“I was suspended from ABC Bar and Grill because I told some douchebag customers to never come back,” wrote Dr. X, a bartender / server acquaintance, in a Facebook message.

Apparently, a party of 12 had run X ragged throughout their meal and afterward had asked to split the check six ways. As every server knows, splitting checks is a royal pain in the cranium, but Dr. X did as he was asked, and they each repaid him by drawing a big, fat skink egg on the line where the tip should have gone—hence his recommendation that they never return.

“Instead of the owner having my back,” X wrote, “I was thrown under the bus and suspended for one shift…. I now know the owners do NOT have my back in these kinds of situations.”

“Dear Dr. X,” I responded, “You are lucky you didn’t get fired. You say the owners didn’t have your back, but when you tell 12 paying customers, in a recessed economy, to never return, it could be argued that it was you who didn’t have the boss’ back, because I’ll bet dollars to Datsuns that all 12 of them are out there right now spreading the word about the rude service over at ABC Bar and Grill.”

Dr. X was thankful for my perspective and admitted that he had become “very cynical as of late.” This did not surprise me, as I’m quite certain Dr. X suffers from a case of Acute Server burnout Disorder (ASBD).

Aside from confronting customers about tips, symptoms of ASBD include: red face; bulging neck veins; acid leakage from ears and eyeballs; a chronic, condescending attitude; heavy drinking on shift; and a general antipathy for half of humanity, contempt for half of the other half and slavering disgust for the remaining half of the last half.

Dr. X, take it from one who’s been there and had that, this disease is highly progressive. You must be proactive in preventing the spiral toward its irrevocable end-phase—when you become a hissing, seething man-lizard with razor-sharp talons and an empty, black soul.

Look, I know as well as any how rotten it is to be stiffed on a large, troublesome table, but them’s the breaks, kid. Sometimes you get over-tipped and sometimes you get the cold, cruel rod of nada shoved up your ass. My point is, obsessing about it only hurts you. If you plan to stay sane, you must forget about stiffers. Instead, try to return to the mindset of those exciting early days when you were just starting out in the business.

I remember when I first got behind a bar; I couldn’t believe I was getting paid to work in a happy, fun, party place with great live music, smoking-hot girls, the ability to catch a funbuzz and serve customers who gave me more money than was the cost of the thing that I served to them!

What is this strange and magical thing they call “tips”!? I wondered.

And, yes, I know: Acute Server burnout is a disorder from which it is difficult to recover, especially in the final stages—when you hate the bar and the bands, the funbuzzes become more murky and stygian and your clammy lizard claws are ready to carve out the organs of the first customer who stiffs you.

I know a waitress who chased a stiff all the way out to the parking lot and yelled at him in front of his friends.

I know a bartender who threw coins back at people if they dared not tip with paper currency.

I know several bartenders who refuse to put alcohol in the drinks of chronic stiffers.

I know a bartender who served a shot of bar-mat juice to a stiff. Oh wait—that was me! In my defense, it was 2:05 a.m., the lights were up and he asked— no exaggeration—about 10 times to serve him another drink. I kept saying, “We’re closed. You have to go,” but he refused to leave, until finally I told him I would give him a free shot if he would go.

He agreed, so I poured the revolting bar-mat smegma into a rocks glass. The stiff was drunk enough to not notice and guzzled it down. He thanked me as he stumbled out the door. I’m not proud of this. But I was in the full-blown stages of ASBD and unaware of how reptilian a move that was. And the customer did deserve some culpability for what happened. I mean, he did, pretty much, ask for it.

Thus do we come full circle. Because all my ASBD-suffering friends and I wouldn’t have even developed this disorder were it not for guys like him. Being at the beck and call of thousands of shitty, rude, insensitive, loud, whiny, drunky, complainy, crude, violent, entitled, holier-than-thou, out-of-line, demanding, bellicose pecker-planters is exactly the reason the following public-service announcement will soon air on all major networks:

Narrator (in a foreboding voice): “Did you know eight out of every 10 service-industry employees will suffer from Acute Server burnout Disorder in their lifetime? For just a small percentage of the price of a meal (say, 15 to 20 percent), you can help stop the spread of this tragic disease; well, that and, you know, stop being such annoying ass-faces all the time! Don’t shout or whistle, triple-step the waiters, finish your drink when the bar closes or puke on the pool table; do the math on a 12-top check your own damn self, and if the servers are in the weeds, do like Otis Redding and ‘Try a Little Patienceness.’”

—Paid for by SASS (Servers Against Stiffs and Scalawags)

Here is the first clip from the Ed Decker 50th Birthday Roast. This is the renowned and often avoided, Jose Sinatra doing his song, “Edfinger” – rehash of the old James Bond movie theme, “Goldfinger.”

The setup: “This is a roast? I thought it was a WAKE! How disappointing.”

Cue music…

For those who don’t know, last Sunday, my wife produced the Ed Decker 50th Birthday Roast held at Winstons Beach Club. It was great, and, by “great,” I mean the way being shackled to the Judas Chair for a two-hour Spanish Inquisition is great. In all seriousness, a good time was had by all. My only regret was that the roast lasted so long that I didn’t have time to rebuke a lot of what was said about me.

Perhaps I’m breaking some sort of unwritten roast rule by responding ex post facto, but after the ass-reaming I received by my so-called friends, I don’t give a flying fart-factory about rules.

For instance, Jose Sinatra opened his set by saying, “I thought this was a wake!” and proceeded to sing a song about me being dead, which is funny coming from a man who appears to have been hit by a train and then reassembled by a hook-handed, alcoholic mortician.

Manya Buske told the crowd how—years before she met and married my pal, Duane—I got her drunk and tried to make out with her after she threw up.

Horseshit! I tried to make out with her before she threw up, when she was still passed out. What kind of monster do you take me for?

Nearly all the roasters cracked wise about my uncommonly soft hands, questioning my masculinity. Yes, it is true, I do have soft hands. However, isn’t the most important function of the hands to masturbate? So, whose masculinity is in question here? The guys who get their trophies shined by their own callous-covered, man-mitts or me for being manually serviced by my soft, sensual girly muffs?

Speaking of soft young women—a lot of grief was dished about how an old, fat slob like me could have scored a hot piece of ass like W. Well, there are only three possibilities for this: 1) money—which we can eliminate immediately as I don’t have any; 2) girth—I could have an extraordinarily large phallus; and 3) damaged goods—perhaps there is something wrong with W.

She's hot, but she hates me

Maybe her credit has been ravaged or the vagina broken. Maybe she nagged all her previous boyfriends into the grave. Well, I can tell you that one of the latter two are true. Either I am extraordinarily endowed, or there is something terribly wrong with W. I don’t care which you believe.

Ted Washington told grandiose lies about my basketball skills.

Sandy Fimbres cruelly cracked wise about my cotton phobia. (Cotton phobia is no laughing matter woman!)

My old chum from boyhood, Tony Perrello, told some horribly embarrassing stories from my youth. For instance, he shared the now-infamous anecdote of The Zit Pin.

Yes, it’s true, during my acne-addled teenage years, I used a sewing pin to pierce and drain whiteheads. Laugh all you want, but anyone who’s had teenage acne knows it’s tolerable to have a few pimples—but whiteheads must be annihilated! And what do most teens do when the blinding, blanched sun of a whitehead dawns upon their faces? They squeeze them, which is an unsanitary and violent act (from the pimple’s perspective), only serving to anger and inflame the abomination.

So, I invented the Zit Pin Technique: You take an ordinary sewing pin, sanitize it with a lighter and prick a tiny hole into the beast with surgical precision. You then drain the fluids, pat with tissue and— voila—no more whitehead. Naturally, my “friends” all laughed about this. Alas, that’s how the world responds to innovative genius.

One of the big hits of the roast was when The Mother got on stage. Mom, who flew out from New York to attend the roast, complained about how she was in labor for 22 hours during my birth and that I’ve been an ungrateful bastard ever since. For this, and other comments, she received a robust standing ovation. Fine. Whatever. I just think you should know a little bit about the person for whom you applauded.

This is a woman who would come into my room in the wee morning hour and smush a cold, wet rag in my face singing, “Rise and shine and give God your glory-glory,” at the top of her lungs.

This is a woman who, to amuse herself, would kick over the Monopoly game my friends and I had been playing for three hours.

This is a woman who, when I was 10, made me watch Psycho before bedtime, spurring a three-month recurring nightmare about her slashing me in my sleep.

This is a woman who’ll stop at nothing to embarrass me. Get a load of this move: On a visit to New York last year, I asked if she wouldn’t mind dropping me off at the local watering hole on her way out to do some shopping. When we pulled up to the bar, there were about six or seven people out front smoking cigarettes. I stepped out of the car and shut the door—somewhat embarrassed to be 49 years old and driven around by mommy.

As she pulled away, this Monopoly-stomping, nightmare-inducing, wet-rag-smushing matriarch of maternal misconduct rolled down the window and—using the voice of a woman who just dropped her son off for his first day of school—shouted, “Now, Eddie, be a good boy and don’t stay out too late.”

The entire smoking lounge erupted in laughter as I darted past them to get inside.

Twenty-two hours of labor? Pffft! I’ve spent 30,000 hours on the phone, fixing The Mother’s computer problems—which range from, “How do I turn it on?” to “What’s this mouse-like-looking thing?” The last time, she needed help using the Internet. I told her, “OK, now cut and paste the URL into the browser,” and she blurted, “Cut and paste!? You know I’m not good at arts and crafts!” Remember all this the next time you’re considering applauding her.

Ted Washington hates me

The deus hates me

Drew hates me, by picking up on The Mother

The Inlaws like me

Danielle LoPresti and Alicia Champion

"Hi, I'm in a Ramones cover band. Wanna make out?"

Here is the last batch of roasters, with the exception of the grand finale – my response – which will be posted shortly.

1. Jesse Egan – MC

2. Adam Gimbel

3. Manya Buske

More after the jump…
4. Valentino Ascuncion

5. Bryan Bartell

6. Troy Johnson

7. Old Hermit named Dave

Thanks Michael Steven Gregory from Random Cove Entertainment

Check out this commercial we made for Sordid Tales: The Podcast.

It’s called Stray – by Cat Lady Fragrances and it originally aired on Episode 6 of STP (05.07.13) with featured guest TRANSFER.

Starring Jesse Egan, Jeff Berkley, Lizzie Wann and Ed Decker as the (OWV) Omniscient Whisper Voice.

Written by Ed Decker and produced by Jeff Berkley.

Listen to Matt Molarius and Jason Cardenas of Transfer perform “Reflections of Home” on Sordid Tales: the Podcast!

Transfer – “Reflections of Home”

 
Matt Molarius and Jason Cardenas of Transfer perform “Reflections of Home” and “So Long Old Song”on Sordid Tales: the Podcast!