PWND, by a child…
Sunday and the restaurant was coming down with little people and their supposed care givers. There were sticky hands, grubby faces, tears, squealing and upset from the velvet curtains to the much sought after window tables and beyond. There were also a lot of children too. Seriously, I will stamp my foot an huff if and when the little darling imps are seated in my section.
I, like Whitney, believe the children are the future. I also believe hover boards and cyborg butlers are the future too but, like children, neither has any place in a restaurant. Well specifically any restaurant I'm either working or dining in.
I don't come to this view lightly. I'm not one of those morose hate-the-worlds that hate the world and everything and everybody in it just for the ironic lulz of it all. No, quite the contrary. My despotic, dystopian and misanthropic world view is based on years of actual study. Only by walking with the civilian population have I been able learn their ways and their needs, so many needs, and form a balanced view of them.
And basically kids suck.
Kid's parents really suck.
I wouldn't go as far as
Take these slack jawed fornicators who managed to stop drinking and shouting at each other long enough to fuck themselves an old school nuclear family. Well done arm gnawers. They had been stressing me out from the moment they arrived. The kids managed, in their fucking stupid kid way, to knock over a glass and send the silverware to the floor within seconds of arriving.
"Ders a broken glass on d'floor", says the mother to me with an accusatory tone like she suspected me of being the schoolyard heroin dealer. I counted to ten whilst getting the dustpan and brush.
Sometime later and having stripped all but the very essential items from the table I served the parents their starters and the little future people their main courses. Obviously there was wailing and gnashing of teeth and what have you as the plates had salad on them. "I'M NAT EATING DAT GET IT AFF GET IT AFF GET IT AFFF AAAAAAARRRGGGH!!" (the kids weren't happy either) and because I hadn't put down a gallon sized bottle of
tomato ketchup red sauce.
Demanding ye say.
Obviously the crisis was averted with a spare plate, a bit of scraping and enough ketchup to float a battleship.
About a minute later and I'm bringing more drinks to the table. It's important to be snottered by 2pm on a Sunday when out with the kids yes?
"Dis burger's too big so it is...I cawn't eat it", screamed little-darling-the-boy.
"Cut it den", says the mother without so much as raising an eye or a finger.
"I cawn't...you do it"
"Eh...I'm eatin so ah am...get deh mawn til do it" and she gestured to me with her knife.
Get. Deh. Mawn. Til. Do. It?
In this scenario I'm deh mawn I assume. I'm not always deh mawn it should be noted.
Fuck that with Jimmy Savile's shoes on.
I DON'T CUT NO CHILDREN'S BURGERS FOR NO GOD DAMN LAZY ASSED MOM.
I cut something though...a look that said, Fuck you and the lasagne you rode in on. Hey I am here to help and if you're struggling and a kid needs help I'll be the first, well maybe not the first, but if there's no one else about I will cut up your darling kid's burger until it's nothing but horse meat in the wind. But if you can't be assed to do it, then fuck you, you're on your own....or rather your kid is.
We barely spoke after that and service was conducted at arms length...which is not an easy trick to pull off.
An hour or two later and more children with more demanding parents happened to wander like lost sheep into my section.
These children were the delightful progeny of middle class parents. Mopsie and Dopsie or whatever the fuck they were called, but they were clearly named after important family rabbits, were chatty little urchins and had something to say every time I happened to be at their table. Oooooh look at you, conversing with an adult like a proper person. Fuck up and eat yer nuggets. I do the talking AND the looking cute round here.
Anyhoo, despite the constant conversation (them) and fake laughter and fake fucks that I give (me) we managed to get through two hours together with the need for infanticide most horrid. Well nearly.
Mumsie gave Mopsie or was it Dopsie, I'm not sure which, the precious tip money to give to me.
How cute. All those golden coins covered in snot and norovirus and chocolate. Brilliant. Anyhoo, down I bent (It was pointed out to me yesterday that I don't have that far to bend down what with being a little fella myself and as such should stop whinging about it) to scoop the money and say something cutsie to the child when she stopped short.
Was I supposed to shuffle towards her? Because that was going to be a bit weird given that I was now bent over. But disaster averted and she stuck out her hand with the five pound coins in it (tight git) and thrust it in my direction.
"Oh thank you young lady" and went to retrieve what was rightfully mine. And just as I did she pulled her hand away.
Ha fucking ha very funny.
I fake laughed, as you do.
She put her hand out again but this time a pound coin had disappeared. Again I reached out to get the money only to be pwnd for a second time.
This time mummy and daddy darling joined in the laughter whilst Mopsie or was it Dopsie poured salt all over the table. I was now the main act in a live Just for laughs sketch. Brilliant. And my tormentor is a child and you can never get away with laying down the smack on one of them. Seriously, that shit will ruin your career.
In the end and after much fucking about I got a quid of the little dick. Can I call a kid a dick? Meh, Imma do it anyways. It took four quid of me, of course she's a dick. Dick.
I hate kids, your kids that is. My kid is a good un. Sigh and grrrrr. Wine was drunk on Sunday night until the pain went away on.
Listen bring your kids to a restaurant, it's good fun for all, well it can be, but don't expect me to raise your kids for the two hours you are in the restaurant and don't let them steal the tip.