Beav Gets Secret Shoppers, A 65%, Written Up

First of all, fuck secret shoppers. I will begin by saying that this is a tactic employed by companies with anal retentive upper-level management and inept lower-level management…companies such as mine. If your training process is good and your managers are doing their job, you shouldn’t have to frighten your employees into doing their jobs well. Unfortunately, our trainers are terrible and our managers are just o.k. I have no less than six managers. Four of them are worth a shit. Two of them don’t flagrantly sexually harass the employees. Actually…make that one. One is my age, and a former Hooters girl. Needless to say, the leadership can be less than amazing.

Be that as it may, we get secret shoppers on at least one day shift a month and one night shift a month. I got mine at 7:30 on a Sunday night, otherwise known as an hour into the dinner rush. Among the things the douche who shopped my table found to complain about:

The softness of the benches
The level of lighting
My “urgency in serving” them

About the benches and the lights…please shut the fuck up. This guy claimed the menus were hard to read in that light, which they are not. The benches always feel fine to me, but then I usually sit down after several hours on my feet, as I don’t make my money by eating free meals and crying about arbitrary shit. Maybe my ass just isn’t as sensitive as his or maybe my appreciation for the benches is greater. This same brilliant individual also noted that my brown hair was black, and that I stand 5’11” when in fact I am 6’1. My age was also placed in the 26-30 range. I’m 23, and nobody in the free world guesses me anywhere above 22. People still express surprise that I’m at least 21. If I weren't fairly tall and didn't have a deep voice, I could probably go back to high school without anyone noticing.

About my urgency, what the hell are you talking about? Am I supposed to push the pace of your meal and hustle you out as fast as possible? As soon as I did that, I suppose you’d complain that it seemed like I was trying to get rid of you. Maybe to improve I should sprint to and from my tables. Sure it’ll increase the amount of collisions that take place, but I’ll have a clear sense of urgency!

The time it took me to get to their table was 1 minute, 55 seconds. That clocks in a bit above every corporatized restaurant’s goal of 1 minute or less, but anyone who’s served can tell you that sometimes you just can’t get to every table within one minute of their seating, especially during the damn rush. Under two minutes is still pretty good. After that, he did not witness very much enthusiasm in my greet. FUCK YOU. This guy can’t bother asking how I’m doing after I ask him, but I’m unenthusiastic. I’m always nice to my tables when I greet them because I want them to, like, tip me and stuff. Evidently I’m supposed to be Curtis from Office Space for these people…and yet when I do I make less money because they can tell I’m being fake. Catch 22. In my case, catch hell. Sounds like someone had a case of ‘I’m an asshole accountant who works with numbers because I can’t interact with real people’. That or an early case of the Mondays.

This genius also noted that “no debris was ever picked up from the table until the very end when we were done eating.” Could you be just a little bit vaguer? Debris? What the hell does that mean? Am I to understand that I need to pick up your straw wrappers, napkins, and anything else that may not be perfectly in place at all times during the meal? Guess what? I’m your server, not your fucking maid. Other people have the courtesy to put their “debris” on their plates so that I can take it all away at the end of the meal and not have to grope around at their used napkins and wet naps before I go to handle other people’s food, drinks or credit cards, but I guess Prissy McTenderass was a spoiled only child and needs me to clean up after him. Also, way to note that it wasn't picked up until the end of the meal. I should have known to just reach across you while you're eating to get that muffin crumb off the table so you wouldn't have to look at it.

Next we have the butter fiasco. This guy took great pride in pointing out that “We asked Dan for extra butter. This request was honored yet, he did not appear overly happy with this request in that when he came back to our table with it, he pointed out that there was one hidden under part of my wife’s meal. We had received only one pat of butter for both the corn and muffin.”

First of all, the comma goes after “honored” and not after “yet.” Second of all, this guy is fucking lying. He asked me, “Could we get some more butter? My wife didn’t get any with her meal.” Let your wife speak for herself, cock. Also, yes she did get butter, but I said I’d be right back with some more and pointed out that the butter was next to the muffin so that she wouldn't have to wait for me to come back if she wanted butter now. Mind you, that butter was next to the muffin she evidently couldn’t pick up to consider eating before having the butter ready and waiting. I didn’t say that part. I wasn’t a dick about it, and I was nice when I brought them more. Don’t take points away from me to cover for the fact that you’re a dumbass and you had to invent problems for me to solve. By the way, you’re not SUPPOSED to get more than one pat of butter for your muffin and your corn, but way to dock me for that. This guy also sent me to get him a new Diet Coke because the first one “didn’t have any carbonation.” Yes it did, because it comes out the same at all the stations and it was no different when I brought you the second glass, but you liked it better because you expected it to be different. I kissed this dipshit’s ass about the fucking Diet Coke, but he “did not witness a sincere attitude coming from Dan.” In retrospect, I wish I’d have sincerely punched him in the face so that he could know attitude when he sees it.

The next claim was that he had to ask me repeatedly for refills. Well, he didn’t have to actually, but he did because he couldn’t let me walk past the table and see that he was about ready for another one and just bring it before he proudly informed me that he needed another. Generally when a glass is starting to look empty, I get a full one. Common sense, but I guess after *Buttergate* I couldn’t be trusted any more, so this guy took it upon himself to lead me by the dick through the serving process. Great. I also lost points for allegedly not thanking this guy by name when I gave him back his card. This is another boldfaced lie because I mention EVERYONE’S names when I give their cards back. He couldn't shut up and listen to me and I didn't interrupt him and wait for silence, so there's ten points off right there.

Long story short, I got a fucking terrible score. So bad, in fact, that my General Manager got chewed out. I felt bad about that, but mostly it was just because this guy was a dick. I then got a talk for 10 minutes during my dinner shift about how I need to be a better server. While this was happening, my tables had to do without service for around 10 minutes, and two tables were sat. One had to be picked up by another server because they waited so long. The other was clearly annoyed by the time my new asshole and I got back inside…but I need to be a better, more attentive server. I’ll be super happy to be right back with a large plate of irony for you!

The speech I got was a loose paraphrasing of the speech Mike Judge gives in Office Space about, “People can get a cheeseburger anywhere. They come to Tchotchsky’s for the attitude and the atmosphere.” It was all I could do not to say, “So…you want me to wear more flair?” For my troubles and everyone else’s, I was formally written up in a 4 sentence warning that basically says, “Dan needs to spout sunshine from his rectum immediately, or we’re gonna fire him if he gets caught not being a goddamn cheese-dick by a secret shopper again.”

During my shift tonight I decided that if it’s personality they want, it’s personality they shall have. Careful what you fucking wish for. I’m going to formulate a list of goals. These goals will be things I want to actually do at my tables, and will include:

Tell somebody it sounds like they have “a case of the Mondays”. Do it on a non-Monday.

Wait a table while using a random accent or dialect. Tell them I'm from Omaha when they ask where I'm from.

Wait the table next to it with no accent whatsoever. Act confused if my customers ask about it.

Spend an entire shift serving tables as George W. Bush, but don’t tell anyone that’s what I’m doing.

Ask somebody if they want regular or decaf when they order water. Apologize for not asking if they want cream when I bring it back.

Act just effeminate enough to make the customers wonder if I’m gay, but not enough to really decide what they think.

Refer to the check as “the damage report” every time I drop it off. Refer to myself as “damage control” instead of the cashier.

Tell a table they can’t have any dessert until they clean their plates.

Respond to every request with an overly sarcastic “I guess.”

Ask a table if they’d like to hear me make up a menu item and then try to sell it to them.

Serve an entire shift as Harry Carey.

Tell somebody they’re really lucky, because they just got the last one of whatever they ordered, even though we have plenty.

Ask all my tables if they’d like to choose their side items, or if they want me to “surprise” them.

Try to use the Jedi mind trick on somebody.

That’s all I’ve got so far. The funny part will be that customers will eat this shit up if I feed it to them the right way, and they’ll never know that I’m making a giant satire out of the stupid requirements of my job.

I sampled a little bit of the overtly ridiculous enthusiasm, and got a comment card with all perfect marks out of the deal. At the end of my shift I threw the card down in front of my Server Manager and said, “Here. Juxtapose.”

He didn’t know what the word meant.

Everything Old Is New Again

August of 2005, and somehow it’s shades of that Spring day in 2002. We were only a couple blocks away from where we are now. We were under much different circumstances then, but suddenly I find us having the same conversation: All light subject matter, mixed with my quasi-successful attempts at humor, and her grandiose plans that dwarf my day-to-day, ‘whatever happens next’ style of living. Awkward pauses. Both of us smiling at each other. Both of us scanning the other for any unspoken subtext. That time I couldn’t take my eyes off her. This time I have to fight to pull my eyes from hers, but I manage…sometimes. Thank God for sunglasses. That time, I came to the realization that she felt the same way I did. This time, maybe that same realization. Maybe not. My mind won’t allow for clarity.

Still though, I find myself thinking the exact same thing I did that day, “My God, the way she looks at me makes me feel 15 again. I am completely disarmed.”

That was three and a half years ago, and yet I find myself again struck by the way she holds herself, the way she smiles, the way she dresses, and especially the way those blue eyes cut straight through my every carefully built defense and leave me with only three words in my mind. How ironic that I can charge audiences money to watch me make things up on the spot, but one look from her leaves me stuttering. What started as a casual conversation and my interest in knowing how she’s been suddenly takes a turn, if only in my mind. Suddenly the realization that I’ve been doing a phenomenal job of kidding myself for three years hits me at 500 miles per hour.

Fuck.

I’m still in love with her.

I pull the sunglasses off. I want her to see the way I look at her. There is a flash of relief as she gets her first good view into the windows to my soul, but it is followed by a look of vague concern. She sees it now. I know she sees it. It’s subtle, but she’s unsettled by me looking at her the way I used to. There’s a familiarity about the way we look at each other. It would be so easy to fall back into what we were…and yet the stakes would be so high. Defenses take over. Guards are raised. There’s a change in the dynamic of the conversation. We’re running past the allotted time for a casual, in-passing conversation on 13th Street. I find myself weighing everything we’ve done to each other since Summer 2003, and I find that I’d be willing to make a snap-decision to pitch all the bitterness and bullshit and take her back starting tonight if I could. I also find that this is not a feasible option, for reasons too numerous to list. The number one reason is a cook in the Haymarket and didn’t seem to be my biggest fan the last time I encountered her with him at the bars.

So here we are, looking at each other. Each of us knows what’s on the other’s mind. Here we stand, at opposite ends of a vast expanse of hurdles. To jump, or not to jump? That is the question.

Not to jump, unless you’re meeting me in the middle. Now I get it. Now years of posturing and unnecessarily pointed encounters make a world of sense. We’ve been protecting ourselves from each other. By that same token, we’ve been protecting each other from ourselves. It won’t matter if you never say it, because now that I get a good look at you, you don’t have to. I know how you feel and I know why you did what you did. Now that I stand on the precipice of leaving everything behind, I understand why you kept me at a distance. It was because you did care, and because you knew that neither of us was the kind to be kept waiting. Now I know why I took unnecessary amounts of offense to every real or perceived action you ever made. It’s because eventually I accepted the fact that I wasn’t getting you back, but I never did stop loving you. I realize the latter fact now. I wonder…is the former still fact, or was I just too afraid of fiction?

“Well, I’d better go before you charm me any further.”

I say it. I mean it. This encounter will be burned in my mind for at least the next couple days, and the longer we talk, the hotter the burn. I try to leave things with one of those ‘closing a conversation with an ex’ lines we’ve all used and satirized, “Take care of yourself, don’t be a stranger.” Good one, genius. That wasn’t cliché at all…

“Do you still want to have lunch?”

“Yeah, I do.”

To jump, or not to jump?

Seriously, Why? (hotornot.com)

Alright, I think I'm beginning to find my calling in life, and it's taking pictures from hotornot.com and making fun of them. The overwhelming response to the last post made me consider trolling for pictures and getting to work, but I didn't. When I saw this picture in Brett's profile, though, I could not keep silent.

http://meetme.hotornot.com/r/?emid=GYNMHSR

I'm not gonna write anything yet. Go back and look at it again.

http://meetme.hotornot.com/r/?emid=GYNMHSR

I think for a moment that this must be a joke photo...but then as I look into the "meet me" stuff, I realize that she's serious. This girl:

http://meetme.hotornot.com/r/?emid=GYNMHSR

She's serious.

Ok. I think I can sum this photo, if not this person in 3 words:

What

The

Fuck?!?

Now, take a moment to breathe in and let's have a look at the photo itself. Ready? Let's begin.

First of all, thank you for drawing an arrow to yourself. I really thought for a minute that you were the drummer in back who is completely obscured by flailing hair and wanted to be rated based on the beats we imagine you to be cranking out, and you threw a horrifying fat chick in there to boost your rating by juxtaposition.

Next, you have a microphone in your hand, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you must be...oh, wait a second...you've used paint to spray-paint/scrawl in that you are in the process of "rockin out". Thanks for taking the guesswork out of it for me, because I'm functionally retarded and could not have surmised what is going on in this photo without that eloquent caption. Also, let me just say that if that is what rockin out looks like, I never, ever, ever in my life want to rock out. Never.

Also, the microphone is off the stand and in your left hand, so why the hell are you holding the stand in your right? Oh, I know! You're using it to poke at the roast pig you've got turning on a spit just off camera, and judging by the look on your face, it's almost done and you're pretty damn excited about it. Also, what vowel sound is that you're singing right now? I'm a trained vocalist, but I'm not sure I recognize that one. Oh wait, I think I can make it out...it's..."Mmmmm, pork..."

As I look over the details of this photo again, I realize that the drummer is actually the most pathetic individual pictured, because he's playing backup to this girl. If this is your gig as a drummer, give up not just drumming, but music.

Ok, now let's talk abut your outfit here, Kara. I like what you've done by dressing your gargantuan, pale body in all black. It gives a nice "killer whale" effect that really comes through nicely in the grayscale photo. They say that black is a slimming color. I say there's not enough black in the world.

Let's have a go at her keywords:

She's got an entire category that I'm not going to touch. Included are: Bible, Christian, Church, God, Jesus, and Love. I think I'm above a lot of things, but God ain't one of them. Really though, how redundant is this list?

She has not turned in a flawless resume', however. We have some problem words in here.

Black. When did black become the official color of painfully stupid teenagers? They should wear a color that accurately reflects them, such as "hunter" orange. It's the color that says "please don't shoot me, even though that may be your first instinct." Much more fitting. Also, if you're so uninteresting that you have to connect with people based on a color, don't leave your room.

Bubble Baths. GOD DAMMIT!!! Why the fuck would you do that to me?!?!?!?!? The last thing in the world I needed was the image of you slipping into a sudsy tub...what kind of sadistic fuck are you? Actually though, now that I think about it, the image of the water washing in a homemade tsunami over the side when she drops that girthous mass into the tub is pretty funny. I also imagine a complex system of ropes and pulleys is employed to get her out of there at bath's end. I also imagine that if I was Mr. Bubble and she wanted to toss me into that bathwater with her, I'd find a way to fucking kill myself.

Chicken. Well, file that under "Things that don't surprise me even a little bit." Twinkies must have finished just off the list.

Cool. Clearly you don't have any idea what cool is, but I'll give you a hint, it's not something:
A) that applies to you
or
B) that should ever be listed by itself on a profile

Cute. See above.

Hilary Duff. That does it; I hereby revoke your right to procreate. If you legitimately idolize Hilary Duff, there is a special place in the "dipshit" section of hell waiting for you when you die.

I Love God. Well you'd better, because he's gotta be the only one capable of loving you. (Side note, my ticket to hell just got a 1st class upgrade with that last comment.)

Losing Weight. Well, you're on the right track here...but you're also lying. If you're one of those Christians who lives by the motto "WWJD?" Then evidently Jesus would single-handedly shut down the Old Country Buffet.

Metal. We've got another raw materials enthusiast on our hands. "I like metal. The oven is made out of metal, and so is the cake pan. They help bring me happiness. Well, them and God."

Rock, Rocker, Rockin' Out. These, respectively, are the missing words to the following sentences:

"I am about as interesting as a _______."

"By the time I'm 20, my knees will be shot from the constant strain of carrying my huge body around, so I will be confined to a ______."

"If the point of music was to utterly confuse and mortify an audience, then I would be _______."

This piece of work has a message for all of us, and it is this:

i like to rock out to hilary duff..she is so rockish!! i love god. im a christian..god is love and love is real..just remember that if there was no god anything would be possible!! my name is kara

I am one sentence in, and already I'm in pain. You've started your message with any oxymoron. Nobody rocks out to Hilary Duff, not even Hilary Duff herself. Her music is absolute pop fluff finished with a thorough coat of shit. Also, "rockish" is not a word. It does, however, sorta rhyme with "nauseous", which is how I'm beginning to feel after realizing that you really mean this shit.

"I love, God. I'm a Christian..God is love and love is real." Holy shit! This girl just formulated a logical syllogism that proves the existence of God! Ladies and Gentlemen, after thousands of years of debate, some fat chick from...somewhere...has just proven the existence of God!!! Well, if you don't get too wrapped up in all that stuff in her first interest, The Bible, which never quite provides a unidirectional and focused picture of God as love...but let's not get into that. This girl just solved so many of the world's problems! Let's all have 2 buckets of KFC apiece to celebrate!

"Just remember that if there was no God anything would be possible." Read that a couple times. That's what she wrote. If there was no God, anything would be possible. Evidently it is only through the existence of God that some things are presently impossible. Strikes me as a hell of a departure from the familiar Christian mantra of "Through Him, all things are possible", but ok. I'll roll with you. So what you're saying is that if we can find a way to get rid of God, I will be able not only to fly, but also to shoot laser beams from my nipples, because anything will be possible?

For those of you who fear that absence of God will mean absence of love, fear not. Her logic did not state that all love was of God, it just said that God was love. Let's break it down.

Premise: All God is love. (A -> B) Valid.
Premise: All love is real (B -> C) Valid.
Conclusion: All God is real (A -> C) Valid.

Draw a Venn diagram. It works. However, we cannot go this way.

Premise: All God is love
Premise: All God is real
Conclusion: Not God, therefore not love. INVALID

It just isn't logically sound. Check this out though:

Premise: Not God, therefore anything. (Accepted)
Premise: Me Sleeping with Natalie Portman is anything. VALID
Conclusion: If not God, then I am sleeping with Natalie Portman...and also love can still exist. I'm having a hard time seeing the downside of this scenario, but maybe that's blasphemous. Let's move on.

Last but not least, your name is Kara. Usually one puts one's name first, but obviously you put God, Hillary Duff, and chicken before yourself. Don't worry, it shows.

I'd like to close by pointing out that by selecting this as her photo, young Kara is essentially saying "Look, world! This is me captured at my finest! This is me at the peak of my game! Tell me what you think!" Need I say more?

Actual Events/Quotes From My Job

If you've never worked in service or retail...you haven't gotten to truly experience how stupid people are. You may or may not have gotten to hear some of the unbelievable shit that people will say without even meaning it, or the more unbelievable shit people will say and fully mean. I've decided to keep a running post with funny and/or stupid shit that happens to me at work. I'll start with a couple scenarios in which I fortunately was able to leave the table before I busted out laughing.

I come to a couple's table to pre-bus some plates, and the lady is drinking the sauce out of the bottom of her side of apples with a straw.

Beav: Wow, like those apples huh?
Husband: Yeah, she just has to suck every last little drop out of the thing.
Beav: Well.....I'll get these plates out of the way for you and be right back with your check...

(Wanted to say any of the following)

1) Good girl!
2) In that case, let's discuss my tip...
3) Now I know why you married her.

****************

I drop off a garden salad to a college-aged girl sitting in somebody else's section:

Beav: Okay, I've got a salad with ranch for you.
Girl: Oh wow, that's huge! Thank you!
Beav: (Leaving as quickly as possible) Sure thing....

Wanted to say:

1) Well if you think the salad is impressive...
2) Keep those words in mind, you'll use them again later.
3) If I had a dollar for every time a girl has said that to me...
4) Well, size matters.


*******************

Yesterday I waited on a table of two black men. If you're not familiar with black men, they will generally say anything they want to you and not think twice about it. I also find them to be much more vocally homophobic, if only in my experience. Case in point: the guy on the right wanted a margarita, but demanded that I serve it to him in a plastic coke glass with no salt because he did not want, and I quote, "a faggish glass." Having a margarita glass in front of him evidently would have left the door wide open for others to assume he's gay...which would, of course, make it true. The same man would later point out that his friend's mashed potatoes were unacceptable because his friend (who was eating chicken) was a vegetarian, and there was ham in the potatoes. I assumed he was joking, but when I learned that in fact he was serious (his friend was becoming vegetarian in "stages"), I had to explain that what he saw was not ham (which we don't have), but the red potato skins in the "Garlic Redskin Mashed Potatoes". We don't call them that because the founder of the restaurant is Native American, genius. The same table later asked me what I wanted for a tip. I told them $1,000.

***********

A month or so ago, I got a table of pipeliners. 3 of them were from Southern Missouri, and one was from Arkansas. The ones from Missouri made fun of the guy from Arkansas, despite the fact that rural Missouri is home to the dumbest and ugliest people anywhere on earth. Also, the one from Arkansas was the only one with a scrap of class. They looked like stupid white trash, and acted accordingly. They all ordered alcohol, but one didn't have his ID so I wouldn't serve him a Long Island Iced Tea. After giving me a good 5 minutes worth of harassment, including logically flawed scenarios in which they "Went to the truck to (insert air quotes) 'get his ID'" or if one guy slid his ID to the other, they angrily ordered salads with "A fuckin' shitload of ranch and bacon bits." I had to personally make all 4 of the salads, and was sent back twice for more ranch and bacon. While I was gone, they spent their time making lewd comments to the hostesses. Included in this were "Damn, look at the ass on that." and "Shit baby, I wish I could see through them jeans."

If it were up to me, I'd stop serving them then and there and tell them to get the fuck out and never come back if they're going to talk to the girls like that. As it was, our front-of-house manager (Useless) that night was a former Hooters waitress, so she of course talked a lot of shit about what she'd do to them if they talked to her like that, and then ate it up when they did talk to her like that.

Useless: How does the food look tonight guys?
Supid Hick: Not as good as you look. (Side note: she's not that cute)
Useless: (Giggling) You guys are being ornery tonight!

Bitch, please. If you're going to be an attention-seeking, spineless skankbox, then you deserve to be talked to like that. As my co-worker $3 Bill once told her, "If you weren't engaged, you would be such a hoe..."

The one dumb hick sitting closest to me took it upon himself to try to mess with me once I wouldn't serve his dumb hick buddy the Long Island, but sadly he wasn't properly armed to battle wits with me. On one occasion, he asked me for "a side of ass" with his meal. I told him we were fresh out of ass, and that if they'd come in a half hour sooner we'd have had some.

After they had paid out and given me a shitty tip apiece, the spokesman stood up and got a big, stupid grin on his face. Clearly he had what he thought was a great idea. He asked his next question very loudly, so that he might offend everyone in my section and thus hopefully upset me.

Dumb Hick: Hey, you know where the whorehouse is at around here?
Beav: Nope, sorry man. Can't help ya there.

He eyes me for a second, and grins even bigger. Now he's clearly got something *clever* to use on me.

Dumb Hick: You know where the gay whorehouse is?
Beav: Nope, sorry. Can't help you there either. Have a good one...

I somehow didn't laugh in his face for coining the phrase "gay whorehouse". Also amusing was the idea that I'd be such a stupid, insecure homophobe that the insinuation that I might know where the "gay whorehouse" was would get me furious. Moronic guys always think they can get somebody riled by calling them gay or making some other comment to that effect. This doesn't bother me in the least, because I know that I can't be *made gay* by the declaration of one irritated yokel. The thought of giving him a full-on kiss as a response to his last comment crossed my mind, but I figured he might be so horrified that he'd come in and murder me with the 12-gauge he undoubtedly had in his truck.

Among the things I wanted to say to this guy:

1) Sorry, I don't know where the whorehouse is, since I don't have to pay to get laid because I'm not a toothless, needle-dicked, hillbilly dipshit like you. Maybe if you weren't a functionally retarded douche you could get a girl.
2) Gay whorehouse? Alright, just give up before you hurt your brain.
3) You know, I could just tell as soon as you sat down that you'd wanna know where to get some dick around here.
4) No, but your mom does.

As it was I let them walk out and go back to South Bumblefuck, Missouri. The running joke around work for the next week or so was to ask people if they knew where the "gay whorehouse" was if they were annoying you.

Look for more updates to this post the longer I continue to work and interact with morons.