Industry Studies: Stereotypes & Popular Racism
The vast majority of A.S.U. was classroom panic sessions fueled by procrastination, contrasted by trying furiously to get my dick sucked - to no avail. The rest of it was actually embracing the illusion of knowledge fulfillment and trying to connect with and engage my professors that still seemed like the utmost authority after years in the educational system. So essentially, I drifted in and out of being disinterested, and wanting to sway popular opinion.
As a result, I often enough ended up as the willing receiver of the hot potato. When conversation got squirrely in the classroom either through the awkward unprepared silence of my peers around me, or from the derailing of anything relevant to the discourse, I'd pick up the slack. This isn't really pertinent to this article at all anymore than you burning yourself on the stove at age five has to do with your stance on Palestine, by the way. Sure, you could butterfly sequence that shit down to sympathy gained led to sympathy given, but who has the time to mentally masturbate out that kind of hypothetical jazz.
I will never forget one time in particular when the topic of justifiable prejudice was thrown into my lap via the panicked, annoyed and glaring eyes of my communications instructor, Professor Nurhayat Bilge. One of my idols of inspiration. I was so, so hungover that day...and...in the midst of texting trying to get my dick sucked later.
Alright, so, here was the premise from one of the biggest 'tards in the class: This guy has a brother. This brother, was robbed at an ATM by a black person. So, shouldn't his brother have a justifiable fear against black people, translating into a prejudice? Dead. Fucking. Silence. Shit, she's going to look up at me. Shit, she's looking at me. Place the phone down Miles...that chick wasn't going to suck your dick anyways. Sigh.
If his brother had been mugged by a white person, would this still be an issue? No. Absolutely not. At the most, it would automatically skip the race and fall upon the next piece of visual discriminatory subjects. Poverty appearance, tats, area surroundings, levels of mood irrationality and possible intoxication. Why? Because so many of our conceived constructs are based off knee-jerk faulty reasoning. Based off of a lack of familiarity of those different from us, which then leads to reflexive fear. Which then result in long-term prejudice. This isn't necessarily as simple as a nature vs. nurture approach either as while we learn much of our negative behavior, we do have built in mechanisms that compound input quickly in our brains to allow for the best decisions for ourselves. But, with all likely hood, there would be next to zero probability of his brother fearing white people if he had been mugged by a white person. But because he was negatively influenced by an individual that did not represent the norm in his life, it automatically casts a haze over an entire group of people.
This is called critical thinking, and it was not something common at A.S.U. The conversation didn't last long. A few quips here and there met with a more detailed and elaborate version of this argument, but that's about it. I know, I know, get to the fucking point Miles; we talking black lives matter here, educational systems being fucked, or something else? Just something similar. Not in the same vein, but in the same set of capillaries.
Faulty reasoning in the industry leads to a descent down the rabbit hole of stereotypes; hitting your head on every piece of bullshit along the way. With every thump comes the opposite of knocking sense into you. Every nugget of passed down judgements from day one of training are akin to that of a child being fearful of ancestral memories playing mind-games on them; that there may be big teeth and sharp claws in the closet. Complicating the present rational. The awkward truth is that big, bad beasts did once loom over your distant bloodline. And perceptively, shitty guests did influence your trainers rationale. Check me.
Reality is hard to break down. We like to keep things neat and organized in clearly marked containers. Compartmentalization of rationales works a lot like that power plant in Japan. It's all fine and dandy until it doesn't work anymore. Then, it goes real bad. When the packaged points leave that labeled box and are met with all of the gray-area ideas, it really leaves you contemplating what else was left out from your ideologies in the guise of just trimming the fat. Or, you can just be one of those individuals that can't be separated from their ideas and desperately try to conform every gray-area idea into a makeshift square peg. There you go, get it to fit back in that box. Everything makes sense again.
Life is intricately deceiving.
Contrary to popular belief, tipping really isn't something that easily predicted just off initial glances and greetings. I.E., skin color multiplied by amount of kids. If you want to really be an impartial student of needy mother fuckers, you gotta' play the game all the way through. There's no flipping of the board to scatter the pieces here without going home broke. So, that means no self-fulfilling prophecies of seeing a Mexican family and giving them shit service because you assume they won't tip anyways - Cuz' hey, guess what! You're giving them shit service, moron. I learned a lot of this from Chili's by picking up all the tables these dipshits didn't want. Made bank doing it too. And yeah, some people feed into the stereotypes heavily either because they think its funny, or just gives them an excuse to be cheap. That's people for ya, infinite possibilities. I just like to think this is lazy thinking on both sides. Unimaginative and cliché. So what stereotypes do I adopt? Because you know my ass ain't perfect and I possess prejudices like everyone else.
I find that 35% of what you can expect from a guest falls in between their entry, interaction with host or lack thereof, and choice of drink & matter in which ordered. That's a strong percentage by the way. Decent betting odds on whether, or not to give a fuck if you take into account the overall volume of your night. To be fair, the less tempered individual could take this initial interaction and completely ruin my hypothesis by being a dick right off the bat due to a less than favorable beginning. I'm a professional though, and believe in redemption. So, with the help of Archer memes, lets go over some of my favorites:
The self-seating, impatient, incapable of reading a menu middle-aged assholes that you might as well walk up to with your dick out reciting Hamlet cuz' anything you say is about as pertinent as the last twenty years of their sex life. Not exaggerating, guys. Ok, I have no intention of reading Hamlet. Fine. Oh you're in a hurry? Cool, I've timed my life out badly before as well. Eat shit and be humble just like I and the rest of the procrastinating world. Or, perhaps you're short on time because your job fucking sucks and you have to work with a thirty minute window. Sometimes in life you want to sit and indulge, I get it - but know when to just pack a fucking lunch and be sad in your cubicle. Not. My. Fault. This is the worst of the worst though when it comes to initial interactions. They'll cut you off before you can say anything, ask for shit that you literally just said you are about to get them, and have responses that have nothing to do with what you said. Can I start you off with anything to drink? "I'm waiting for two more." Irrelevant information. What, the fuck, do you want to drink. Unless I've stumbled into some bizarre game of domination where you must wait for your master to order a drink for you, let's try this again. I'll get you a water to start. "I'll take a water." I...I just said, never mind. Again, I'm not saying this dictates the rest of the encounter, but...O.J. didn't do himself a whole lot of justice when he drove off in that Bronco, did he. Just like your oblivious ass walking in and bee-lining for the one dirty table doesn't do you any as well. Aim for 17% at this point. Not a bad tip, but the beat down your ego takes makes it just not worth it.
The cock tease that is the guest that flirts with your menu knowledge knowing damn well they're getting Coors Light and the fucking chicken dish is not only an annoying stereotype, but one of the biggest wastes of my sanity in the industry. Because you see, serving is a miniature hour glass where every grit of falling grain permits multiple and very necessary split decisions. Basically, I don't got the tiiiiiime to go down the entire beer list with you when I already gave you the best options of what you told me you were looking for. You wanted light, I told you light. The fuck you mean what else. Well shit, let me get the keys to the cabinet of Harry Potter elixirs that we only hand out to the more curious and prodding of society. I'm sure you'd still want a sample first though. Seriously though, what ever happened to just ordering something and deciding it wasn't your cup of tea? I'm suppose to throw out safety nets due to your insecurities when it comes to beer? Take my initial suggestion, Curious George, before I lose all patience with your ass. I can afford to rattle a table here and there. I'm ballin' out of control. Don't test me. You'll get hit with the five visit rule real quick; from the moment you begin to annoy me, I give you five more visits with minimal interaction. Assume two of those have to do with paying you out. So, be careful what you use the other three for. Just get the chicken...
The fortunate side to this stereotype? Once you secure an order, it's really all downhill from there - meaning the rest of the experience can be a gentle trod down a sidewalk, or an avalanche that takes out all innocent and unprepared life in its path. Such is life. Be an optimist though, assume you're at a solid 20% tip. The check won't be high. You were robbed of a lot of your time. But in the end, this stereotype is generally easy once they get what they wanted. Just know not to prod too much. Maybe next time they'll venture out, and your canned dialogue will come in handy. Maybe they'll deviate out of their comfort zones...and it'll piss you off because you remembered what they wanted the past 28 times, but now they're trying to be cute and switch it up while your section fills up. At least memorizing that shit is more translatable than memorizing produce codes in a grocery store. Glass, half full. Which is bad. Get the fuck over there and refill that water, you dick. Earn that five-spot.
There are essentially two instances of when a server will encounter the Kiss of Death, that is, situations where you think you're being set up for a good tip, but the odds are actually far against you. I look for the small details early on so that I can adequately prepare my asshole.
The Judas Server
When someone has obnoxious demands and questions, but follow up by saying, "Don't worry, I'm in the industry." Not only will I no longer jump through any hoops for you, but you'll also descend so far down on my radar of shit to do that you'll practically be neighbors with the five visit rule fucks. You'll also hear me swear more. But, Miles, isn't it to be assumed if they are/were industry that they will tip fat? No. It's one of those things in life that serves no purpose other than to perplex and anger you. Like "convenience" fees at the bank. Or bathroom attendants. I can dry my own hands you urinal-gypsy, go peddle your wares outside.
Simply put, if you are/were industry, then you'd go out of your way to be as inconvenient as possible AND you'd understand the process behind the scenes as well as be able to properly gauge me. Do I look even mildly entertained by the fact that you served rocky mountain oysters at your local bar "Glory Holes" in your hick town of Nebraska during college? You came at me all wrong. Should have commented on how shitty the kids are a few tables down. That'd have gotten me on your side. Speak my language. Embrace my wrath. But here we are; me waiting for you to get the fuck out past closing hours. Hoping that maybe you are really industry and will make up for it. I'm gonna go ahead and pencil this one in for 19.4% tip. Not bad, but it'll leave you wondering why the fuck not 20% and why did I allow myself to be teased by the possibility of more.
The Side Seaters
A couple in love and looking for a nice night out. They keep smiling at me and including me in their conversation! Should be easy money, right? Wrong. An example of how looks can be deceiving. What I really see is the overly infatuated with one another couple that can't stop talking about their selves to you while ignoring your desperate pleads for an order of any sort. Even asking if they'd like waters receives some obscure motion of the head and a grin. What the fuck did that mean! I've had more understandable conversations with deaf tables! There's a whole lot of peacocking that goes on here, resulting in a bird-shit equivalent tip. They'll go on and on about how cute they find one another. They'll overuse your name to establish you as part of their night in some awkward social threesome where you'll be the one licking assholes. They'll throw their inside jokes that they have at you as affirmation to themselves that they do actually love one another. You have now been kidnapped from your existence; forced to do a whole lot of, "Uh-huh's" and "Wow's!" at every mind numbingly boring story. The more insecure one, usually the male, will hit you with loaded questions to make himself seem intelligent and witty. The younger they are, the more clumsy. The older they are, the more cliché. Any dessert tonight you guys? "I got my dessert right here, huh huh huh." HAH, I get it, you're going to eat her pussy. Cool story, here's the check and a complimentary dental dam. You'll need it, you jokester you. You're looking at a 13% tip, to match his lackluster "tip."
Even worse, this table not only fucks with my night, but also with anyone unfortunate to get stuck sitting next to them. You know what I'm talking about. You go out to a nice restaurant envisioning that secluded corner booth and end up in the shit wasteland of seating: that single row booth and single chair combo joined together by what seems like an impossibly deep table, killing any possibility of conversations. Not just that, but if you're lucky you're beset on both sides with people just as uncomfortable as you are. If you're not lucky, you get the - you guessed it, side seaters. They'll have no qualms with taking over the already limited space the person on the booth side has. They're like Israel, slowing chipping away at your land and personal sovereignty until you're ready to adopt ISIS tactics.
My girlfriend and I were on the end of this one the other night. This pretentious old Scottsdale fuck and his cum for brains much younger lady friend turned their table to the side to accommodate their side seating, while also further encroaching on our space. Somewhere in between him bitching to their server about the amount of salt in the sauce, and her very vocally showing him every selfie on her phone, I snapped. We decided to have some fun and have a loud conversation talking mad shit about them, but not directly referencing them. It's the equivalent of using allegedly at the end of the statement. Gives you some crafty wiggle room to act innocent as you troll people. Their server dropped off the comp'd check and complimentary dessert for the fucks, who then made it very clear to the server that they will give the establishment one more chance in April. Like he gives a fuck. Who the fuck are you two? How do you even develop that level of arrogance? Anyways, as the old fuck gets up to leave he decides to try and squeeze between the narrow gap between their table and ours, that he himself created, effectively dragging the bottom of his ass along our table and pushing the waters back. Uh-the-fuck-uh. Saw red. Oh, I'm sorry, excuse the fuck out of me, I didn't know our table was in the way of your ass. Na, it's cool man, sit on our table, not rude at all! He stares at me blankly, confused most likely because he had gotten away with the same behavior the majority of his life I'd assume. "Well, at least it's not a bad ass." I don't give a shit if its a bad ass, a good ass, the best ass in the world - it's an ass on our table. Bye. Byyyyeeee, have a great night, see you in April. Talked to his server afterward and made the guy laugh. Apparently he had been in the back slamming shit around after having to deal with that couple. Dropped the, "we're industry" bomb. I know, I know. It's different though. I assessed the situation. Trust me, it was appropriate to say. Plus he had no financial stake in me anyways. It was purely for comradery purposes.
I think the rusting of character is slow and painful. An oxidation perpetrated by lazy understanding. Once promising steel, now an eyesore to tomorrow's passerby.
So you'll notice that my stereotypes tend to deal more with actions that can span pretty much universally amongst different types of people. Do I have any particular groups that I am automatically leery of? Abso-fucking-lutely. Allow me to rattle off some bullshit:
Medical industry cunts. There's a theory that you can become so obsessed with your profession that you fail to understand the world outside of it. Ding, ding. Doctors and nurses make up the bulk of grief. Doctors tend to be passive aggressive, impatient, and shitty tippers. Nurses tend to want no interaction with you, and I mean fucking none. To the point where interrupting their Tinder sessions in an effort to get an order makes you feel like a Jehovah Witness that just barged into their booth. Both are heavy binge drinkers. I get it, you have a high stress job. You're unwinding by doing every vice that you tell others not to do day in and day out. I honestly can't pinpoint a time where I had a group of medical personnel come in and eat anything other than appetizers. Which, is usually a painful process of trying to pry an order of wings out of them because of how badly they want to conserve their funds for getting fucked up. Hey, gotta' lube up them social chords so you can talk about how pissed off you were to perform a double bypass surgery on that fat fuck. Oh, let me tell you...the shit your doctors and nurses say about you when you leave. Great googly moogly.
Teachers. In particular, bigger groups of middle aged women teachers. This is one of those groups I make sure to give my everything to despite being treated consistently like shit by. They're underpaid and underappreciated. Guess where that aggression manifests! Happy hour. Fucking Christ. If you don't get that last glass of wine, or final vodka soda to them within twenty seconds shy of 6pm, that's your god damn head. They're some of the loudest individuals if you get them in a group. All that compressed adulthood comes roaring out after dealing with the unpromising youth all day long. Teachers are ruthless. The best is running into one of your old ones. There's no explaining that you actually make better money than them even though you never aspired to those bullshit dreams you fed them in that one report you wrote the morning of. And they know it. And they don't give a single fuck. And good for them, I say. Make sure you let them know that birthday brownie was discounted on the bottom too, because bet your ass they're going to go down the itemized receipt and add up every, fucking, cent.
Hipsters. Entitled. Self-involved. Ever evolving into splintering shoots of unchecked humanity. Stupid hats. Swirling around in a toilet bowl soup of confirmation bias. This should have gone into the, "Kiss of Death" section, because they will offer both insightful topics, albeit usually incorrect, and pleasant comments. Yes! My aura DOES look vibrant today. But like hooking up with the sloppy drunk chick from the club, you'll dip as soon as they're asleep. And hipsters will leave you with a roll of quarters and two crumbled dollar bills while thanking you ever so much as they walk out the door. Fucking shits.
Students on a budget. God damnit. Why must you make me hate you. Please never open up with the fact that you're broke. Play it smart. Pick the two cheapest drinks and just ask me which ones better. I'll already know what you're getting at, but it keeps the veil of mystery over that tip line.
Gift card people. This is the ultimate long distanced stare down from the micro, to the table. Are they going to have enough on the card to tip? Are they going to leave some obscure amount on the card that will forever be lost in the matrix of 1's and 0's when it could have, in the most greediest of motives, be given to me? Worst...are they going to tip off of what the card didn't cover. This is what will give a server an aneurism. Their bill is $238.59 and their card covers $200.00. They then leave me $9.41 on $38.59. Cool. Let me go spend all of that on tip-outs before I slit my wrists over the time I wasted on you cheap fucks. This is one of those unfortunate moments where you see it coming, but are incapable of changing the outcome. Like your dog being ran over.
Business men. Basically just recite what I said about doctors. They tend to harass female servers a bit more though, and expect male servers to kiss the ring. Whatever bro, I don't want to buy your life insurance plan. Tip me and keep it moving before my boy takes a break to piss on your Rover. He wild. He lookin' for an excuse to punk you and steal some patio chairs.
White people. The best way I can describe this is that of the cherry on top of the shit-sundae. Wholesome and familiar; full of sickly syrup and preservatives that act as the cross suspending this dead fruit for all to behold. Popular and symbolic, albeit contrived and manufactured. Pit long removed, with the stem only serving a purpose of subliminal MTV advertising centered around ho's tying said stems into knots via their tongues. Girls don't really know how to do that shit these days, just like servers never really know how to deal with white people. Didn't see this one coming, did ya'.
Popular racism exists in the same strange vacuum as justified homicide. Those tenured industry trainers will give you some of the most invaluable advice, but buyer beware. Adopt a solid existing frame, but never be afraid to question the existing décor. The desecration of human character should always be shackled to the wrists of the cunty, and never be allowed to stain the hands of a similar looking bystander. Unfortunately, it's often predetermined and prepackaged in the most callous of ways. The ironic part? It feeds a perpetual cycle. Childish Gambino said it better than I could in the beginning of this narrative; sometimes just existing is a reason for others to take a stance against you. Good thing I wasn't getting my dick sucked in college, or I may have never traversed my way down this stream of consciousness.