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Article - 'SotDB: The Irratible Sequel' by Rhynir

An item about Humour posted on Sep 22, 2004


Rhynir shares some not-so-true accounts of his job at a restaurant!


The first part of the Stories of the Disgruntled Busser can be read here.

Stories of the Disgruntled Busser: The Irratible Sequel

Rant #6: The Men's Room.
Whenever my sidework is done, I have to make sure all the tables are bussed. When all the tables are bussed and my sidework is done, it's a que for me to get the hell out of there. But first, I have to check out with the manager. Most managers will look over a few things and say, "Okay, Dave, get out of here. See ya later." But there is one that does not. Here is the normal conversation between me and him when it's time for me to leave.
Me: "Okay, I'm done with my sidework."
Him: "Okay...hmm...did you check the men's room?"
"You sweep and mop the side-stands?"
"You sweep and mop the take-out area?"
"Did you check the men's room?"
"Did you sweep the back room?"
"Did you sweep, scrub, and squeegee the food prep area?"
"Did you check the men's room?"
"Did you make sure the men's room has paper towel's and toilet paper?"
"Yes" (I'm not going to say this anymore unless I specify that I say something else"
"Did you make sure the sink in the men's room is clean?"
"Did you clean the mirror in the men's room?"
"Did you make sure the toilets are clean in the men's room?"
"Did you bus all the tables?"
"Did you sweep and mop the men's room?"
"Did you fill the ice bins and make sure the side-stands have glasses?"
"Did you check the men's room?"
"Did you wipe my sperm stains off the men's room stall doors?"
"Did you change the lightbulbs in the men's room?"
"Did you make sure the walls in the men's room are clean?"
"Did you replace the urinal cakes in the urinals in the men's room?"
"Did you make sure the ceiling in the men's room is clean?"
"Did you check the men's room?"
Upon him asking all these questions, he has to check the restaurant and make sure I cleaned everything up. When he stops at a table, he pauses and asks,
"Did you check the men's room?"
Finally, he lets me go. I clock out, drive home, and go to bed. Suddenly, I'm awakened by a phone call at 3 AM. My manager is on the other end. He asks in the voice of a rather inane individual, "Dave....did...did you check the men's room?!" I shout a garbled reply and unhook the phone cord and go to bed. An hour later, the door bell rings. I rush upstairs and find HIM at the door. "Dave, did you check the men's room?" I pull a revolver from my pajamas and shoot the goddamn bastard. Then, finally, I go to bed.

Story #4: Ninja Workers.
I shuffled through the door. The darkness of the restaurant greeted me. I looked left and right. The wind blew against what parts of my face weren't covered by my mask. I grasped the hilt of my rag, ready to draw it at any second. I heard a whisper from my left. I instantly faced my left, ready to deflect anything. I raised my tub, which was attached to my left arm as a shield. Suddenly, twenty glasses came flying at me. I parried them with my shield and rag, cleaving each one perfectly. They all shattered when they hit the floor. I carefully stepped around them, trying to avoid any noise. I was now in the bar. To my right, I saw a faint light coming from the kitchen. With my back against the wall, I shuffled towards the kitchen, hoping to find the villian, or at least a light switch. I felt along the wall, hoping to find a shuriken or a light switch. Soon, I felt a small knob. I flicked the switch. The lights came on with a flash and I saw I was surrounded by hundreds of dirty tables. "HOYIGIMOTO RAVIOLI!" I cried as I literally flew around the bar, smashing each table with my tub and cleaning it with my rag. The whole frenzy lasted less than five seconds.
When I shuffled to the dishwasher area, I found my co-workers. Their hands and feet were bound, their mouths stuffed, and their eyes blindfolded. Now, I could have taken advantage of the situation, since more than half of the prisoners were beautiful young ladies, but I kept my spirit pure. After all, once I freed the girls, I would be able to go to the captain's cabin on my boat with each one of them. No, I searched for the culprit. I looked in the manager's office and there it was! The dirtiest table known to mankind and bussers! It was making a phone call, no doubt to bring tables from across the globe to this one restaurant. It was up to me to stop him! "HARK!" I cried. The table lurched out of the office to face me. I immediately used my Busser Fu skills and reached into my tub of soiled plates. I threw several dirty plates and glasses at the evil table of doom. But the more plates I threw at it, the stronger it became. So, using my brilliant logic, I threw myself at the table. I whipped it with my rag and smashed my tub on it. I had caught it off-guard! I reached to my apron and pulled Sanitizer spray! With a few quick squirts, I had vanquished the table once and for all.
I untied the girls and the girls only. The guys were stuffed in the men's room. I led the girls to my boat, which was parked outside. I took the dozen and a half of them into my cabin on the ship and OOOOOOOOOOOOOH YEEEEEEEEEEEA. Needless to say, I was spent.

b>Story #5: To Teach a Busser.
'Twas a day at work like any other. I pulled into the parking lot to see a large truck. I associated it with a fat ugly girl who is a waitress. But the truck had Nebraska plates. 'Odd,' I thought. But I dismissed it. I entered the restaurant and ordered some food, a nice burger, and some fries. Yum yum. As I wait for it to cook, I hear and see numerous people in the party room, the room where new workers are chained to fill out important complex papers where you have to sign your name in five hundred places and the main type font size is .00025546. One of these was a young man, younger than me. He could not be a waiter, a dishwasher, or even a cook. You have to be above 18 to do that stuff (Despite the fact that I have, in fact, went past the factual laws and was, for a fact, a dishwasher a few times. As a matter of fact, I hate being a dishwasher. Those plates can reach temperatures of Really-Fucking-Hot* Farenheight, but that's another story). It wasn't until I gathered my tip money that I learned the young man was going to be the next busser. I gasped and rushed to check the busser schedule. It was true! We FINALLY HIRED ANOTHER BUSSER. Thank the maker of R2D2, I wouldn't have to work five days a week and end up screwing up my Senior year! But condemn the maker of C-3PO, I would have to train the new busser. Besides that, C-3PO was damn annoying. R2-D2 was much cooler because he shocked Ewoks in the ass.
Anyway, I ate my burger and chips and drank my root beer while watching a baseball game on ESPN. When I finished, I liquidated my plates and glass, as well as the table, and clocked in. I grabbed a tray, towel, and a Super-Soaker Squirt Cannon and got to work. I cleaned 500 tables and flirted with the hostesses. After 3 hours, the bonds on the new busser were removed. The manager introduced us and said "Dave, show him the ropes." He later told me, due to unfortunate circumstances, "No, Dave, not the gallows."
The first thing I noticed was the guy's rather pale complexion. 'odd,' I thought. When I shook his hand, I was fucking shocked. He had black nail-polish. Upon even closer inspection, I noted several long scars on his arms. When I looked at his face, I was even more horrified. He had Emo glasses on! My stomach lurched. Jesus, this asshole's a goth! The first thing he asks me is "Do you guys serve blood here?" I slapped him with my tray, whipped him with my rag. I beat the crap out of this goth. I learned later that he liked it and wanted this job so he could buy his stupid goth music and more black make-up. Instantly, in a presidential press conference, I announced my resignation from the job of a busser. Therefore, I am done with my stories. Farewell.
(Actually, this new busser we have is quite the opposite of the one I described. He kicks ass and will be a great asset to the Bussing Business at this particular restaurant.)

Expect more sometime, but my hands are tired.
Mr. Rhynir