Sunday, July 03, 2005


today was a long day.
i woke up exhausted and it just went downhill from there. the only "redeeming" quality was a table of 3 that was just shocking enough to keep me going.

my diner does not pride its self on heathly eating choices. most of the menu features fried food coated in tartar sauce. so i am more than accustom to the overweight clientele.

a group comes to the door. i know from the moment they arrive they will be in my section. i have all the tables and they will not fit in a booth.

to say that the two women where large would be a sever understatement. they could wear circus tents and find them a little tight around the mid-section. the man with them overshadows them.

he is huge. wearing shorts i am able to see his fleshy calves. they are as big around as a tree trunk. he does not simply have "cankles" but looks as if he has a tutu around each ankle.

i am already preparing my self not to laugh when they order diet cokes.

i approach my self, attempting to not stare at the rolls looming ahead.

i do my speech. the woman order diet cokes, shocker. the man, however, orders a 32 oz cherry coke with lots of extra cherry. for those counting at home, one squirt of cherry syrup has 80 calories, a 32oz typically gets 3. i bring the drinks, his with 5 shots of cherry goodness.
there is not enough cherry. he asks me to double it.

i ask if they are ready to order. now, typically when a heavy patron orders a diet they seem to think that they are doing well toward their diet and can get something greasy. after all it is a diet coke they are drinking.

the women each fulfill this age old tradition, ordering our double cheesburgers, but asking us to hold the tartar sauce. they site the reason as "they are trying to be healthy" of course they get fries.

the man, however, goes above and beyond. "diets are for pussies" he states. he orders. two double decker burger, extra tartar sauce, fries, and the soup and salad bar. his triple chins waving with each word.

"you must be hungry," i say in my best server voice.

"oh no, that's what he always gets," one of the women laughs. everything on her jiggles.

really, then how do you keep you figure, i want to say. i urge myself to repress any and all of the comments spilling into my brain. i need a response.

go on a diet you fat slob! is on the tip of my tongue waiting to spring forth. if i try to say anything i will fail. system shutdown. auto pilot kicks in.

cue fake server laugh, cue endearing smile, cue quick dash to the kitchen.

i can't run their food, i con a coworker into taking it out for me. she checks for refills.

they all need more pop. damn. i must approach the table. refills in hand.

food is spilling out of the man's mouth as he thanks me. tartar sauce coats his mouth and drips from his thick fingers.

i taste vomit in the back of my throat.

they eventually order desert. i take it out, clean up the wreckage of their meal, and drop the check.
hot fudge dribbles as they smile at me.

i scurry to the kitchen again and refuse to come out until they have waddled from our restaurant.

they left me 10 dollars on a 23 dollar check. great tip. but not worth it. i felt like a drug dealer, peddling an early death to these people.

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