Yesterday, we identified and corroborated a trend: fast food restaurant workers don't pay very much attention to the racist, offensive, and otherwise bizarre shit that they put on receipts and then hand the customers. In particular when it comes to using racial descriptors in the place of customers' names. We've got more bizarre receipts, from both customers and waiters.
(If you've got your own crazy receipt or restaurant pictures floating around, send me an email: firstname.lastname@example.org.)
There's no picture, but another tipster linked us to the blog of this horrible-sounding waitress in Cambridge, Mass. :
A couple of years ago I coined the term 'A5' as a non-derogatory means of referencing members of the Asian race. After giving a customer at the restaurant a check with an insulting description under the 'name' heading, I was forced to come up with craftier, less blatantly offensive terminology for identifying my customers in the event that I forgot to delete the name off the bill. Naming the tickets isn't really necessary, but it helps me locate them much faster in the computer. When you're slammed, it's a lot easier to find 'my big fat Greek asshole' over some random order number.
Another tipster wrote in about a theater ticket that she'd once received:
The ticket was supposed to read something like ‘six theatres upstairs, please enjoy the show thank you management' but instead one of the box office staff wrote ‘Sex theatres upstairs, please enjoy whoopin the hos' I guess it took about a week for someone to notice.
Well, it was 2 1/2 years ago, so it's hard to remember details. I was working the Saturday night shift on 4th of July weekend, easily the busiest shift of the summer for a lot of bars in Adams Morgan. I just picked up the credit card slip after the ladies left and didn't even look at it until I was entering in my tips after we'd closed. Consequently, I was unaware that I'd been propositioned until 3:30 am. I remembered two attractive women in their late 20's, one blonde, one brunette, wearing club gear. They'd had two rounds of girly martinis and complimented my arms when ordering their second round, to which I'd responded, "I assure you, that's not muscle - it's just very well-placed fat."
I never called either number, to my eternal regret - at the time, I was in love with a New Yorker who ended up dumping me for a hipster web game designer a month later. It was a hard way to learn that I was too young for monogamy.
From the hot bald bartender at Novare Res in Portland, Maine. Note the embarrassingly giant tip I left on one beer (I'd had like ten martinis prior to this and was certainly "loca," not so much "bonita").