>Hi, I’m Julian Sanchez. My friends call me “Dirty Sanchez,” “Sancho,” “Tubby Bitch,” and sometimes “Jeff,” because they really don’t know who the hell I am. It’s my girlfriend who’s friends with everyone; I just sort of tag along. In fact, I spend most of our happy hours, dinners, and other gatherings gazing into my iPhone screen, typing desperately boring and misspelled Yelps and Tweets with my sausage thumbs.
So, last night, we all went out for one of my girlfriend’s friend’s birthdays, to some nice restaurant that they all like for some reason. I don’t get it. I think the best meal in town is the “Big Ass Burger” at Carl’s Jr. It goes down awesome with a vodka Red Bull, which is my favorite drink because it not only makes me go to the dark place, but it gives me plenty of energy to pick fights with strangers while I’m in it. Fuck yeah, dawg!
So there were about 14 of us—at least I think so—I only got ten fingers to count on, you know. And the waitress was this sassy little bitch—kept trying to act all smart, like talking to people about what wine they’d like to drink, or what beers were the “hoppiest.” Shut up and refill my glass of ice so I can pour vodka Red Bull in it from the plastic bottle I brought in. Oh yeah, and bring more glasses of ice for this end of the table, so they can all drink free booze in your stupid fancy restaurant, too. Let the elitist assholes at the other end of the table drink your “wine” and “draft beer,” thankyouverymuch.
Lucky for me, the restaurant likes my girlfriend’s friends enough to have let us bring in our own hootch, because this party sucked; those guys weren’t even looking my way or talking to me at all, which I didn’t really care about because I had my iPhone and my vodka Red Bull. But when that smartass broad came to wipe down our table and set more silverware or whatever whoopty-doo-I’m-all-important-look-at-me thing she was doing, I was bored, so I said, “Hey! Hey!” and when I had our half of the table’s attention, I pointed out how she was running her ass off.
Women like to hear stuff like that, like what a good job they’re doing, blah blah blah. I expected her to high five me, or maybe suggest a meeting in the bathroom, you know? But instead she said, all snarky like, that she hoped that wasn’t a “verbal tip,” and when everyone asked what that was, she explained it. That it’s when a customer says something really nice about a waitress and then tips her, like, 13% or something. They all thought that was funny for some reason but then this blonde lady next to me—no one was talking to her, either (I checked her out for a second, but she was fugly, a real butterface, if you know what I mean)—anyway, this hag says “Well, it’s better than nothing.” Man, you shoulda seen the hideous sneer on this witch when she said it! I wanted to high five her right there. The waitress was all, “Hey, I’ve got med school to pay off,” like she’s some fuckin’ comedian or something, and the hag’s husband or whatever laughed.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s chicks getting the last laugh. So when she split all our checks and laid them down, announcing that she forgot to put a gratuity on ’em but she’s not worried because they’re all regulars or whatever, blah blah blah and they all had their cutesy laugh and lovefest, I showed her.
On the tip line of my credit card receipt, I drew an unhappy face with tears spraying out of it and wrote “wah wah wah!” Ha ha! I nearly had to put down my iPhone to keep my hands steady I was so excited. I kind of hoped a little that she’d confront me about it so I could choke the life outta her. I told you I go to the dark place, yo.
When we all walked out to our car, I saw her standing outside with the chef and owner who had come talked to our table before. She had brought out a signed menu for their birthday and all this stuff. I bet she thinks she’s so great. I just stood there in the parking lot and they were looking at me and I was looking at them, and although it was dark, I’m pretty sure she could see the truth, cause it was right there in my eyes. I’m the fuckin’ king. You mess with me, I’m gonna mess with you.
Later, some joker said that they hoped she didn’t find out where I worked and somehow find a way to mess with my income. Whatever. A dumb waitress wouldn’t know how to do that.