PRO-fucking-TIP

Okay, so here, let me set the scene before I elaborate on the meaning of the title.

It’s a Monday night. We all know Monay is a slow day, and not too many people like it, because those faggots have the weekend off and have to go back and slave at their desk job. You know, because desk jobs are hard. Oh wait, I’m going off about something right now, when I need to be focused.

Okay.

So.

We’re slow in my kitchen, so I send the staff on a cleaning kick; not for too long, as we may actually get business. We get a lot accomplished in a relatively short amount of time. If I do one thing before I finally leave me job, it’s to make that kitchen look nice. Right now, it–er–doesn’t. And that’s bad.

Time creeps along at a glacial pace. We’re not very busy. I break my staff, but I don’t get one as the person who makes the schedule sometimes decides to schedule me without someone who can give me a break. Whatever, that’s another article. We slid through the rest of the night, nothing major happens. An order here and there. So, I decided that since I didn’t get my break, I’m closing early, that’s fair, right? Management wouldn’t have that, as I figured, that’s fine. The time to do my closing stuff passes, and suddenly it’s 20 til close. Fuck yes, skating out of there tonight, no problems at all.

Then it happens.

The little waitress girl comes back saying she has a table. I tell her that’s fine, I’m not done yet, there’s still 20 minutes left.

Ten minutes pass. No ticket. I go to investigate what’s wrong, it shouldn’t take that long. What do I see in my dining room. Not just one table.

Two? No!

Three? Ha HA!

Four!?! Fuck my ass.

I see her again, she greets me with a “I hate my life.” “Shut up, Nat, I hate mine.” I go back and inform my kitchen of this, we’re taking a fucking smoke break before they order. And these people couldn’t just sit on the same side of the room. No, opposite fucking corners. I fucking hate people as is, this isn’t helping. My order printer beeps, time to work.

And we’re off!

Burgers. Slap that bastard out, no problem. Another beep. No problem. Burgers. I swear to god, the Burger King less than a quarter mile away burns down every night. It’s like the fucking Phoenix. At this time I go out front, I want to see what’s left. The two other tables, and oh?

What’s this?

You want to add people to your six top and make it a 10? Sure thing, pinche cabrons, I’d love to cook for you.

We send out 2/4. Okay people, it’s a VERY BAD THING when my closing manager comes back and calls you a fucking bitch. You know what that means? That means that you are:

A
FUCKING
BITCH!

“My cheese isn’t melted enough.” Suck my what? GO TO FUCKING BURGER KING.

Next ticket, more burgers.

BURGER KING SERIOUSLY OPEN.

So, while cooking this shit, I’m talking to my new line person. “Dude, I can tell you these people have never worked culinary.” “How’s that?” I go on to explain to him, as he’s worked the shit, that if they would have; they would have not went into a restaurant 10 minutes before it closes. We send out out 3/4, and we’re greeted with 4/4. Guess what’s on it!

If you need me to tell you, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG! BURGER KING OPEN

This isn’t even funny anymore. Send the shit out, tell them I’m done, as it is now 15 minutes past closing.

tl;dr: Seriously don’t go out to a sit-down resturant ten minutes before close looking like a total 9 to 5 asshole and order burgers. You don’t want the person cooking your food to think you’re a loser.

PROTIP: BURGER KING GUD 4 LATE NITE MUNCHIES FAGGOTS!!

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