It Is a Job

All right. You've heard the speeches, you've heard the spiel. I don't give a shit about any of that. You see this salt shaker? You see this pepper shaker? You see this sugar caddy? You see these ketchups, and these mustard bottles? Memorize this shit. This is how the boss wants it, and this is how I want it. This clean table? I want to eat off it. If you can't or won't work to these specifications, the door is over there. Walk out, you're not needed here. I'll wait. Yeah, OK. You may be thinking, and I know you are, fuck it I'm a server, I don't need this stress. I'll say only this, stress!? You don't know stress, the food runner rolls your silver, and busses your tables. All you need to do is sell, sell, sell, and we recognize that. Which is why we have Rodrego, and Antonio. So man up, or ovary up, and handle your shit or leave. If you don't want to do the minimal amount of work ask besides selling, leave! You, me, him, her, we're infinitely replaceable! Our main skills are being funny, and having a nice smile! Don't kid yourself, I could be gone next week, so do your fucking job, and be happy with the total lack of job stress you take home. And table five is running low, so bring them another round, and make them think it was their idea. We earn $2.77 not because our bosses deliberately want us to be stuck in the unending rut of poverty and restaurant work, but because we rip off fools like those five popped-collar assholes at table seven! We sell an illusion! So get selling, and suck it up, or quit. *And this is when I threw out all my ideals.*
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