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Mr. Wrong

Hey Waiter

Emily Flake

By Joe MacLeod | Posted 5/10/2006

Since my column only runs every other week, I decided I needed some, like, Corporate-Strategy-type advice so as to develop other Revenue Streams and liquefy my asset depreciation-flow or whatever, so I now have a Wrong corporation (MRWRONGCO) with a Board of Directors (me) and a CEO (me) and some stockholders (me) and an Advisory Board (me) and some other stuff (me). All these personalities (me, me, me) got together and developed a serious strategical and businesslike Business Plan of business for to be raking in the dough-re-mi, because I don’t write this stuff for my health, dig?

The keystone of my plan (herein and furthermore known as “The Plan”) is Public Speaking engagements. Hells-to-the-yeah-yeah-yeahs, I see all these failures and criminals and ex-politicians going around the track with this “lecture circuit” crap, and this is where I fit in, with my annual Series of Lectures to the High School, Trade School, and College and Junior College graduates of our fair Nation—namely, the next crop of Food Service workers of America, hitting our local bars, diners, fancy restaurants, etc., ringing Our Nation’s doorbells with delicious, nutritious pizzas and various other varieties of sustenance delivered to our lazy or temporarily low-functioning asses at all hours of the day and night.

I salute the Food Service Workers of this Great Nation, and when they roll correct, I tip accordingly, damn straight, for promptness, attention, and absence of irritation, so I would like to con-grad-u-late all you Graduates, and remind most of you to get a good look at me, on account of I am Your Next Customer, and here’s what I want if you want to be one of those waiters. And that’s it, you’re all “waiters,” OK? Embrace the title. Not any of this “waitresses” or “waitrons” or “waitstaff” or “servers” or serviettes or any of that bullshit. You’re “waiters,” just like female artists are artists and not artistesses, and female actors are “actors” and not “actresses,” which is some bullshit, and the only reason they do it is so they (and you know who They are) have a coupla extra categories for the Academy Awards and the chance of a coupla extra emotional speeches for the big show when the speech I really wanna hear is from some “actress” who got one of these Oscars and knows perfectly fucking goddamn well she’s better than whoever got the “actor” award, because it’s not equal, man. Seriously, “Best Actor” is worth more than “Best Actress,” and it should be an even playing field—just “Best Actor,” period.

So hey, Waiter, I don’t have a specific requirement to know your name. You’re gonna tell me your name and I’m gonna forget it immediately, because I’m Hungry. I want to be relaxing and enjoying some food, not attending a fucking Dale Carnegie course where I gotta remember somebody’s name so it will make them feel like I am their friend. Why you wanna tell me your name anyway? I might be somebody you want to avoid later, you know? Look, get a goddamn name badge or some nice embroidery on your shirt if you want me to really learn your name, because all I’m thinking about is What I Want to Eat, and believe me, I think about that shit even when I’m not hungry. I discuss my next meal while I’m enjoying my peach cobbler and digestif or whatever, so please to resist trying to front-load me with some shit I gotta remember when really all I wanna know is: What Are Today’s Specials, or What Kind of Soup is Du Jour Today? Do you have shtrimp cocktails? I don’t see ’em on the menu and it’s making me nervous because I was looking forward to some nice scrimps and right now you’re looking at me and going all . . . blah-blah name blah but your head looks like a shtrimpt cocktail, and I know it’s rude to interrupt but I need to know if there are skrimp cocktails in this establishment available for sale. So you better just ask me what I want, OK? Hungry. Ask me what I want. Don’t tell me stuff I don’t need to know because . . . hungry . . . don’t have a lot of . . . time, so . . . hungry . . . faint . . . blacking out . . . shtrimps . . . need . . . soup . . . du . . . jour . . . chicken . . . croquette . . .

OK? Give me information I can use to run up a nice tab and I will Appreciate it. I understand if you gotta tell me your name as part of your prepared shtick to upsell me on appetizers and sides and drinks, I’m just sayin’, no offense, but I ain’t gonna remember your name while I’m listening to you recite the specials, and please only do that if I specifically agree to it, umkay? Just go, like, “Hey, we’ve got some tasty and delicious specials here today at the House of Food. You wanna hear about them or does my head look like a shrimp with a beer on top of it?”

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