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July 13, 2012

A rant about the server you never want.

I’ve decided to take a break from writing homages to The Onion, and go on a true rant.  Since it’s Friday, I’m gonna be creative and call this angry, juvenile column, Fester Friday.  Perhaps it will appear next Friday … assuming I’m still angry.

I will also be using extreme profanity in this rant, so if that offends you, stop reading, and I promise you on Monday I will post a PG absurdist story – like you might find in The Onion.

Now, onto the show.

This week’s fester is something that has bothered me for a long time.  A very long time.

The Pooping Waiter.

Who is the Pooping Waiter?  Let me tell you.

You’re in a restaurant.  A nice restaurant.  Nice being … $30 an entrée.  Full bar.  Valet. A celebrity has dined there.  More likely died there.  Famous people usually die in restaurants.  But back to my rant.

It’s a weekend.  You are seated across from your hot wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/paid escort.  You’re looking good, and you’re ready to shout out to the world that you’re having a big night.  You’ve made it, otherwise you wouldn’t be in this overpriced status shack.

Without missing a beat, you order a $100 bottle of wine.  French wine.  Very classy.   The polished waiter, Guillaume, assures you with the confidence of Rex Ryan during pre-season that Chateau Blah Blah will pair perfectly with the $40 of appetizers your wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/paid escort is salivating over.

And Guillaume couldn’t be more charming.  Attentive, funny, he even compliments the new shirt you’re wearing.  Not realizing it’s an old shirt.  He looks like that deaf Frenchie from The Artist.  He’s the best person ever!  And this is the best night ever.

He exits to make sure your order will go in perfectly.  Having already polished off a few cocktails … it is a weekend … you excuse yourself from the table to hit the Men’s Room.  You’re wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/paid escort is so excited about the upcoming gourmet feast, they can’t give a crap you’re leaving.  And to be honest, you’re over them.  This is about the experience of this amazing night, and the culinary orgasm that you are about to experience.

So you walk into the beautiful marble Restroom, envious that your bathroom at home pales to this Romanesque bath house.  The toilet paper’s probably linen.

And then you hear it … the sound that no human being ever wants to hear from another human being.

The sound of painful defecation.  And it’s coming from a stall.  In this restaurant.  Who takes a dump in a fancy restaurant?

And it continues.  You know the sound.  I will not taint this post with a crude rendition … but we’re talking dying ass.

What monster is in that stall?  And then the door opens, and your night is fucked.  Fucked.

It’s your fucking waiter.  Guillaume.  That fuck.

Really dude?  You couldn’t have dealt with this at home?  What, did you just down a gallon of fucking red beans covered with black beans back in the break room?

And fucking Guillaume smiles at you, and says your appetizers and wine will be right out, as he makes a point of washing his hands.   And he smiles at you as he leaves, and it’s genuine.  He really doesn’t get it.

Fuck you Guillaume.  You fake French fuck.  I fucking hate you, and your whole fucking French family.  And the dumb acting classes that you take.

Isn’t there an employee bathroom?  I’m about to drop $400 in this shithole.  Surely the fucks that have put you in the same bathroom as me can afford a separate bathroom?

Do you really think I’m gonna be able to enjoy that overpriced bottle of French excrement you charmed me into ordering, knowing your shit fingers poured it?

Or that I won’t vomit when I swallow the first $6 Oyster, which I know will reek of your diseased crap.

And that’s what I tell Guillaume.  I really do.  And a fight breaks out.  And I win it.  Like Tyler fucking Durden in Fight Club.  And Guillaume is Jared Leto.  And he dies, like Jared Leto died– though thinking back, I think Jared Leto lived, but he was really fucked up. But I digress.  The whole point is you/me – I forgot what voice I’m writing this in – is  happy that you/me just fucked up Guillaume.

But of course that’s not what happens.

Cause we don’t live in the Fight Club world, or even the HBO Oz world, which would be fucking awesome, but in the lame grown up world.  And in the lame grown up world, you can’t beat the crap out of Guillaume’s already crapped out ass, nor say anything to fucking Guillaume – not even, “that sounded like a good shit” -- cause we’re all fucking civilized, so you smile back like a genderless wuss, and say “great, really looking forward to smelling the bouquet on that Bordeaux,” trying not to gag on the stench of fucking Guillaume’s rotting Gallic fucking intestines.

And you go back to the table like a bitch, and you eat your meal, and drink the $100 piss wine.  And smile at disgusting, filthy Guillaume, never revealing to the/she/it sitting across from you that he/she/it are ingesting on some level, fucking Guillaume’s crap.

And you even tip Guillaume fucking 20%.  Including the wine.

And that, my friends, is the Pooping Waiter.

And it’s happened to all of us.  Even me.  I think.  Mostly.

And it’s something I fester about.  And this is Friday.

Have a great weekend.