Last updateWed, 15 Nov 2017 2pm


An American Horror Story: Waitress Addition

waitress“Uhhh, Miss! Yeah, refill on the Pepsi and extra bleu cheese!” aggravatingly stated, scratch that, demanded, the hippopotomaus-esque creature sitting over at table 103 with hot sauce smeared all over her primitive face, after the fifth time of interrupting me as I was attentively taking the orders of actual civilized customers. 

That’s right, the animal over in the corner has returned to her watering hole of Buffalo Wild Wings. She was reclaiming her territory. Unlike the humans over at 102 and 104, this monstrosity sprawling out along the booth against the wall with her three-year-old calf have been harassing me for the past half-hour. 

Baby beast, for the record, has been chucking crayons all over the restaurant and ripping up napkins as if he was the direct spawn of not only his beast of a mother (who has been savagely whipping her tongue around her mouth in an effort to conquer every last drop of bleu cheese hidden under her tusks), but a paper shredder and a confetti gun, too. What terrible genetics. I guess the whole idea of evolution just sort of skipped their entire family line. 

“You heard me say extra bleu cheese, right?” roared the woman, as I was pacing back to the kitchen, debating whether or not I should dive headfirst into a fryer to momentarily escape this hell.

If Dante Alighieri were to write Dante’s Inferno today, his depiction of Satan would most certainly include Judas, Cassius, Brutus, and this brute over at table 103 just chewing away at the souls of every innocent server.  

“Yes, you foul excuse for a human, I hear you,” I mocked in my head. 

After practically having to tape my lips up on my face to force a smile, I came back with the stipulated bleu cheese and some Pepsi. I also came prepared with extra napkins just because I had premonitions of these vile beings irking me for more paper for the baby to shred up and spritz all over my floor section. The red and yellow striped carpet was now swallowed by these blue specs of torn paper. Their booth was practically submerged in what appeared to look like the Congo River. The mammals were clearly comfortable in their home habitat.

I just wanted to spare myself 5 milliseconds of their nuisance. Having to attend to the ridiculous needs that kept bombarding me from this table was enough to practically suffocate me. It’s as if these 103-dwellers were pinning me against the wall with their broad, corpulent bodies by hitting me at high speed and stamping me down – only verbally. They were in full reign of the situation, and they loved it. 

I begged my manager to transfer the table over to the ‘newbie.’ Let me elaborate: I got on my knees, I offered to work double open-close shifts every night for the next week, and I even promised to stop swindling the line cooks into frying me up some free wings to munch on in between table greetings. When that didn’t work, I spitefully shoved some stolen fries into my mouth and frantically started searching for numbers of local zoos in the hopes of renting a pride of lions to take out these creatures. That failed, too. 

I needed them to vacate the area, as soon as humanly (well, in their case animally) possible. This destructive duo made me reconsider every life choice I have ever committed to leading me down this slippery slope of becoming a failure in life – as a server. For a mere $2.13 an hour, I just wanted to sacrifice my maybe guaranteed 15 percent total tips of the day to the rain gods in exchange for a flood big enough to engulf the entire restaurant – that way, these hippos could swim away freely and leave me and my little secluded section alone. 

But then I thought to myself, “This is my territory. This is my swamp. This is my grassland. This is my Buffalo Wild Wings. And oh, are we about to get wild! The animal is out of the cage now, baby!” I channeled my inner predator, and was ready to pounce. 

After devouring 224 traditional wings as an appetizer, I knew this pudgy plump wasn’t playing games. But I was, this was my very own episode of Jumanji, and I was ready to win. I placed an order for “one of everything” spun in the hottest, ghost pepper-y, jalapeño-est sauce the cooks could concoct. Then I stalked my prey from the kitchen, waiting for the perfect time to close in.

Upon delivery of the food (with extra bleu cheese, of course!) the relentless beasts scarfed down everything in almost a gulp. Then it hit them. The infamous “itis.” It’s like a food coma, except worse. With baby calf drifting into what seemed like hibernation and the female panting from food annihilation, it was the perfect time to attack.

I placed the bill of $378.93 on the table. I returned to my hideout, and continued stalking. I saw the beast groggily reach into her fat pouch and pull out crumbled money. I nonchalantly walked over.

After dodging flying chunks of bleu cheese as the beast tiredly slurred her words, I took her payment and watched her waddle out. A bite was taken out of the receipt, I guess for dessert. Written around the chomper marks written in smeared hot sauce was: “Keep the change.”

“How gracious of you, you incompetent, grotesque, ferocious be-…!” I sarcastically groaned in my head. But then I interrupted myself. My lips started to curl inwards. My muscles were dancing and overcoming my all of my exerted force. A smile was being birthed. I came to the realization that the hungry, hungry hippo might’ve won a few rounds, but I ultimately won the entire match. 

The beast and her spawn made their way back into their wild, and away from mine. I couldn’t believe it! I conquered the beast! I braced my hands into the tightest fists imaginable, with my thumbs hugging my knuckles, shoved my chest out, and started pounding on my chest like a drum. I was playing my very own African tribal tune, and thanking the reign gods for releasing their grip on me. My manager came over, with one eyebrow cocked, told me to stop acting like a buffoon and pounding my chest in front of customers, and to go back to work.

I walked on over to my newest seated table, feeling accomplished. I happily said, “Welcome to Buf-…”

“I’d like a Pepsi, three ice cubes, one lemon, and a splash of Grenadine, and make it choppy because I’m parched,” snapped the customer. 

I smirked. I casually walked back into the kitchen, snuck by the head cook and said, “I need you to exactly duplicate everything I just rang in for 103, extra wild!” I snuck in a couple bites of some onion rings and walked pompously back into my kingdom.

Image taken from wisegeek.org

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The Outlook
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The Outlook
Monmouth University
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