The Waffle Princess

 

(You should see her move.)

Yesterday, I ate a couple of pork chops for dinner. They were made by my mother, and they tasted slightly undercooked. Needless to say, it wasn’t long until I was running to the bathroom to squirt nasty diarrhea into the toilet bowl. You should have smelled it. Absolutely ghastly.

When I emerged from my ordeal, I walked back to the kitchen.

Mom said, “Can I get you a slice of pie?”

I placed my hand on my stomach. “I don’t think so. Your last attempt at cooking nearly cost me my life.”

“Those chops weren’t undercooked. I don’t care what you say.”

“Maybe you’re right. It could be stress that’s messing up my bowels.”

She scoffed at me. “Stress? What kind of stress could you possibly have?”

“I’m a fifty-six-year-old waffle boy.” I paused for dramatic effect. “It’s not as easy as it looks. Imagine being surrounded by drunks who keep calling out for more ketchup? Plus I have nightmares about the dish pit.”

“So get another job already.”

“But it’s only five minutes from the house.”

Suddenly, I was forced to run back to the restroom to squirt more shit into the bowl. This time, it scorched my anus as it slid out of my intestines. I groaned in discomfort. But I’m a big boy, so I was able to carry on like a true soldier after the fifteen-minute nightmare.

I got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. and stopped for a smoke near the dumpster. Then I clocked in ten minutes early.

Once again, my sidekicks were Pork-Chop Jane and Georgia the Waffle Princess while Dwayne the Dwarf and Radiohead were manning the grill. Georgia is only seventeen, but she works with amazing speed. You should see her go.

There was a foul expression on Jane’s face. She had left her pens at home, and I gave her a couple of mine. I always come well-stocked.

I said, “You seem like you’re in a bad mood.”

She sighed heavily. “I’m feeling overwhelmed today. Plus I’m about to start my period.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s a little too much information.”

“Well, you asked.”

I nodded. “That’s true. I did ask. But now I take it back.”

Georgia left the work area to go smoke pot with Dwayne the Dwarf. And I felt a chill go up my spine. She’s a minor, and I’m pretty sure that the law would come down hard on grown men giving her drugs. But I kept my mouth shut. I’m not slinging hash in order to be somebody’s daddy. So let the chips fall where they may.

It was Friday, and the usual assortment of drunks showed up sporadically. I had this one table of five guys who were whooping it up in the corner booth.

One of them looked at me with a big dopey grin on his face. “Do you get a lot of people like us here at the Waffle Home?”

“Almost every night.”

“Then you don’t mind if we make some noise?”

“If it’s OK with the customers, then it’s OK with me.”

They ended up leaving a twenty-dollar tip.

Another drunk son of a bitch named Butch came at 2 a.m. He was very inebriated and kept asking people for hugs.

I pointed at Georgia. “Be careful, Butch. She’s still a minor.”

He immediately held up both hands in a sign of surrender. Smart man.

Overall, the night was pretty good. I only wrote 23 tickets, but I came home with $260.