Blood Sucks - Part 2

I think the fear of blood goes back to when you were a kid. Think about that statement. When you were little how many times would you fall down, get a bump or bruise, ignore it and keep playing? However, if you fell down and scraped yourself and saw just a trickle of blood you’d start bawling. But of course then the School Nurse or your mom would come rushing to your aid. “Oh my god, are you OK?” Then they would wipe your tears away, spray some anti-bacterial stuff on the scratch, throw a band aid on it and you would be better. But the attention and the reaction that you got from the sight of blood put a fear in us at a young age.

That fear of blood can consume you. Years ago I was in the passenger seat of my friend’s car and we were driving to the Jersey Shore. I was sipping on a plastic jug of iced tea and we were cruising down the Atlantic Expressway. We were surprised that there wasn’t much traffic and we were getting ready for a weekend of insanity and pure on debauchery. Suddenly a car stops out of nowhere, causing a chain reaction crash. My head slammed into the windshield, totally cracking the glass. On my way up, I smashed my lip into the dashboard. Although, somewhat shocked, I was fine.

I was fine until I got out of the car. I felt my lip and it felt moist and saw a little bit of blood. It was night time and I looked down at my shirt and it was very wet and sticky. The front of my shirt, and I hate to say this, but I was wearing a surgeon’s shirt, but hey it was the eighties, was mostly covered in liquid. At that moment I freaked the fuck out! I thought I had a serious injury and would have to be rushed to the hospital. Did the sight of blood cause this? Hell, yeah it did! My lip had a small scratch which made me over analyze the situation.

The “blood” on my shirt was actually iced tea from the jug that spilled all over me during the crash. If I had never seen that little dribble of blood from my lip, I would have been completely calm and fine. Yes, I would have cracked the windshield, but would have said, “Fuck it, everything is cool. Thank god I have such a hard head!”

To be continued...

Blood Sucks - Part 1

Blood sucks. Blood is the scariest thing a person can see. Your own blood, that is. Scarier then The Blair Witch Project, The Omen or The Exorcist. We may see blood on television or in the movies, but that doesn’t compare to seeing our own blood. (Plus we know that Hollywood stuff is syrup or maraschino cherry juice or some special effect.)

A broken bone hurts like a motherfucker, but it doesn’t scare you. Sure you get that stomach ache when you break or sprain something. You know the stomach ache I am talking about. The one that feels like you just got kicked in the balls, times four.

Actually I have never been kicked in the balls. I think that is another one of those Urban Legends just like the people who had their luggage ripped off on a trip. Yeah, this family was in Jamaica and when they got back to their hotel room, everything was gone. Everything that is, except for their toiletries and a camera. When they got back from vacation they developed the film. And in the photos were a bunch of Rastafarians waving to the Kodak with the people's tooth brushes shoved up their asses.

I've never been kicked in the crotch but did take a hockey ball there once. I was in Fourth grade and we were playing some Sixth graders in street hockey. It was cold as shit out and I was playing goalie, without a cup on. Now there are two kind of Mylec street hockey balls. One is for the summer which is orange and harder and one for winter that is blue and softer. Well like a bunch of fucking idiots we were playing with the blue one in twenty degree weather. A Sixth grader is about six feet away from me and winds up with a hard slap shot. The ball came right at me and hit me square in the package. I went down and out. Visions of kids I would never have passed before my eyes and I got that stomach ache. The one that makes you feel like you are going to puke up a locomotive.

When you break a bone, you know exactly what happened. You fucked up your arm or leg, but you have instant realization of what has happened. Your shin is sticking through your flesh or you can’t move a limb, but you suck it up and go to the hospital and know what you are dealing with.

Blood is a different thing. And I am not talking about a bloody nose or a bloody lip. Fuck that, I’m not even talking about a shaving cut. (However if you cut your lip shaving, that shit never stops bleeding.) All the above things are easy to fix. You grab some tissues, apply some pressure and it’s done. You might get alarmed for a second, but when you think about why you were alarmed you feel like a pussy and then the blood stops and you go on with life.

To be continued...

A Waiter's Nice Nightmare - Conclusion

"Well, if it was so great, why such a shitty fucking tip?"

"Excuse me?" He said, as if he was astonished by my comment.

"Basically, you gave me only a little bit over ten percent, which sucks! I don't know where you usually dine, maybe Denny's or Carrow's, I have no idea, but that tip was an insult. It was a fucking slap in my face!"

Suddenly it came to my attention that I just screwed up. All I could think about was him calling my boss tomorrow, and me losing my job over this whole incident. Fuck him! He wasn't going to have a chance to even pick up the phone.

He stood there and stared at me in disbelief, like I did something wrong. Hell, I just told him how I felt and he was bent out of shape. And then that's when I did it. I lunged at him and punched him in the stomach as hard as I could. All my force went behind my fist, and he bent forward, clutching his gut. Then I fucking snapped. I lost it. I went crazy.

I grabbed him by the ears and swiftly and with every ounce of force I could muster, brought my knee up and introduced it to his face. I let go of him then and he dropped to the pavement and rolled up into a fetal position. Not knowing what to do, I decided to just let go and lose all self-control. Every shitty tipping, rude, jerk ass motherfucking customer flashed through my mind!

I jumped on top of him and pummeled his face until it was a bloody mess. It was very invigorating, a relief, and a cleansing experience. My self therapy continued as I began smashing his head up and down against the hard concrete. The shit that was going on could have been a scene from the movie, "American History X." His hands were covered in blood as his face became unrecognizable, and then I envisioned something.

To me, his blood was no longer red as it leaked out of him. It was light pink, just like White Fucking Zinfandel! This pushed me over the top, took me to a total boiling point. And then I did something that was even unbelievable to me.
I reached into my apron and pulled out a wine opener, and released the corkscrew. I preceded to shove it right between his eyes. Then I started screwing it in more and more and twisting it like I was opening a nice bottle of wine. I really dug the challenge of the resistance his skull gave me as I went to town on it. He winced and moaned in pain and grunted and gurgled, and I didn't fucking care. He became messier and gorier, and then it was over. He was dead. I would have put a fork in him to signify he was done, but excess isn't my thing.

Not knowing what to do, I quickly looked around and saw the parking lot was empty. I picked up his messy corpse and through it into the dumpster. I then went to my car, grabbed some napkins which were surrounded by empty soda cans, water bottles, Del Taco bags and Lotto tickets, because I never clean my car out, wiped my hands off and threw the bloody cloths away.

I stood there for a second, trying to get a grasp of what just happened, then thought to myself, fuck it. Things happen. I jumped into my little sedan and drove down the street to get an ice-cold lager of my choice. As I sipped on my brew and enjoyed some relaxation after a long night, I saw a bottle of White Zinfandel behind the bar, and actually almost ordered a glass. But that would have been fucked up, because it is “White Fucking Zinfandel.”

A Waiter's Nice Nightmare - Part 2

Now let’s fast forward to the end of the night. I give him and his piggish date great service, buy them a dessert to make up for his earlier unhappiness, and falsely apologized if he felt he didn't get complete satisfaction from his evening visiting the dining establishment in any way. He assured me that everything was fine and would definitely come back again, and would tell his friends to come in too. Whoopee! Your friends will come and eat here too? Wow, I'm so fucking excited! I could just imagine what this fuck knuckle's friends are like.

Now, his bimbo and he were still hanging out, even though the bill had been dropped, and all the other guests had vacated the dining room. I was ready to go home, but these two fuckers were still camping out. Hell, all they were missing was a tent and a hibachi. Anyway, I walked by and picked up the check presenter, but he said he wasn't ready to pay yet. I kept staring at him, trying to send a message, but this lughead never tried figured that out.

Finally, a half an hour later, he finally paid, and shook my hand as he left and thanked me for my professionalism. I thanked him back and thanked him for coming in and visiting, and then I checked the charge slip. A $5.50 tip on a $50.00 tab! My time is worth much more than that. He can shove the tip up his fat fucking ass! I watched him walk out, and I really wanted to kick the crap out of him, but I know that shouldn't happen.

So, I walked to my car and this asshole is still hanging around in the parking lot. As I opened my driver side door, I saw him give his date a good night kiss. I was still pissed at this jack ass. Damn, I was fucking fuming as his lady drove away.
Finally, I decided to make my stand and say something to Lord Cheapo. I saw him starting to unlock his car door, when I decided to approach him.

"Hey, what's up?" He said politely. (Like we were suddenly buddies, like we'd be going to the zoo together and he'd buy me peanuts to feed the Elephants with.)

"Not much," I replied.

Then I couldn't hold my tongue anymore, so I blurted out, "Was everything ok with my service tonight?"

"It was great, actually."


To be continued...

A Waiter's Nice Nightmare - Part 1

I was a waiter in Los Angeles for many years as I tried to get my career started. Many people in this town take the same path because it allows you flexibility to chase "the Dream." Funny thing is, Food Servers are a very different breed out here. They aren't the Denny's employee,(the elder lady with a hairy mole on her face) they are mostly artistic, creative and intelligent college graduates. They are usually brighter than most of the morons they wait on. (But don't tell that to the idiot who can't pronounce Filet Mignon.)

This posting goes out to all the food service industry workers and something that has gone through the mind of anyone who has ever waited a table. (Maybe not as off the beaten track as my thoughts, but, hell, I'm strange.)

I killed a guy last night. Why? Because he pissed me off, so, the Motherfucker deserved it. He had the balls, the audacity, to sit in my section, bitch about how his wine was no good, but the service was excellent. Oh and then leave me an eleven percent tip! He really didn't deserve to live. I don't want or need my tip in compliment form and don't need it through flattery either, because neither of them will pay my fucking rent! I want cash, cold, hard cash. We're talking 18 to 25 percent of the bill, and then I'll be happy. But if I don't get that, think what will happen...or just imagine what that bloody carcass at the bottom of the dumpster behind my place of employment looks like.

So this guy, if he can ever be referred to by that title, instead of asshole, sits at my table with his bitch of a date. He's trying to act like a big shot and orders a bottle of White Zinfandel. White Zin! What kind of guy orders that crap? Fuck, might as well order a wine cooler, or a Spritzer, or some frickin’ Kool Aid! White Zin is the drink of eighteen year olds or white trash when they can't find the box of wine or old ladies who are searching for a Blush instead of a Rose'.
So I bring the bottle to the table and he starts all that bullshit wine connoisseur crap. The smelling, the swirling around in the glass, followed by some sniffing and then swishing around the mouth action like it's Listerine. Hey, dickhead, it's fucking Beringer! It's not LaCrema or Sebastiani or Ferrari Carano or some other nice California Coastal crap. It's not Red Zinfandel, Cabarnet, Merlot, Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay. It's fucking White Zinfandel! Anyway, after his display and presentation of his so-called wine expertise, which the whole time impressed his date, a half-witted, cheap shoe wearing, ugly polyester bloused, too much make up wearing troglodyte, he turned to me and said it lacked aroma and a dry taste. Not to reiterate, but once again, it's “White Fucking Zinfandel!” It isn't supposed to have a nice bouquet, and sweetness doesn't go hand and hand with dryness!

So he rambles on spouting misinformed and uneducated crap about his high brow winery wisdom (who knows maybe he had recently seen the movie, "Sideways") and asks if he can get another brand or another vintage. First off, vintage doesn't apply to this swill he thinks is classy, and secondly, hello, we don't have another brand. This isn't Sizzler or TGIF Fridays! We don't cater to pink wine chugging Morons!
I suggest a Chardonnay, but he has some excuse why he doesn't like whites. I honestly think he didn't like them because of the prices of the bottles. This motherfucker acted like he had champagne taste, but was sporting a beer pocket book. Finally he decides to keep the original bottle of wine, but acts like I had something to do with the whole problem. Hey, jerk off, lighten up! I'm not the person who decides what our alcohol inventory will be. He really acted somewhat smug and all I could think was “Fuck him!”

To be continued...

Plight of the Pickled Egg Salesman - Conclusion

So you eventually find the Big Wig in the field! The big cheese when it comes to the craft of peddling the pickled egg. (Try to say that three times fast.) He tells you that he is going to retire and you are fucking ecstatic. This is your chance for the big time. You have the same feeling that a college player has when he gets drafted to the NFL or when a Triple A baseball player gets called up to the show. The future is yours and your dream is finally coming true! But there is a problem. This man who you want to learn the ropes from has a son. His son, in his dad’s eyes is a fucking idiot because he doesn’t want to take over the family business, and his dad wants him to carry on the pickled egg tradition. (But of course, no one else thinks the kid is an idiot, because who would actually want to do this type of sales? I’m sure being a Pickled Egg Salesman isn’t a profession that breaks the ice when trying to impress a lady.)

Now you need to convince the Egg Master that his son has no interest in carrying on the family name in the business world. (And his son is thankful, because you are helping him out, because deep down in his heart he wants to be a Plumber.) So you set up a meeting and you bring your A- game. You impart all the business knowledge that you have learned from the expensive and prestigious schooling you have had. You prove you are better than the Sham Wow guy when it comes to selling.

Oh, I am going to digress for a moment. What is the deal with the guy that pitches the Sham Wow? Is he a douchebag or what? His lines are pathetic:
“You’re gonna love my nuts” and “Linguine, Martini, Bikini…!”
Cut me a break moron. Oh, it gets better. This dunce got busted for beating up a prostitute in a Manhattan hotel room. What’s funny is, if you see his mug shot he looks like he got his ass kicked by her too. The reason why he beat her up? Because she bit his tongue when they were kissing! What a moron, he is. It’s a known fact you never make out with a hooker! I thought everyone knew that. Oh, and the moment he did that, he blew half of New York City by proxy!

So the Donald Trump of the egg world is impressed by you. He loves your passion and your fresh ideas about the industry. He takes you under his wing and imparts all his knowledge and wisdom to you. You are Ralph Macchio and he is Pat Morita! You have finally achieved your dream and are on cloud nine, when suddenly it happens! A Sal Manila breakout!

You are now thoroughly fucked! But weren’t you fucked from the beginning? I mean how many bars and restaurants sell pickled eggs? Just think of all the driving you would have to do and how many miles you would put on your car. And how much commission would you be able to make? I’m sure there isn’t a lot of room for a profitable mark up on your product. So people, my message to you is, if you have kids and they want to be a Pickled Egg Salesman, please discourage them. They would be better of selling Cutco cutlery door to door.

Plight of the Pickled Egg Salesman - Part 1

I was at a bar the other night and saw a jar of Pickled Eggs. Now, I have never tried a pickled egg before and to my knowledge, no one I know has ever tried one either. My assumption is that they must taste like, well a pickled egg. That does not sound very appetizing to me. As Cleveland from The Family Guy would say, “That’s nasty.”

The question I have is, who sells pickled eggs and how did they get into the business?

What would make someone choose that profession? Did some guy as a child strive to sell fucking pickled eggs to bars? Think about it. This guy is nine years old and in class the teacher asks the kids what they want to do when they get older. One kid says be the President. Another says be a Fireman. And yet another says be a Policeman. And this fool says he wants to sell pickled eggs. I could only imagine the Teacher’s response to this. (If it was a good teacher, the kid would have been signed up to Home Ec 101, ASAP!)

But hey, you have a dream, so you follow it! You go to college, major in Business with the long term career goal of selling pickled eggs. Then you graduate and start looking for jobs. But guess what? I bet it is always hard times in the pickled egg industry. It's some mean streets for the wannabe egg salesman. Think about it. You send out your resume, with the objective line stating:
“To have a prosperous, challenging and fulfilling career in the field of pickled egg sales.”

What company is taking that seriously? You could have graduated Magna fucking Cum-Laude from the Wharton School of Business, but most companies would laugh at you. You could be a god damn Rhodes Scholar, but you would be the butt of a joke that CEO’s would tell each other over a glass of Scotch forever.

OK. So now you need money to pay back your student loans. You could take a job in Pharmaceutical Sales, because you have the credentials. You went to an Ivy League school and graduated near the top of your class. It would be an ideal position. Great starting salary, good commission structure, company car, 401K, complete benefits and a short workday. Awesome fucking gig, huh? But guess what? It isn’t right for you, because you want to sell pickled eggs!

So what would the novice pickled eggs salesman do now? Would he try to find a mentor? Go in search of the most proficient pickled egg salesman who is a master closer? I’m sure there is the guru of pickled egg salesmen, but I think the reason he is, is because he is the only fucking pickled egg salesman out there! He has the monopoly on the business!

To be continued...

Mexico

I noticed that when you get back from a vacation you usually need another vacation. The reason is? Now you actually need some rest and relaxation. Basically when I got back from Puerta Vallarta my liver needed to either hibernate or at least take a hiatus.

I did get sick one night in Mexico. And for once in my life I didn't completely blame it on the food. I knew booze actually did play a part in it, but not a huge part.

Have you ever noticed that people usually don't do acknowledge that alcohol may have been part of the problem? They never act like booze may have helped to get them sick. You can be out, have fifteen beers, a martini, a gin and tonic and four shots of tequila, and then later have two pieces of pizza and end up getting sick. But of course you always say to your friends, "I think that pizza was bad. I don’t think that place uses fresh pepperoni. Something was funky because that slice made me vomit. And I never throw up from pizza. Even from that frozen Mama Celeste shit that you can get ten for ten bucks at the market."

You never say to yourself, "Hey, asshole, it wasn't the pizza! It was all the fucking booze you drank and mixed!"

In Mexico I deserved to get sick. After lots of Coronas and a few Tequila shooters, I actually bought a, as we call them in L.A., a Ghetto Dog off a little cart on the streets. Actually, I bought two of them. Now if you don't know, a Ghetto Dog is a hot dog wrapped in bacon, then topped with tomatoes and onions, with mayo, mustard and some other spicy sauce. They are the ones sold after sporting events. They are usually cooked on a shitty little flat grill that is placed on top of a shopping cart. Oh and there are always a bunch of little Mexican kids running around as their mom hawks them.

It is not a good idea to eat them in the United States, and ordering them in another country that doesn't ever have health ratings on restaurants, is pretty fucking stupid. And I found that out later. I woke up with what felt like a block of Ball Park franks wrapped in bacon laying in my stomach. But hell, I must admit they were so good, actually they were amazing. I felt like Anthony Bourdain on an episode of No Reservations, so a little late night agony was worth it.

I did notice a few other things when on vacation in Mexico. One thing is, they have really small napkins, and it drove me crazy. These things were the size of one piece of toilet paper. Shit, you couldn't even wipe half your upper lip with one. It drove me up the fucking wall! I finally asked a waiter one night why they were so tiny. His answer was that they make bigger ones, but they are more expensive so they don't get ordered. That totally cracked me up. When I use a regular sized napkin, I only use one. But with these shitty little things I'd go through eight or nine at a sitting, and then would use a few more just on the principle that they were so fucking small! Oh well, so much for making the customer happy.

I also noticed in the town I stayed in, called Bucerias, which is twenty minutes from Puerto Vallarta, there are a ton of homeless dogs just walking around town. They aren't aggressive, they mind their own business, but it's just a weird site to see. Hell you'd never see a dog walking the streets in Asia, because if he did, he'd be gone in a minute, and end up being part of a Number 9 combo is some eatery. But damn, these dogs would walk around, and their dicks would just be flopping in the wind. Huge dicked dogs everywhere you looked. I mean, shit, these guys made Ron Jeremy look like a third grader. And the dogs would just walk into restaurants and lay down on the floor, and no one gave a shit. In fact, most of the staff would know who these canines were. It wasn't in every restaurant. Some places did have a sign that said, "No Dogs Allowed." Which didn't make sense to me because, dogs can't fucking read!

I also noticed that there was a ton of Canadians in Mexico. How could I tell? Just look at them. They looked fucking Canadian. The guys were chubby with sleeveless shirts, shorts, dark socks and sandals. Oh and when on the beach, their beer guts hung over their tight speedos, a.k.a. grape smugglers and their hairy backs were in full view.

The Canadian women I saw were all over 50. And they were wearing bikinis, which is really disgusting to see on their out of shape wrinkled bodies. And these women had corn rows in their hair. Hello, wake up and smell the Molson. Corn rows, unless of course you are a NBA star or a rapper, went out of style years ago. About the time, gee, I don't know, what year was Bo Derek in the movie 10? And all of these Canucks walked at a real slow pace, like they were window shopping. But the one problem was there weren’t any fucking windows around! It was at the beach. (I know that glass comes from sand, but come on folks.)

OK, OK, maybe I am being a little harsh on Canadians, but it was just an observation. And to be honest, the ones I did talk to were very nice, and I never even heard one of them say the letter "A" after a comment. (So the hell with that stereotype.)

Mexico, damn what a fun time.