Jesus, We Have a Problem…

Posted: March 16, 2011 by divebardiva in Daily Ramblings, Viva La Douche

Okay folks this is a little tale sent to us by one of my favorite former co-workers. She now answers 911 calls which are a point of endless humor for us during our “mommy needs some wine” nights…and why I have decided to call her Vino911.

Thank you Vino for your ever so sarcastic tirade…you are just what we need at Bar Trash!

A while back I worked THE sports bar of the city. If you want to watch the big game, this is where you went. How did I get such an awesome job bartending at such a joint with little/no experience?  I pretended to be a sports fanatic, wore a low cut shirt and lied, lied, lied.

One day, a few months after I started, I was called in to the manager’s office. I was assuming he had finally checked references, but no. He wanted to tell me about an awesome opportunity I had that afternoon. It was a Sunday, game day. We would be swamped with middle aged men who drank, belched and yelled at the big screens, ordering just enough so they didn’t have to give up their table to the masses waiting at the door.

It seemed that day we were in for a treat, the biggest player on the team had called and asked for a table after the game. It was my “opportunity” to be pulled from the bar and serve them. The manager told me it was my chance to shine, I knew I had obviously been too late for the game of “not–it,” and I was stuck.

Knowing my afternoon was going to go downhill, I implemented a policy of “one for you, one for me” during the game. In my experience, somewhere between college football and the NFL, all players were forced to take the class entitled “How to be an Asshole in 5 Easy Steps.” Judging from those I’ve met, the class had a 100% success rate.  

Finally, the game was over and I was feeling fine. A short time later the front door opened and in walked Mr. Football. I’m assuming there was a fire drill right after the game, and he had to run out of the stadium in a hurry. Why else would he still be in full gear, carrying his helmet? Good thing he had time to put in his pretty diamond earrings though.

He started to strut, around and around the bar. Let me tell you, the bar at this place was huge. It snaked through the center of the restaurant and on busy days, it held 6 bartenders and 2 busboys comfortably. Around and around he strutted like a peacock.

To me, in my slightly inebriated condition, I thought he resembled a dog looking for a place to lay. Maybe he was looking for his table? I walked over to it, and every time he rounded the corner, I pulled the chair out for him. And every time, he kept on walking, and I pushed it back in. I was getting tired and dizzy watching him so I sat at the table, took a sip of the ice water and waited for him to land.

Finally his family showed up, spotted him and then they all proceeded to do one warm-up lap around the bar before looking for their table. I (still sitting) gave them the one armed wave and a whistle to indicate where they should sit. Professional? That ship had sailed.  

As soon as they sat, one little boy made a beeline for the table.  He walked up to Mr. Football with a napkin. “Could I please get your autograph?” Mr. Football turned and smiled, “I’m sorry son, but this is my family time. I’m sure you understand” and turned back around. I was horrified.

Taking their drink order, the Mrs. stated she wanted a glass of our best red wine. “Surprise me” she said. It’s a sports bar, we had two bottles, one white and one red. The surprise was that I actually found it.  

Already they were yelling “hey girl” when they needed something. I also heard a snap of the fingers. I decided to give them some time to think about how to act. I walked in the break room, found a sharpie, signed Mr. Footballs name on a napkin (with questionable spelling but hey, the thought was there) and dropped it off at the little boys table. “He’s an ass” I said. Probably not the best thing to say to a 4 year old, but hey he needed to know.

I stopped behind the bar, took another shot and headed back to Satan’s seeds. Mrs. Football had a very, very complicated order. I got bored of trying to write it all down so I started doodling. When she was finally done, I looked down. I had written the words: salad chicken oil on top of a stick figure of a chick with horns and a tail. The rest of the orders were the same way. I had no time for it. I wrote down the basic idea, more doodles, and headed to the kitchen.

Taking another shot with Jesus (the hot latino kitchen manager, not the Lord’s son, but hey, he may have been there too) in the kitchen, we both took a look at what I had written for the order, he called me an artist and I tried to explain what they wanted as best I could remember.

“Ok listen,” I said, “let’s give her a salad with chicken. I don’t remember what the oil was supposed to do so lets skip it” We went through the rest of the orders the same way. I left the kitchen with total confidence we got it right, swinging my hips to the salsa beat on the radio and playing imaginary maracas.

A few hey girl! and finger snaps later, the food was done and delivered. I didn’t get two feet away before Mrs. Football yelled. She waved me over and pointed to her salad. A leaf was moving! Now if I had been firing on all cylinders I would have apologized and taken the plate away. Instead I believe I said “Holy shit, that’s disgusting” and then took the plate.

I brought it to the kitchen and said “Jesus, we have a problem, there is a worm in her salad.”  He leans over, flicks the worm off and said “All better. Lets hope he have no babies.” I didn’t know if he was referring to the worm or Mr. Football but I agreed with both so I nodded and headed out.

The rest of the dinner went the same way. Chicken wasn’t warm enough, fries weren’t crisp enough. Long story short, they were mean and needy, I was tipsy and uncaring. I had worn a path from their table to the kitchen with how many times they sent it back.
Finally, after dinner was done and the dishes were cleared, they were ready to leave. I took a seat at their table, looking straight at Mr. Football I said, “Listen, this evening hasn’t went well for either of us. Obviously you’re a very important person and I hope your dinner was at least enjoyable.” (I didn’t mean to snort after I said that, but yes, it happened.)
“The bar has comped your bill. You’re free to go, have a great night!” And with this, I did a dramatic hand sweep trying to gesture towards the door, but instead knocking over the water glass in the process, soaking his lap. “I’m sorry,” I said “I hope this doesn’t affect your fancy strut!”
A dirty look and a few attempts of soaking up the spill on his pants, they all finally left. I stopped by the bar, clocked out,  picked up the bottle of tequila and headed to the kitchen.
“Jesus!” I said “We no longer have a problem!”
 
Got your own customer horror story? Let us know! Click on Submit Your Shit at the top of the page.
Comments
  1. DJ SEXXX JELLAY says:

    Well Vino911, Ii don’t know if I know you or not, but if this location was in Brooklyn Park and called Benchwarmer Bob’s and it was in the mid to later 90’s then my guess on this player could only be Chris Carter of the Vikes. NFL’s Douchbag of the Year, I mean Man of the Year. I personally saw him treat people in the exact manner that you talked about. The only thing that would make me think that this is someone else is that you talked about the bar layout. Either way, it could still easily be C.C.

    DJ-SJ

    • Vino911 says:

      It was not Benchwarmer Bob’s however you have correctly identified the douchebag in question….Chris Carter. OMG what an ass! Fortunately after this little incident I was never again asked to wait on him after he completed his strut! Mission Accomplished! Hahahahaha

  2. 5 dog fabulous says:

    Vino911 that is laugh out loud funny!

  3. Vodka Toxic says:

    LOL! I love this post!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s