Since I worked New Year's Eve, I do have some decent material.
First, this is one of the king of cocksucker bitch-ass moves.
You take your woman out for dinner on New Year's Eve. Aren't you just a romantic douche. So you sit down and notice that the particular Italian eatery you haven chosen has decided to not stagger their reservations, but seat about 75 people at the same time, 7. Okay fine, you get to your table easily, get a couple cocktails, and put in your order.
But then, wait, something is missing! You have been seated for 8 and two-fifths minutes without being offered bread! In an Italian restaurant? Blasphemy. You are really secretly some sort of starving Ethiopian child and cannot go five seconds without a slice of Goddamn bread. Oh look, the lovely runner is walking by with three plates balanced precariously on his arms like some sort of slave spidermonkey. He is not in a hurry, and even if the fact that he is in a full sprint indicates he is in a rush, you are far more important than his scalding forearm. You raise your hand, "Excuse me."
The patient lad can barely hide the unmistakable eye-strangling he wants to give you. "Yes?"
Then you make a mistake, your untrained and rather rude wife (not to mention a complete dud between the sheets) chimes in, "Um, does this place still serve bread?"
The runner bites into his lip deep, to remove his mind from the plate burning through levels of skin like an acid bath, "Yes of course, I'll get some right out for you." What I want to say is, "do you see the fucking sea of people around you and the waiters turning out bread baskets like it's Freihofer's in the bitch? Wait thirty seconds you twat." Then I continue doing my job and don't even come close to getting you bread. Fuck yourself douchebag. When I bring your entrees I hope you wonder just for a second if my pubes are the secret garnish.
Another gem.
You are another honorable patron, you and your woman are seated with 73 of your closest friends. You pass a kid draped in coats heading for the back, probably the coat check. You take your seat, and your wife's coat, and right as you see the young lad dashing toward the kitchen, you present yourself in front of him like some kind of sick, mink-holding speed bump. "Hey, are you the coat guy?" Of course restaurants actually keep a "coat guy," that makes sense right? He just stands around, waiting for you to throw your coats to him, the rest of the time snorting meth in the bathroom. This person never exists.
You see the young man swallow his disdain for you, "I am now." A sarcastic smile leads you to remove your girlfriend's wallet from her pocket before you hand over the coat. He then turns on his heel to hang your look-expensive-but-are-really-cheap coats. "Wait, don't I need like..." His eyes burrow into your brain, hoping to give you terminal cancer by osmosis. "Yeah I'll bring you the tags at the table." Then he runs.
Now I just hang your coats anywhere there is room, and grab two tags, 25 and 26, your coats are hanging on hanger's 12 and 13. Fuck yourselves. Then I bring the tags to your table. And you innocently ask for bread. I turn right from your table without more response than a nod, walk right by the bread station which is two feet from your seat, and shoot up heroin in the back.
And it's only 7:35 on New Year's Eve.
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