Whoop Whoop! No Presents for You!

It's Monday.  I've got the closing shift, so even though the restaurant is practically empty, I get the next table to come through the doors.  A nice, middle-aged couple sits down in a nearby booth and, though they're regulars, they're not quite ready to order.

I bring them their drinks and appetizers.  As I'm taking down their meal order, now that they've decided, another group is seated in my section.  It's a family of four, and they're one of those unnecessarily unhappy tables.  You know, the kind that, when greeted and welcomed and asked how they're doing, respond, "Coffee.  Black.  And bring me some biscuits."  Sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays.

I get their order in and check on the nice couple - they're still enjoying their salads.

It's 9:22 PM.  We close in barely more than half an hour.  I'm standing in the galley, hoping against hope that the doors stay clos-- ah, crap.  I envision banging my head against the bar, because actually doing so would result in a headache and I have to close tonight, headache or not.  A rather large couple walks through the doors and is led to an open booth in my section.  I'm busy taking the meal order for the ornery family, but that's okay because the big man in the plain white t-shirt, black sweatpants, and black baseball cap is entertaining himself.

Another family sits a couple of yards away, in the same dining area as the large couple.  Two small children are chasing each other in the middle of the dining room.  I refrain from telling them that this isn't Chuck E. Cheese, fearing that the subtlety of such an admonition would be lost on kids so young and adults so stupid.  My imaginary self is interrupted; the large man at my table addresses the kids himself, thus: "Yo, you kids don't be listenin' to ya parents.  You gotta be.  You know I know Santa Claus."
The kids become wide-eyed.  The big guy thinks it's because they are in a state of shocked admiration.  I don't tell him it's because they've never been this close to a crazy person.  But I should.
"I'll tell Santa not to give you anything if ya don't go sit down," he continues.  He is loud, obnoxious, and careless of the other guests around him.

I make my way over to his table, if only to prevent him from continuing to corrupt other people's kids.  He orders a margarita, decides he hates it, and asks for a soda instead.  His wife orders a large appetizer, the salmon, blackened, with two side items, and a salad with extra dressing.  She also orders a mudslide. I ask him what he'd like to eat.  This gargantuan, obnoxious man asks only for a side salad.  "Yeah," he assures me, "that's it, man." I don't allow the shock to register on my face, out of courtesy for him and a desire for his money.

I bring their salads out.  It's 9:40.  I'm praying they eat their food quickly because I really don't want to be at work forever tonight.  I stop short of their table and set the tray down several feet away, unsure of how to proceed given the following scene: the children are at it again, chasing each other around nearby tables.  The gentleman at my table has taken to tagging them with one hand as they cruise by his table.  When he sees me coming with his food, he shoos them away.  Their parents call them over, but they're having too much fun to just listen.  So he resorts to the next most logical response.

"WHOOP!  WHOOP!" he yells at them, "I'll make you sorry you talk to strangers if you get in the way of my food.  And I'll tell Santa to leave you be this year."  He notices the limited effect his words are having.  "Whoop!  Whoop!" he repeats, loudly, like a dog keeping the postman from breaching his territory.  I can almost see the marquee across his eyes.  <Whoop-Whoop is SUPER EFFECTIVE!  Wild Children stop attacking!>

Meanwhile, the nice couple at my first table are looking at the lot of them as though they're insane, and cannot fathom how to continue enjoying their meal together in peace.  They hurry up and leave, all the while casting nervous/disdainful glances at the parents of the ragamuffins and at the huge, self-absorbed whack-jobs. 

It takes another half-hour before the obnoxious table is even close to finishing their food.  Then, they ask if we (the staff) are in a hurry to get out.  He is really just reveling in the fact that we have to answer 'no', because the guests are always given our full and fair attention, even after closing time.  The glint in his grin says, "Haha, eff you, serverman!  I get to stay here and make closing up even harder for you, and there's nothin' you can do about it!" 

It figures that my last table would have the Frankenstein's Monster of the DNA of classic Adam Sandler, Al Bundy, Cartman, and Chris Rock, with the IQ of a crab leg.  Get thee gone, please, thou unintelligible, classless, tasteless, self-amusing moron.

I just walk back to the alley and roll my eyes, comforted by the fact that soon I will go home and write all about these idiots.