 bill before you come in so that I don't have to stand at the computer for the next 20 minutes running and sorting 4 people's credit cards and cross-referencing them with your order and then spending another 10 closing out all those cards and making sure they match up after you leave. There's a 2 card maximum per table before it gets to be a pain in the ass.

8) Asking, "Could you go ahead and box this up?"

No, but you could, you lazy bastard. One of us is working and the other is sitting around talking. I tell people that I, in fact, cannot box their food for them because of "health codes" and that they must box their own food when they ask me this. What they don't know won't hurt them, but it will save me from going in the back with their plate, putting on gloves, picking up the uneaten food, putting it in the box, taking the gloves off and throwing them away, washing my hands, closing the box, then taking it out to their lazy ass.

9) Being a cheapass.

If you got good service, tip 20%. If you can't do the math, get a tip table. If you "can't afford" to tip, then you "can't afford" to go out to eat. Servers make $2 an hour, so throwing down $50 on your $48.37 ticket and proudly announcing "The rest is yours" is not ok. Also, if you got a discount or used a gift card, you should tip on the total cost of the food before any deductions, not the few bucks left over after you cashed out your $40 gift card.

10) Demanding/selecting a booth when the hostess wants to seat you at a table.

They're all seats. They're all going to be served. Booths are not sacred, and they're not more comfortable, but they probably are in a completely different server's section than the one the hostess is trying to sit you in. Don't fuck up the rotation because you have a need for your seat to be covered in vinyl, and sure as shit don't inform them where you'll be sitting. You wouldn't go to a concert and inform the usher where you want to sit, you'd go where your damn ticket says.




I'm quite sure this list is incomplete, so as I think of more irritating shit that people do, I'll add it on. Meanwhile, if you choose to engage in too many of the above behaviors, pray that your waiter or waitress is very patient and understanding, or you might find that your food has a distinctly kitchen floor-like flavor to it...