You're the Shitzu!

Now that T.O. has denied his suicide attempt, we Philadelphia sports fans can turn back to hating all the other stuff that bugs us.

Namely, everything.



Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

T.O.('s Ego) Attempts 'Suicide'

Ok, I'm biased when it comes to this individual, as I am a Philadelphia Eagles fan. This fact affects me in two ways: not only do I hate the man in question, but I also hate the team on which he currently resides, the Dallas Cowboys (it took all my strength to not write Cowgirls... oh darn, my bad...). And, sad or no, I laughed when I read this headline:

Terrell Owens Hospitalized After Suicide Attempt

After years of being detested in the eyes of the public, this clown's trying (once again) to pull that sympathy card. How's that goin' for ya, pal?

He's gone from trying to get the denizens of blue collar Philadelphia to sympathize with him that he doesn't make enough money, to "Oh woe is me, I can't go on, has Oprah called yet?"

Sorry, bud. No sympathy here.

The police report said Owens was asked by rescue workers "if he was attempting to harm himself, at which time (he) stated, 'Yes.'"

Here's how it really went down:

T.O. responded to that question the same way you do when you're in college and that girl (You know, Whats-her-tits.) drunk dials you. And after fifteen minutes of dirty talking and reminiscing about that thing she does with her tongue, she drunkenly slurs "Do you wanna get back togever?"

Your reply, of course, is a an equally inebriated "Yesh". And you mean it, too, right up until you've pulled out and unloaded on her chest (Which, I find, only women in pornos find pleasurable... I know, weird, right?). But immediately afterward, you erase the occurance. You lose her number, burn the sheets and bury the gerbil.

At that moment, you wanted some compassion, some attention, some cheap nookie.

Well, I'm happy to report that T.O. has yet to get the world's nookie. We aren't that drunk, Terrell.

And for all the football diehards out there, here's another theory:

PARAMEDIC
Are you trying to harm yourself (so that you can avoid playing in the Dallas/Philadelphia game October 8th at Lincoln Financial Field in South Philly and thus miss out on the massive hit that Brian Dawkins will deliver that deprives you of your ever expanding head)?

T.O.
...Yesh

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

The Waitstaff in The Onion!

Waitstaff Tired Of Sleeping With Each Other

Ok, it's not about us. In fact, it doesn't even apply to us.

We tap squeanies every chance we get.

(Squeanies. What a great word.)

Which made me wonder... what kind of offspring would we have?

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Honeymoon in Europe - Part IV

Need to catch up?
Honeymoon in Europe - Part I
Honeymoon in Europe - Part II
Honeymoon in Europe - Part III

Barcelona, SPAIN - 9:34am

After leaving the lobby of the Hilton, for fear of me throttling the nearest hotel employee, we took a walk to the rather large sized shopping mall across the street.

We’re thinking, maybe a little breakfast and some coffee might perk me up a bit. Sounds good, right?

This is when we learned that Spain is not like the US. Other than the fact their first language is not English (So far.). The malls and stores there don’t open until 10am. Even the McDonald’s. What, no McMuffin before ten? Get the hell outta here.

Now, the actual mall building was open, but the stores had their gates down, all except one fantastically OPEN coffee joint. It had tables out in front, where a few patrons sipped espresso from those little tiny cups, and pored over their morning papers. YES!

We quickly ordered two coffees and a croissant (I spelled that right on the first try. I’m amazed.). Yep, the first thing we ate in Spain was a French pastry. Sad, ain’t it?

The ‘coffee’ as we ordered it, was, in fact, espresso. In those little tiny cups. I gulped the fucker down like it was Jägermeister (Had to look that one up.)

Still nothing in the way of perking up, so we walked – well, she walked, I stumbled - through the mall, until we came across a familiar sight. Starbucks. Yes, the gigantic coffee conglomerate is international, and while I know I’m feeding the beast of commercialism, I needed a regular cup of coffee, stat. I sucked that coffee back like it was ambrosia, willing my senses to clear. And, nothing. That morning, I think I could’ve been slapped with a Mack truck and still been sleepy.

I pulled a total touristy thing with the Starbucks clerk, though. They did not have ‘coffee’ listed on their menu. I saw ‘espresso’ again. I said “Hola, hello,” and asked the clerk if he spoke English (he did), and then I told him, quite slowly and deliberately, “All I want is some regular coffee. Just a regular cup of coffee.” God, what a jerk. And as soon as I said it, I knew I was. So, I put a tip in the tip jar. Not exactly getting the hang of the Euro yet, I think I tipped him 4 American bucks. Which was more than the coffee. Makes me feel a little better about the whole thing.

On a side note, I quickly found myself using “Hola, hello,” to start a conversation with the locals. To me, I was telling the natives (still sounds weird), I respect your language, but god help me, I can’t speak it. It seemed to go over pretty well, and I recommend it. For the most part, just about everyone we spoke with, save the cab drivers, spoke English pretty well (Hm, just like home.). I doubt you’ll run into that everywhere, but to anyone who keeps nixing the idea of a trip to Spain, and Europe for that matter, because of the language, don’t. You’ll be fine. Not everyone’s out to get you, unlike a lot of the vacation horror stories you hear.

You know what, I’ll end this chapter on that inspiring note. Because it all goes downhill from here… ok, not all. But most.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Musings from the Mall

I stood, absolutely amazed, at the audacity of this 210 pound woman wearing a midriff t-shirt and hip hugger jeans. Looking at her, and her oblivious pride in her appearance, made me realize that God was either dead, or just plain wrong.

If, in the unlikely event that Nietzsche, a 1966 Time magazine article, and the thrash metal band “Carnivore” – from their 1985 eponymous first album, Armagedon – are all wrong, in regards to God’s demise, then I’m forced to accept God just being plain wrong. And, I say God’s wrong, because this aberration of nature, I was convinced, had to be one of the unspoken signs of the apocalypse. So, with the thought of judgment day racing through my head, I ran out of the mall and looked to the heavens in hope of a shower of descending locusts – or at least the sun having turned red as blood… I’m not a very good Catholic, so most of my knowledge of the end of the world, and God’s fury, tend to come from what I’ve seen in movies. The locusts were in Magnolia, and the bleeding sun was in something else… or not. Regardless, my failure at Christianity is a story to be told at a later time.

*** Back on topic***

So, I ran outside. To my disappointment, there was no locust or blood red sun to be seen (IT WAS A DEMI MOORE MOVIE! You know, the one where they gassed the retard, and the sun was all blood red and crap).

Now you’re asking: “Why is he disappointed that the world didn’t come to an end?”

To which I would answer: “Simple”.

Since the dawn of man the question has existed as to whether or not there was some great celestial body watching over us. We’ve asked these questions so vigorously that we’ve created organizations dedicated to what individuals of like minds believe are his/hers/theirs/it’s rules of governance.

We’ve created wars over him/her/them/it. We’ve seen the destruction of life and liberties in some vain attempt to follow the wishes of something we’ve never shared contact or communication with. We resort to a document that is filled with antiquated references, and contradictory claims of fact. It was called the Bible (capitalized because of its importance) and rather than using it as resource of an earlier time in man’s development, we have chosen to let it build nations, leaders, laws, etc., etc., etc.

Seriously, the confusion is sometimes too much to handle!

I’m told to treat others as I would have them treat me. Well, my neighbor is gay, which according to the Bible requires me to burn down his house of sin and ill-reputed anal love bumping. The problem is, as I was gassing up the dry kindling and pallets around his home(mo), to perform my holy service to God, that gay sonofabitch was throwing Molotov candles through my fucking window.

Two fires… One God… See, that’s where everything got all fucked up.

… Again, I’ve wondered off topic…

I just want to know he/she/they/it exist. That’s why I was hoping for the Day of Judgment as prophesized in the book of ______ (refer back to the statement of my being a bad catholic). I wanted to go out and have my sins judged (which wouldn’t be a very fair trial, since – I’m assuming -- all of the really good defense attorneys went to hell first, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves).

Not that the trial would take all that long anyway since it’s been predetermined that I’m going to hell – And I dare someone to be surprised by that statement!

Am I a bad person? I’d like to think not. On the other hand, if someone were to pose the same question to Hitler, he’d probably disagree with being referred to as an abomination of humanity…

… This leads us back to the fat chick in the midriff and hip-huggers…

Now, I’m not God… because if I were, I would have smote her. The simple fact that she wasn’t smote only raises the questions as to his/her/their/it’s existence or death if you ask me… but, before I go on another rant… Now I know that the only “real” judge is God, but in his absence I took over (someone had to).

What may surprise you is that it wasn’t the porker in the hoochie-wear I chose to release my wrath upon. I chose to instead unleash my fury on the stupid ass who sold her the outfit in the beginning.

Sure, hip huggers and midriffs are all the rage right now, but please (for all of us) forego on the commission and think of the better good. You’re ignorance and minimum wage greed took over your better senses! You allowed this poor girl (who I did pity) to suffer an endless stream of ridicule wherever she went (I did follow, and silently ridicule to my friend… okay, pity came later, I admit).

So, with all of the omnipotent powers I could muster, I began to focus my thoughts deeply and intently on making this evil bastard/bitch, who sold Tons-a-love that outfit, head explode. You have no idea how bad I wanted to hear some mall patron scream in horror of a sudden and inexplicable head explosion.

Reporter
“Can you tell the News 10 audience what you witnessed?”

Red Neck Mall Patron, Struck with Horror
“It was, like, the grossest thing I ever saw. I mean, I was standing there, see, gett’n ready to buy this new outfit that the girl said I looked like Britney Spears in, and suddenly her head jist blown up.”

Reporter
“What happened after that?”

Red Neck Mall Patron, Still Struck with Horror
“Well, after that, I realized that if there is only one life and that we’re left to seek happiness on our own terms. I discovered that reality is what you can touch and feel not what you wish and dream of. In that moment, I realized that people who are forever left “wishing” die alone having never known genuine happiness, while those who actively and truthfully seek to turn a dream into a physical reality pass into death at peace with what they became in this world… whether the dream was ever fully realized or not. I also realized that my huge ass crack hangs out in these hip huggers, and that maybe I should try to wear more vertical patterns.”

I checked the evening news… No one’s head exploded. I was disappointed, but went to bed hoping that they at least had a headache.

-J

TMI

I put my thong on sideways the other day. Took me most of the day to figure it out.

- CPW

Gore for 10-year-olds

This has nothing to do with The Waitstaff, or comedy, or anything nice.
It's just that I recently googled Eerie Publications, the publsher that put out the gory, graphically violent horror comix known as "Weird", "Tales from the Grave" and "Tales of Horror". As a 10-year-old in 1967, I was an avid reader of this incredibly schlocky gore-fest that frequently had heads ripped off their owner's necks, people being dipped in acid, and more black inc used as blood than to mark profits at a Texas oil company.

Finding these awful rags made my week, but I hope you'll be properly revulsed at the very comix that I still hold fond memories for:
Comix From Hell.

The Waitstaff in the Main Line Ticket!!

Way back in June of '04, we, The Waitstaff, had a nice little article written about us in the Main Line Ticket.

Once again, we're nothing if not prompt in celebrating our appearances in the press.

Check it out: The Waitstaff Serves Up Laughs.

Hey, we even made the cover. Geez, look at those ugly mugs.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

The Waitstaff on Comedy Central's Insider!!!!

One of our most mind intoxicating songs has drawn the attention, or ire, of the center of the comedy universe, Comedy Central. (Why else would they name it that?)

That's right, kids, check out the Blowjob Song.

MMMM... isn't that delicious?

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

THE WAITSTAFF CALENDAR

Where will we turn up next? Check us out at a locaton near you!

MARCH 17, 2006
St. Patty's Day! - Start off your evening of drunken debauchery with THE WAITSTAFF! $15
World Cafe Live - 3025 Walnut Street Philadelphia , PA 19147
Tickets and Info

We hope to see you there!

www.thewaitstaff.com

Honeymoon in Europe - Part III

Need to catch up?
Honeymoon in Europe - Part I
Honeymoon in Europe - Part II

Barcelona, SPAIN - 9:00am

The scene: The Hilton Diagonal Mar Hotel

The Characters:
Joe Quirk – kind of awkwardly handsome, exhausted from not sleeping on the plane over to Europe and waiting to crash, hard.
Lionel – the clerk at the hotel and the only Spanish man ever named Lionel, telling Joe quite directly that his room will not be ready for another half hour.

My mood was deteriorating rapidly from frustratingly exhausted to I’m going to stab you with the nearest blunt object, with echoes of “Why a spoon, cousin?”, “It’s dull, it’ll hurt more!” ringing through my head. However, even though the dude was named Lionel, I decided to give him a break. I’d waited nine and a half hours to sleep, what’s another thirty minutes?

My wife and I sat on a half circle sofa with lots of pillows, the sheer amount of which made me think that maybe they didn’t want us to sit there. I think I was partially right. As we sat there, my wife reading a USA today (in Spain) and me propping my eyes open with the sports section (The Phillies had lost. Shocker.), I watched a maid come over to the couch opposite us, which was identical to the one we sat on, and rather pointedly fluffed up the pillows on it, and as she turned away I got the slightest dirty look from her. Like I wanted to be sitting here and not in some overpriced room, curled up in bed. Sheesh.

All I really wanted to do was close my eyes on the couch, but I had a bad experience with a hotel once. Back then, we were unmarried and living in sin (and loving it!). We were in a NY hotel, a nice one, and when we went to check in, our room wasn’t ready. Only in that case, we were there after the usual check-in time. So, we were a little ticked. Exhausted, I sat in a very comfortable armchair to wait for our room to be ready. And, naturally, I closed my eyes. Like, two seconds later, there’s a tough foreign hotel security dude in my face. “You cannot sleep in the lobby!” he says in a thick accent. Now, the accent didn’t bother me, nor the fact that he was foreign. I’m mentioning it because with the accent, that statement sounded 16 times harsher than it probably was. Dude almost made me poo.

To which I wanted to respond, “Hey genius! I wouldn’t be sleeping out here if your bumblefuck staff had my goddamn room ready!” But I didn’t, because tough guy could’ve sliced me in twain with his accent. Sliced me in twain. Huh, never thought I’d get to use that in a sentence.

But I digress. A lot.

Back to the situation at hand. My eyelids now have barbells hanging from them and the minute hand on my watch is using a walker. 9:30. The half hour has passed. Finally, FINALLY, I head to the counter, jazzed as hell.

“I’m sorry, sir, but your room is not ready yet.”

They’re SO… FUCKING… POLITE.

My “What?!” wasn’t so much an angry, staccato growl as it was a pleading, whimpering sigh.

“How long?”

“Another half hour, sir. I’m sorry”

I’ve stayed in plenty of hotels, from the fancy schmancy ones to the ones where they swap out the ‘h’ for an ‘m’. But tell me, how does it take an hour to make up one room?! Even with the gourmet soaps and granola nut cluster toilet paper, there’s no way it should take that long.
Unless they had to remove a dead hooker from under the mattress, what in holy hell was going on?

I realize the maids have to clean hundreds of rooms. But so far as I could tell, my wife and I were the only ones in the lobby waiting for a room. Clean the one goddamn room, and I’m out of your hair. What’s the deal?

I can’t wait in the lobby anymore, what with the Phillies losing and the narrow eyed pillow fluffing maid.

In hindsight, maybe I should have told her to quit fluffing the pillows and go get the dead hooker out of my room.

To be continued...

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

A Step by Step Guide to Breaking Up

Step one: Walk through the door, look Trevor straight in the eyes and say, “We are so done. I never want to see you again.”
For this you will need:
a.) A good pair of shoes. Trevor lives on the sixth floor of a building that has no elevator, so the shoes have to be comfortable. And good looking. You want to look your best when dumping the man who's screwed with your heart for the past seven years. Pick a pair that show off your curvaceous calves at the same time slimming your ankles.
They should be new shoes. Although Trevor won’t notice them per se, he will sense there’s something different about you. He’ll see a woman ready to move on with her life.
b.) The key to Trevor’s apartment. He’d never let you in after the restaurant debacle.

Maybe that should be the first step.

Step one (revised): Get a copy of Trevor’s key.
For this you will need:
A prostitute, preferably a convincing transvestite. Hire the transvestite prostitute to seduce Trevor in a bar and suggest they go back to his place. There the chick with a dick will drug Trevor. (Note: Talk to Barb’s doctor friend about what drug to use.) Once Trevor is comatose the prostitute will make a wax mold of his key. Take mold to place that can make keys from wax. I can’t think of any places off the top of my head.

So perhaps that should be the first step, find a hardware store that can make keys from wax molds. No, the first step should really be to find out where Trevor lives since the hardware store you choose will depend on the area of the country you find yourself in. So...

Step one (revised, again): Find out where Trevor lives.
For this you will need:
A detective, a discrete one. The last few have been too obvious and Trevor’s been able to run before you could get to him. So spend the extra money and choose a quality detective this time.

Step two: Find a hardware store in Trevor’s town that can make keys from wax molds, no questions asked. (Check Yellow Pages for listings.)

Step three: Hire he-whore to seduce and drug Trevor.

Step four: Buy new shoes. Two pairs. Now that you know where Trevor lives you know how much mountain hiking you have to do to get to his apartment building. You will have to buy a pair of all terrain shoes, and they don’t look sexy at all. Buy another pair of shoes that show off your legs. Get some foundation and loose powder. You’re sure to bang up your legs climbing the mountain. Bruises and scrapes will counteract the curvy calves and slim ankles. Oh, and while you’re out, pick up a water proof sun block. You’ll be sweating a lot and it’d be a shame to have sun damage just because you want to dump this jerk.

Step five: Keep a low profile. Trevor’s almost definitely informed the local police of his restraining order. If they’re anything like the police department in the last town, they have orders to arrest you on sight, using deadly force if necessary.
Going back to step three, get the prostitute to check out Trevor’s place for booby-traps and hidden weapons. It might be a good idea if you packed your tazer just in case Trevor decides to “defend” himself.

Step six: Go to Trevor’s building, climb six floors to his apartment. In hallway change clothes and shoes. Wash off camouflage paint and put on make-up. Do hair. Unlock the door to Trevor’s apartment.

Step seven: Walk through the door, look Trevor straight in his comatose eyes and say, “We are so done. I never want to see you again.”

There, you’ve done it. You are a single woman. Now go out there and find a man.

-CPW

www.thewaitstaff.com

The Transformers Movie - Hello, inner NERD!

So, is anyone else as stoked about this as I am?

True, I'm a six year old trapped in a 27 year old body, and you might not be, but I am salivating with anticipation over this thing.

Now, I like movies, but, being an actor (used loosely), I understand, unlike some people, that the world does not revolve around these cinematic adventures.

In fact, I'd rather be making movies than watching them.

But there are those rare occasions when I simply cannot wait to see a movie, and oddly enough, this is one of them.

Say what you will, but I'm sure there are thousands of people who have spent quality time with Wheeljack, Megatron, and Optimus Prime.

I admit, the premise is ludicrous. Robots that are aliens that come to earth and just happen to be able to transform into vehicles indigenous to planet Earth.

I mean, I didn't know the Datsun Fairlady 280ZX - (The Autobot Bluestreak) - was so intergalactically popular.

However, the show was extremely entertaining, down to that cool sound they made when the robots would transform.

And the voices! They were awesome, and I'm happy to say the guy who voiced Optimus Prime on the cartoon, Peter Cullen, will be voicing him in the live-action movie.

The best voices belonged to Soundwave and Starscream, though. You might know the Starscream voice better as that of Cobra Commander on G.I. Joe. Done by one of the most famous voice actors ever, Frank Welker. I hope he's still around to do the new movie.

Alright, I've geeked out enough in this post. Join the nerdiness if you want, or shun it, just like you did in high school, you bastards.



Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Short Sick Joke

A baby seal walks into a club...

www.thewaitstaff.com

NFC EAST will dominate...

...but the Eagles won't have to worry about the Cowboys because T.O. will stir up enough trauma-drama to cripple them on his own. As far as ...wait. This is the Waitstaff blog!

D@mn it! I must have posted the chest shit joke at ESPN.COM

-gg

www.thewaitstaff.com

The Croc Hunter finally carks it...

Cark it: (verb) to die, cease functioning...
taken from this Australian Slang Dictionary

Steve Irwin, TV's famed Crocodile Hunter, died yesterday in what can only be called the most freakish of accidents.

After years of this maniac messing with the mighty crocodile, a sweet, docile, little stingray accomplished what the entire croc race had failed to do.

I can just imagine all of the disappointed and incredulous crocodiles in the world.

"Fuckin' stingray," shall become the phrase that will plague them, like "Bucky Fuckin'Dent" to a BoSox fan.

The Waitstaff will miss Mr. Irwin, for The Croc Hunter holds a special place in our tiny black heart, as he was the muse for one of our first sketches.

So, in memorium, for the first time on the internet, here is The Croc Hunter At Home, as performed at the 2005 Chicago Sketchfest.

To the man who, out of all the crocodile hunters in the world, was 'THE' Croc Hunter...

THE CROC HUNTER AT HOME


Hugs and handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Fevered Rantings

I woke up at 4AM the other morning with a headache, stomach cramps and chills. (Even my armpits had goose bumps.) I knew what this was. This was Sick. Sick is no fun. For the rest of the night I couldn’t fall back to sleep, but I wasn’t exactly awake either. My brain wouldn’t rest, thinking the same thoughts over and over again, until I had them figured out. It had the urgency of an important message I needed to convey to the world.

Here’s what I kept thinking:

Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

If Superman ever did exist he would be considered a god on Earth. He can do things no other human can do and he protects us from danger and delivers us from evil. (He rescues us from floods and defeats the terrorists.) Even if he denied he was a god (which I’m sure Superman would do, he’s a good guy) there would still be scattered groups of people who would worship him.

How can he not feel an obligation to them? They have placed their safety in his hands. And how can he deny the temptation to use a little bit of his god clout to get these people to stop being violent, to treat each other right? First he may say something like “Treat others as you would treat yourself.” I have no problem with that. Then he may say “No more guns. I forbid it.” I’m kind of on the same side of the issue as Superman here, but this makes me uncomfortable. Gods and Superheroes should not get involved in politics. Before long Superman is saying “No funding to artists who offend me.” Superman is absolutely out of line there. But how can we deny him? He rescues us from floods, defeats the terrorists. Is it too much to ask that we do whatever we can to make him happy? Also, if he gets mad there’s not enough kryptonite in the world that’ll save us.

Before long Superman’s sitting on some throne, demanding concession after concession. We’re slaves to his every whim. We’ve lost our freedom. He’s lost his integrity. It’s a lose/lose situation. Sure it would be nice to have someone rescue us from floods and defeat the terrorists, but this is too high a price to pay. It’s better that Superman doesn’t really exist. We just have to rely on ourselves to save the day.

- CPW

www.thewaitstaff.com