The Waitstaff

Little Known Sad Movies

2007-06-11T13:45:00.000-04:00

I don't go to the movie theatre much anymore (does anyone over the age of 18?) but I do watch a lot of cable TV late at night and sometimes come across a little gem. Here are some little known and underrated movies that you've probably never heard of, let alone seen, that I recommend. Caution: I like sad movies.

Baby It's You (1983, Rosanna Arquette, Vincent Spano, John Sayles dir.) -- In 1966 New Jersey, Jill Rosen, a frustrated high schooler, is intrigued by an enigmatic new student known only as the Sheik. Sheik is a Sinatra-wannabe whose primary interests are his car, Frank Sinatra, and Jill. Jill is enamored with the rakish Sheik but eventually outgrows him and leaves for college. The Sheik heads off to Florida to become a famous lounge singer (or so he thinks), but soon learns what a naive loser he really is. He flees to Jill's school to declare his love only to realize that the two of them have no future together. The last scene is so beautifully poignant and pathetically sad as to discourage anyone from ever declaring love again. I just love it.

Proof (1991, Hugo Weaving, Genevieve Picot, Russell Crowe) -- Not that other Proof, this one is about a blind photographer (yes, you read that right) who grew up embittered by his blindness and completely distrustful of the world to the point where he believes his mother faked her own death so as to be rid of him. His bitterness cuts a path of distruction in his life as he viciously spurns and mistrusts anyone's feelings for him, especially his housekeeper's love. The scene where she offers herself and he rejects her is cringetacular. His friendship with a restaurant worker (Crowe) eventually leads him to the proof he seeks.

This is My Father (1998, Aidan Quinn, James Caan) -- an Irish Romeo and Juliet. James Caan returns to Ireland to seek knowledge about the father he never knew. Aidan Quinn plays his father in flashbacks revealing the doomed love affair and series of unfortunate events that crushed true love in the name of propriety and caused his mother to flee her homeland. It's a sweet, simple tale of sweet, simple folk just trying to be in love and what the world will do to people in those cases. Caan's performance is excellent as a man who is able to transcend the tragedy of the past.

Douchebag Quote of the Day

2007-06-11T13:25:00.000-04:00

I read this in a People magazine someone left in the stall at work and felt compelled to diss on it (yes, that too):

"Dirty Dancing taught me how to do a love scene. It's about making a soul connection."
Patrick Swayze

How can those words come out of someone's mouth and them not think, "Wow, that sounded like a bunch of pretentious crap"?

I mean, how does this work?: "OK, soon as the director yells action, I connect with Jennifer Gray's soul, say my lines to her soul, complete the scene with her soul, then withdraw from her soul before the scene ends so as not to become tangled up like I did with Charlie Sheen in 'Red Dawn'. OK, piece of cake."

And I gotta tell ya, a lot of the actors I've worked with have no soul to begin with, so this doesn't even make sense.

iPunk'd

2007-05-31T13:01:00.000-04:00

I lost my iPod about a month ago.

Had no idea where I lost it.

Last time I saw it, I had a friend over, and she wouldn't have stolen it (would she?).

So yesterday I broke down and bought a new one; with a case this time so it doesn't get all scratched up.

$192.

This morning I found the old one tucked away in my computer bag. For three weeks I can't find the thing and then less than 24 hours after I buy a new one, I find it.

Oh ha ha, Life.

It's the Little Things That Drive You Crazy

2007-03-29T12:50:00.000-04:00

Like this one teeny, miniscule dollop of snot dangling loosely in my left nostril. It tickles, it rattles, evey time I breathe, which is fairly often these days.

Life is so unfair...

Caution: Be Careful When Mis-dialing!!!

2007-02-12T13:50:00.000-05:00

So I'm checking my voicemail message on my cell phone as we now have a no-cell phone policy at my office and I wish I would've saved this message but I was laughing so hard I deleted it.

Let me first state that the woman was calling from a restricted line so there is no way I can call her back.

Let me also set this up by stating that I received 2 phone calls this weekend on my cell phone from a number I don't know, and they didn't leave a message either time.

So the message goes:

Sara, you f*cking b*itch. I wanna know why you're on my husband's cell phone. I wanna know who the f*ck you think you are...............B*tch!!!!!

Help!! Some strange, ANGRY woman is cell phone stalking me because her husband mis-dialed!!

Cell phone users: Be careful when dialing phone numbers into a cell phone!!

Men with with possessive, ANGRY wives: Don't leave your cell phone lying around when you are not there as this may result in someone getting cell phone stalked, or mugged, or worse!!!

Sigh! Ain't technology grand!!!

Oh, and if anyone tries to call my cell phone I probably won't be answering it for the next couple of days.

Send me an email.

Happy Monday!!

-Sawa

They Always Come In Threes...

2007-02-08T16:11:00.000-05:00

That's right, hot on the broken heels of everyone's favorite one hit wonder, Barbaro, news comes today that yet another horse, Anna Nicole Smith, has gone belly up.
Sadly, this one collapsed, thus denying anyone the chance to shoot her. (Sigh)

Wait... I'm suddenly getting a premonition!
I see... Trimspa ... going bankrupt!

Oh, and heads up, Miss Parker.
You're in the crosshairs.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Aqua Teen Hunger Force - The New Face Of Terrorism

2007-02-01T09:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, Boston experienced a massive panic when a series of "mysterious devices" appeared around the city. Authorities closed bridges and a highway and actually went so far as to detonate one, thinking it was a bomb, only to find out later it was a publicity stunt for the Cartoon Network's late night cartoon, Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

Yeah, these guys.

And here's one of the "devices."

This whole thing has spiraled out of control, with Boston's Mayor threatening legal action against Turner Broadcasting. Which is ridiculous, because the devices had been up for three weeks!!
What if they had been bombs? Way to be on top of things, Mr. Mayor. Good luck in that re-election bid.

------------------------------------

Cartoons have definitely changed. You'd never see the Smurfs take such a guerilla approach to marketing. Although, now that I think about it, Papa Smurf DOES kinda look like an Al Qaeda agent.

Hmmmm...

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

DJ Darth Vader

2007-01-31T09:06:00.000-05:00

Known to battle relentlessly with his nemesis, DJ Jedi Jeff.

Hey Darth, for having the entire Imperial army at your beck and call, your lighting crew sucks.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

The Dichotomy of Oldness

2007-01-30T10:47:00.000-05:00

Everyone’s pretty familiar with how badly the elderly drive automobiles. Seems once you hit 60 years old and get that AARP card, you have to drive 15mph under the speed limit, you can’t use your turn signals, and you have the freedom to weave as far as two car lengths into any lane you choose to at any time.

Of, course, the lack of zip in their morning commute is explainable. They’re retired. They don’t have a job to get to, so they have no need to rush.

Which begs the questions: why the FUCK are they up so goddamn early, and why the FUCK must they clog up MY highway in the morning, when I have somewhere to be and I’m fifteen minutes late because Johnny Geriatric is doing 20 in a 65?!

(Release of steam. Calm restored.)

(Release of gas. Whoops, too calm! Awkward giggle.)

But lo, I have discovered something unbelievably wicked. When these “elderly” people want to rush, they can. It’s a choice, not some precondition of old age.

That’s right, I said it: they’re decrepit old liars.

Witness the line at a McDonald’s at eight in the morning. The line has about four people in it, then ME, and then a Little Old Lady (L.O.L.), I’ll say around the 70-75 zone, in a little beige overcoat and one of those plastic hair-net thingies that are supposed to protect from the rain (it wasn’t raining), but just end up making you look like a homeless person.

The clerk, a shining young man of 16 or 17, sporting a glorious spread of acne and no-I’ve-never-been-laid-I’m-saving-myself-for-Queen-Amidala-itis, was doing a fair job taking orders and gathering food.

But L.O.L., well, she was only there for coffee, so, of course, felt she was entitled to walk past everyone in line and tell the clerk that, yes, “All I want is a coffee.”

The clerk told her that she’d have to wait her turn. To which she not-so-calmly replied, “But all I want is coffee!” There was a silent universal agreement throughout the line, and we let crazy bitch go ahead of us. Almost exactly three seconds later:

“There are no creamers!”

Now, in that three seconds, L.O.L. had zoomed across the restaurant to where the creamers were, and come all the way back. I was amazed at her quick footedness. Perhaps the freshly squeegeed floors had added to her quickness, but either way, for a gnarled old hag, bitch could move.

As Zits (The Wonder Geek) disappeared into the back, further lengthening everyone's stay in our lovely line, L.O.L. stood at the counter, tapping her foot loudly against the floor, and doing that old person staple, the pronounced impatient sigh... every 2 seconds.

What a c-word.

I mean, we let her cut a fairly substantial line, then she has the AUDACITY to be impatient and bitter, feening for her cup of joe like a fuckin’ crack addict.

Therefore, I have deduced that Old People, when they want to, can move as fast and be as selfish as the younger generation can.

They just cover it up with candy, being nice to babies, and that Preparation H / baby powder / oncoming death smell.

Moral of the story:

That douchebag of an old fart doing 10mph and swerving to and fro in front of you on the highway?

He’s doing it on purpose. Feel free to bump him into the nearest tree.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Poetry Time!

2007-01-29T00:29:00.000-05:00

Ode to My Former Boss

You evil bitch,
You stupid witch,
You spent all your dough,
You are not rich.

You ugly hag,
Your breasts do sag,
The thought of you,
Just makes me gag.

You cheat the poor,
But cheat me no more,
I quit your job,
And shut that door.

And now I’m free,
I smile with glee,
At the thought of you,
Stuck in a tree.

- CPW

Wear Your Wig to Work Day

2007-01-26T20:50:00.000-05:00

Today was Wear Your Wig to Work Day. In the past I’ve always heard about it after the fact, so this year I was psyched to learn about it beforehand and participate. Now, I work in a semi respectable office. It’s fairly casual, but sometimes clients come in, so we have to look somewhat professional. I knew my foot high beehive wig was out. I decided to play it safe and wear my fall (a ponytail attached to the back of the head with a clip comb), which looks something like this. It’s the same color as my natural hair, but it’s about a foot longer and has a lot more body.

So, you know what happened at work today? People didn’t recognize me. I was dressed the way I normally do (business crappy), just had longer hair, but it was still my hair color. When they realized it was me they asked, “How’d you grow your hair so long overnight?”

God, I work with some idiots.

Retired Jokes

2007-01-25T12:34:00.000-05:00

Two jokes you can't use anymore:

(In the late 1970's, White House Chief of Staff Hamilton Jordan was accused of snorting cocaine in the Jimmy Carter White House.)

Q. What do Ham Jordan and [first lady]Roslyn Carter have in common?

A. They both blow a little dope in the White House.

(When Trans-world Airlines, popularly known as TWA, went out of business, it ended this classic statement.)

While flying, travellers can enjoy beverages like, soda, milk, coffee, or that famous TWA Tea.

(Say that to yourself until you get it...)

In Case You're Wondering...

2007-01-22T00:18:00.000-05:00

I like my men the way I like my coffee, weak and bitter.

- CPW

Story Time!

2007-01-18T18:25:00.000-05:00

Boy meets girl.

Boy and girl fall in love.

Boy loses girl. What do you expect? It’s a big train station.

Boy finds girl cowering by storage lockers.

Girl looks up at boy and screams, “I’m a woman, God Damn it. Physically, emotionally, and legally I AM A WOMAN. Why do you insist on treating me like a child?”

Boy helps woman to her feet and reassures her of his respect for her maturity.

Woman is offended by the word “maturity.”

Boy changes subject.

Woman suggests they go back to her place. Boy agrees.

Once there, boy proves he is not a boy, but a man.

Man and woman screw like squirrels.

Meanwhile on the other side of the galaxy...
Avog meets aveel.

Avog and aveel fall in bufledon.

Aveel screams, “I am a loobtop, Xeen Damn it. Why must you treat me like an arable?”

Avog says, “Forget this shit,” and makes plans to invade Earth.

On the way to Earth, avog’s fleet is hit by rogue asteroid. All are destroyed.

Back at Earth...
Man and woman, sated, dress themselves. They go outside and down into subway.

Subway smells like urine.

On train man and woman hold hands. They talk in baby voices. Man calls woman, “Moopsey,” and woman calls man, “Bitty Bitty.” They lisp and rhyme whenever possible.

Passengers around them gag.

Man and woman exit subway at Eighth Street and find a store that sells expensive jewelry. They look at rings.

Man, against stereotype, is comfortable with commitment and eager to be joined in love with woman.

Woman is happy to be getting expensive ring.

Bandit enters store. He wears a ski mask and points a gun at clerk. “This is a hold up,” he says.

Clerk runs into back room, hides behind bullet proof glass, and forgets to call 911.

In one of those odd coincidences in life, a police car, with sirens blaring, pulls up outside. Jewelry store across the street is being robbed too.

Bandit, convinced he is about to be caught, points gun at woman and says, “All is lost for me. I might as well kill you and be done with it.”

“No, don’t kill her!” man cries. “If you must kill someone, kill me.”

Bandit is perplexed. “Why do you want to die?” he asks.

“I don’t want to die,” man says, “but I want her to live more than I don’t want to die.”

Bandit is even more perplexed.

Man uses clearer language. He says, “I love her.”

Bandit is moved. He pulls ski mask off of head to reveal he is, in fact, avog, lone survivor of rogue asteroid, forced to rob jewelry stores to raise funds for next invasion.

“I am touched by your sacrifice,” avog says. “Humans are not the blood thirsty race I was told they were. I will not invade your planet. I will let you live in peace.”

“Thanks,” says man.

“Furthermore,” says avog, “I am intrigued by your love. I wish for you to return with me to my planet and teach me all about it.”

Man looks into avog’s eyes and is aroused.

“Okay,” he says.

Avog and man beam up to avog’s spaceship.

Avog and man screw like squirrels.

On the way back to avog’s planet, rogue asteroid returns and destroys spaceship. All die. Honestly.

In the expensive jewelry store woman pockets all expensive jewelry. She moves to the Dominican Republic. She buys a big, beautiful house and hires big, beautiful houseboys to satisfy her every whim.

Woman and houseboys live happily ever after.

The End

- CPW

How To Win The War In Iraq

2007-01-12T11:39:00.000-05:00

As you all know by now, President Bush has requested an additionial 20,000 troops to be sent to Iraq to help gain an upper hand in a conflict that has quickly become a downward spiral.

And for the first time, ever, I might agree with him.

Go ahead, send more troops.

I have one condition: Send the 501st Legion.

Dude, if I saw that headed my way, I'd poo in my pants.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Message to My Next Door Neighbor

2007-01-04T19:40:00.000-05:00

We're all very impressed. Just have the orgasm already.

- CPW

Customer Relationship Management (CRM)

2007-01-02T15:47:00.000-05:00

A sad, frustrating historical tale, told in the original ACT noters, before I took my job here. The first half of these posts are from my predesessor, Dan. I'll let you know when mine com in...

11/12/02: Spoke to Fred and he said that they offer a full physical to their employees annually. They have 150 employees, that receive full physicals and then every 3 years they do the office personnel as well. He wants info on our services before scheduling a meeting. He was hesitant at first that we could not meet his needs, but was surprised that all components of their physicals we can do.

12/6/02: met with Fred Burgos and he was very impressed with our capabilities. He said that he will be very busy through the end of the year, but wants pricing and reference info to get things in line for 2003. He said that they are under contract through May of 2003. They will have a board meeting in January to discuss this further.

1/9/03 Fred wants a call back in 2 weeks to update the status.

2/13/03: Still waiting to hear back but he thinks that it should be soon. Call again in 2
weeks if he does not call me first. He wants to use us.

3/7/03: and they are involved in a major cleanup and that is taking center stage right now. Can try back toward the end of the month.

5/2/03: they decided to renew the current contract for 1 more year. Fred said that the door is still open for a change for next year. Call him in December to set up appt with Fred and his boss.

12/3/03: Spoke to Fred and he said that they have no plans to change the contract. That does not mean that he won't keep bending the ear of his boss though. He said to keep in touch but for now no change in plans.

5/4/04: Nothing new, Fred said that they have chosen to contract with local hospital again. The contract runs through next April. Call him in January to see what the status is then. He wants to use PHS, but he does not have the final say.

1/5/05: I spoke to Fred and he said that his boss is already in negotiations with the local hospital and it is all but a done deal to extend the contract. he said that htere is no way for this year that I can get in.

4/21/05: Spoke to Fred and the boss signed another extension with current provider.

Now I enter the picture:

1/19/06: Not this year - a done deal for the local clinic. fred says budget done in October/November; I said we'd call in late sept to see if we have a fighting chance. fred and I shared a laugh about "the long sad story" this sales cycle has become.

9/13/06: new contract starts May 1st, 2007, and he tells me now is the time to get the ball rolling. He hasn't seen recent material, so I'm emailing current . I asked about wellness testing, and the response was "we don't give a crap".

9/19/06: Left message: 9/19/06

9/20/06: he said he passed on to his boss; Fred was impressed by our info, and said he was going to email breakdown of employees, locations and testing needed per location. I'll give a call in 2 weeks if I don't hear from him.

10/4/2006: Today Fred reports that he was going to email breakdown but got busy. He added that he planned to do it, "soon, in fact". i'll check in again in another 2 weeks.

10/18/06: Fred states today that he should probably email me a breakdown, adding: "And we're gonna do it, too!" I'll cb in another week.

10/25/06: "IT'S IN THE MAIL!" cb 1 week. if not recieved.

11/1/06: Email sent: Hi, Fred!
I'm sorry, but we never received the breakdown of employees
you mailed out last week.
Would you mind sending it again?
Feel free to fax or email it if you like

11/1/06: It was not in the mail. I sent Fred email requesting another copy. Tune in next week, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel for the next thrilling chapter.

11/16/06: "oh, no, I didn't mail it out", fred demurred petulantly, "I'm still putting it together." And here I thought he had sent a breakdown of employees to be tested through the mail just because he said "I completed it and mailed it to you last week." back on 10.25. This guy is a yutz, a shmo, a brobdignagian schlemiel. Not wasting time, as he's a liar and a shlub.

Happy Holidays!

2006-12-22T10:35:00.000-05:00

- The Waitstaff

www.thewaitstaff.com

I Don’t Take Things Too Personally

2006-12-21T09:55:00.000-05:00

I was walking back from the post office today when I passed a street musician singing Here Comes the Sun. Now, I don’t know if he was making a comment about the cruel game gravity is playing with my body or if he was just singing with a really affect accent, but when I walked passed him I swear he sang, “Little darling, I see the ass is slowly melting.”

Whichever his reason, I just wanted to spin around and yell at him, “Fuck You! Fuck You to Hell!”

- CPW

I Work in a Symphony of Phlegm

2006-12-20T09:26:00.000-05:00

Winter is getting its full head of steam, Christmas is right around the corner, and Hanukah has already started.

And to commemorate this season's tidings of joy, my workplace has gotten together to unleash a cacophony of hacking, wet, choking coughs ringing down upon every healthy ear within a four mile radius.

Anything to make the season brighter.

Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly, Hacka hacka COUGH, Ca-hack hack COUGH.

Hugs and [Coughing Fit],

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Stinky Ol' Ladies

2006-12-20T09:08:00.000-05:00

Hello. Today's post discusses the topic of stinky old ladies.

Specifically, the two ladies who work at my day job. Not to name these individuals, but their names are Yolanda and Judy.

Now, when I say these ladies stink, you may surmise that they have B.O. from being unwashed, or have noxious effluvia from under-attentive lavatory habits. No.

No, no, no.

These ladies stink to high heaven of perfume. Not an expensive perfume, I'm sure, just a K-Mart type "Eau de Old Broad" that brings to mind thoughts of nursing homes, broken hips, and Depends. A cloyingly sweet smell that only certain highly sensitive and neurotic individuals like me can detect.

I go around asking people "Do you smell Yolanda? Is that Judy? Can you smell them?" Most people sadly shake their heads at me and move away, smiling politely.

But, as I said, there are some of us in this company that have a highly over-developed sense of propriety that, like Milton in "Office Space", makes us feel resentful if our boundaries are crossed. ( "But I'm allowed to play the radio at a resonable level from nine til eleven...") And these old bats cross my olfactory boundries by slapping on gallons of this putrid stink-water! Sometimes I gag!

Luckily, I don't work near either of these two stinkeroos, but when they mosey into my department, sometimes together, you could swear your dead aunt had come back to life and was stalking you.

I swear, it's getting so I'm thinking about not having those lunchtime cunnilingus sessions with them, or the boss' mother. Geeze.

It's My D*ck in a Box

2006-12-19T14:10:00.000-05:00

So, Andy Samberg might be singlehandedly saving the reputation of Saturday Night Live as a comedy institiution.

I'll be honest, most of their new stuff doesn't make me laugh anymore.

However, with the advent of the SNL Digital Short, SNL now has at least something that I look forward to.

Please See: the internet classic "Lazy Sunday" and Natalie Portman as a hardcore rapper.

And the latest in the series is now firmly lodged in my damn head.

Also, kudos to Justin Timberlake. (Never thought I'd say that.)

Here's wishing we all get what we want or put want we want in a box this Christmas.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Ugg Shoes Are A Menace

2006-12-19T10:32:00.000-05:00

Ok, I'll admit, right at the beginning of this post, that I do not like Ugg boots or shoes.

I have no justification for this, just that I find them Ugg-ly. (Ok, that joke sucked, but it gets my point across. Bite me.)

But why are they a menace?

Public Enemy

Because in the middle of the night, in the darkness, I got out of bed, stepped on on my wife's pseudo-furred Ugg and thought I killed my cat.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

ADDENDUM to Peter Boyle Got Dissed In His Own Obituary

2006-12-18T12:10:00.000-05:00

So, shortly after posting this, I was speaking to a co-worker and mentioned Peter Boyle had died. The following conversation then occured:

Co-worker: "Who's Peter Boyle?"
Me: "He was the Monster in Young Frankenstein."
Co-worker: "I never saw that."
(At which point I slapped her... in my mind, anyway.)
Me: "Well, he was in The Dream Team, ... (No recognition) Joe, ...(Nothing) Malcolm X?! ..."(Nada)
Co-worker: "Doesn't sound familiar."
Me: (Slowly and unwilling...) "He played the dad on Everybody Loves Raymond."
Co-worker: "OH! I know him! He died? Awww..."
Me: (Beating my head against a wall.) "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

[Sigh],

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Peter Boyle Got Dissed In His Own Obituary

2006-12-15T09:19:00.000-05:00

`Raymond' dad Peter Boyle dies in NYC

That headline officially pisses me off. Officially.

I had a certificate drawn up and everything.

How dare you pidgeonhole Peter Boyle into that role for his obituary headline!

He was so much more than a TV Dad. Look at this career!

This gets my panties in a bunch. That headline should read:

Funny-ass Mother F*cker Peter Boyle Dies

And I would be remiss if I did not include this video.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

And Now For Something Completely... How the f*ck did that UNICORN get in here?!

2006-12-14T12:32:00.000-05:00

For whatever reason, now I can't find anything BUT Unicorns on the web. Trust me, they're everywhere.

I'm convinced they've infiltrated the Internet, and have secretly captured the NetGremlin Kingdom.

Look out, E-mail Gnomes, they're eyeing you next.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Nativity Procedures

2006-12-11T12:52:00.000-05:00

It's Christmas.

We have a Nativity Scene.

According to my wife, we can't put B.J. (Baby Jesus) in the manger until Christmas because he hasn't been 'born' yet.

So he currently resides in his mother's womb, otherwise known as the drawer of our end table.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

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

2006-12-11T10:17:00.000-05:00

What better way to spend the holidays than shaving the snatch of someone you love?

Comedy Central's Insider has once again turned its eye to a festive Waitstaff song.

Seriously, CC's like Sauron and crap.

Click Here to see You Shaved Your P*ssy Like a Christmas Tree For Me featured on the Mother of all comedy sites.

Ok, more like the smelly Aunt.

And if you missed it before, you can also see The Blowjob Song.

Good to the last drop!

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

More F*cking Unicorns?!

2006-12-08T10:11:00.000-05:00

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the Internet... click two more pages to the right, and we're back in the Unicorn section again.

I had no idea unicorns had garnered such a large share of the toy market.

Today we have this abomination: The Cold War Unicorns Play Set.

The Cold War Unicorns play set can help you relive the good old days when the bad guys wore red, and the good guys wore red, white, and blue. Recreate the cold war in your living room as the "commie" unicorn and the "freedom" unicorn battle each other for global domination. Each superpower unicorn stands 3-3/4" tall. Great gift for the politically nostalgic. IBM missiles sold seperately.

Seems marketed rather one-sidedly towards the good ol' U.S. of A.

Wonder if there’s a Russian site selling this, describing the red unicorn as “mighty and just” and the red, white, and blue unicorn as “puny and meddling”. Hmmm…

Oh, and I love the joke about the missiles. That was brilliant! (Ahhh, sarcasm, my only true friend.)

But they spelled ‘separately’ wrong, and friends, that is no laughing matter.

Nor is the fact that you’re making a political statement in the form of UNICORNS!

That, in my humble - but egotistical - opinion, is… dumb. Dumb with a side of retard sauce. (Served with potatoes au gratin. Yum!)

I need also mention that this unicorn gift and the one mentioned in my last post are available on a website billing its merchandise as “Smart Gifts for Intelligent People.”

To me, it reads, “Smart-ass Gifts for People who Think They’re Intelligent.”

Of course, then I saw this:

... and thought it was funny.

Guess I’m an Intelligent Smart-Ass.

And so, here’s wishing you all a happy commercial holiday season.

F*ckin' Commies.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

Special thanks to CPW, an expert in all things plastic and horny. (Meaning toy Unicorns… what?)

www.thewaitstaff.com

Just In Time For Christmas... Unicorns!

2006-12-07T11:32:00.000-05:00

It's Christmas time, and this, no lie, is a new product out just in time for the holidays.

You know, if this can be mass produced and sold for profit, I'm in the wrong business.

Allow me to present the Avenging Unicorn Playset.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words...

This one's worth two thousand.

The following is the honest to goodness write up for it:

Doesn't everyone want an imaginary unicorn friend that can be called upon to smite one's enemies? Well, now you have the chance to get a plastic equivalent of such a fantastical beast with the Avenging Unicorn Play Set. Each boxed set includes four figures and four interchangeable horns for the white unicorn figure, which stands 3.75-inches tall.

In addition to the mighty horned beast, he includes three humans which may be impaled on his horn: a new age woman, a business man, and a mime, each of which are 3.125-inches tall.

Do you believe? Unicorns are magical creatures that exist only for those who believe.
When they are not frolicking in dewy meadows or posing on windy cliffs they are helping believers do away with daily annoyances.

Does the New Age lady at the bookstore get on your nerves when she starts ranting about her latest encounter with an ancient warrior spirit? Are you tired of being accosted by the creepy mime who thinks he deserves a quarter for pretending to be trapped in a box? Does that arrogant businessman in the well-pressed suit drive you crazy with loud talking on his cell phone in a crowded elevator?

Close your eyes, take a deep breath and summon a unicorn. If you believe in the magic of unicorns with all your heart and soul they will answer your call.

The Unicorn Code:
1. Unicorns never lie.
2. Unicorns always lend a helping hand.
3. Unicorns are loyal.

Think I'm lying? Go buy one.

Now let's break this down. Someone, somewhere, has it in his/her imagination that the best way to rid the world of annoying people is to "Close your eyes, take a deep breath and summon a unicorn" to IMPALE the offending citizens.

Creative? Yes. Slightly insane? Hell yes. (But I'm with him on the mime. Mimes suck.)

But since that's not plausible (Unicorns aren't real. It's true, I looked it up.), let's create a plastic version to live out this fever dream. And better yet, sell it for profit.

But here's the thing. What if someone buys this for you?

The gift giver thinks one of two things, 1) you actually like unicorns, or 2) you are borderline homicidal.

Just what I want stuffed in my stocking this year - affirmation of my fears that I'm losing it.

Have a Happy Hugs and Handjobs Holiday,

-JQ - with additonal reporting by CPW

www.thewaitstaff.com

Rejected Christmas Poems

2006-12-02T14:09:00.000-05:00

As those of you who have seen us live know, we like to infuse Culture into our live performances. (It’s a nice counter balance to the raunch.) In that vein I wrote some poetry for our Holiday Spectacular (Sunday, Dec. 10 at World Café Live. Click here to order you tickets.) The first poem is all about the nostalgic images of Santa Claus. The second rejoices in the beauty of Christmas Carols. The third, I had planned, would explore the religious aspect of the holiday. This is what I wrote:

Hey Baby Jesus,
Cute Baby Jesus,
Lying in a manger,
Playing with some straw,
Die for our sins now and save yourself a lot of trouble.

Our director, Charlie, rejected it because it had too much of a "message." He also wanted something longer. So on a drive back from Swathmore late one might, Kurt and I rewrote it and made it into this:

Hey Baby Jesus,
Sweet Baby Jesus,
Lying in a manger,
Wielding a light saber,
Get in your Porche,
Wavin, to the honeys.
Wear lots of Gucci,
And a bitchin' nipple ring.
How ‘bout a man purse,
And lots of bling-bling.
Don’t forget Nintendo,
X-Box 360,
Sipping on the Grey Goose,
Staring at some titties,
Vomit in the gutter,
Run from the police,
Hide out in basements,
With all the junkies.
Shot in the stomach,
By a random stranger,
The world gets darker,
There go your sneakers.

If the fast life don’t kill ya,
The cross will.

Amen

Charlie didn’t like that one either. He thought it still had a sort of "message," was too long, and was also really, really bad.

For my third attempt I went in a completely different direction and handed in this:

A Mid December night
In the woods of Pennsylvania
There are stars up above me.
Like fires of inspiration
My breath on the crisp air makes the pattern of dreams.
The snow envelopes me like an old warm blanket
Comfortable and comforting.
No feeling in my fingers now.
My toes are turning black
That bright light coming towards me,
It must be the Spirit of Christmas

I can’t even comprehend why that little gem isn’t going to be in the show. So I didn’t even bother to read them this one:

Bail not the leaky skiff,
The man inside has no teeth.
He likes the taste of salty squid,
But the salty water chokes him as he drowns.

We have just over a week before the performance (remember, you can order your tickets on-line) and we still don’t have the third poem yet. I’m not too worried. I’m an artist and can crank out these poems in a matter of minutes. I’m sure whatever Charlie approves of will be the ideal length, devoid of any "message," and will fit perfectly with our sketch about Santa having sex with a random stranger.

- CPW

The Waitstaff Quiz!

2006-12-01T09:53:00.000-05:00

How well do YOU know The Waitstaff?

Christmas Videos Posted!

2006-11-22T12:21:00.000-05:00

Check out our videos page here!

Enjoy our Christmas themed videos:

The Jointcracker

and

You Shaved Your P*ssy Like a Christmas Tree For Me

Love Poem

2006-11-20T13:01:00.000-05:00

Some time ago I wrote this poem. It's getting to be that time of year again when it's relevant.

Engulf me in your warm embrace,
You syrupy elixir of unconsciousness.
Lift me up so my lips touch your lips,
And my tongue can lick your numbing oblivion.

Ahh, NyQuil,
Heroine for the congested.

Take me away from the snot and the phlegm and the mucus.
Make me forget my upper respiratory system for just one night.

With you I am sluggish and disoriented,
In the mood for love.

I feel the penetration of your Doxylomine Succinate.
The Dextromethorphan Hydrobromide caresses me from the inside.
Yes, yes, Acetaminophen.
Pseudo - eph - edrine Hy - dro - chlor - ide
Don’t stop, don’t stop.
Until...

Don’t take it personally if I doze off.

So much more than a coughing, achy, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine,
You are a gift from a higher power.
Thank you Procter and Gamble.

Anger Management

2006-11-15T15:49:00.000-05:00

This is a really funny story I can't vouch for it being true, but it's nice to think it is. When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't know.

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered, saying "Hello." I politely said, "This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn Carter?" Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right f**in number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked down Robyn's correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits. After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're an asshole!" and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word 'asshole' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.

Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're an asshole!" It always cheered me up. When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic "asshole calling" would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from Verizon.. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?" He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an asshole!"

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window which included his phone number, so I wrote down the number. A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole (I had his number on speed dial) I thought that I'd better call the BMW asshole, too I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?" "Yes, it is", he said. "Can you tell me where I can see it?" I asked. "Yes, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd , in Vaucluse. It's a yellow house, and the car's parked right out in front." "What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Don Hansen," he said. "When's a good time to catch you, Don?" "I'm home every evening after five." "Listen, Don, can I tell you something?" "Yes?" "Don, you're an asshole!" Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call.

Then I came up with an idea. I called Asshole #1. "Hello." "You're an asshole!" (But I didn't hang up.) "Are you still there?" he asked. "Yeah," I said. "Stop calling me," he screamed. "Make me," I said. "Who are you?" he asked. "My name is Don Hansen." "Yeah! Where do you live?" "Asshole, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd , Vaucluse, a yellow house, with my black Beamer parked in front." He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers." I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, asshole," and hung up. Then I called Asshole #2. "Hello?" he said. "Hello, asshole," I said. He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..." You'll what?" I said. "I'll kick your ass," he exclaimed. I answered, "Well, asshole, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now." Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse. I quickly got into my car and headed over to Mowbray. I got there just in time to watch two assholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six cop cars, an overhead police helicopter and a news crew. Now I feel much better.

Anger management really works...

A Look into My Psyche

2006-11-15T14:55:00.000-05:00

I’m not one to put much into astrology, but I like to keep track of it, just to see how my life is supposed to be going. Here’s last week’s Pisces horoscope from Free Will Astrology

Everyone has about 1,500 dreams a year. Of those, maybe 1,420 are confusing, indecipherable, and can't be mined for valuable revelations about the inner workings of your psyche by even the most skilled dream interpreter. That leaves 80 intensely useful letters to your conscious self from your deep unconscious. Any one of them could break you out of self-defeating patterns and transform your life forever. This week there's an especially high likelihood that your nightly adventures will be beautiful teachings that are coherent enough to recall.

So, here’s what I dreamt last night:

A vampire was stalking me and the only way to kill it was to stab it through the heart with a hard boiled egg. We must have been at high altitude, because the water just would not boil and the best I could do was soft boiled eggs that so obviously could not pierce skin, much less the breast bone of a preternatural creature of the night, but, ironically, are much tastier than hard boiled eggs.

What does it all mean?

- CPW

My Mid-Term Election Hero

2006-11-08T11:21:00.000-05:00

The mid-terms are over, and I feel fine. Not because the candidates I felt strongly about won their races. Not because Britney Spears and Kevin Federline are getting divorced. Not because I had a really good cup of coffee yesterday afternoon.

No, I feel fine because I was privy to some of the most honest election coverage I’ve ever seen.

Let’s be real, a newsroom has to be one of the most bustling, busy places during elections. So many races to cover, so many reporters to dispatch. There has to be an anchor that is the ringmaster of this political circus. And locally, on 6abc, that anchor was Jim Gardner, my mid-term election hero.

My Hero

Now, I only watched about ten to fifteen minutes of election coverage. I’m not a very political minded person, and I had ironing to do. But this wonderful man, Jim Gardner, made those few minutes as sweet as any leftover Halloween candy.

First act of heroism:

The station always sends a reporter to cover each of the candidates’ campaign headquarters. To cover each of the numerous candidates, they end up sending out these second rate reporters. People you’d normally never stick in front of a camera (or any ocular device for that matter): the third string meteorologist, the janitor, the editor’s mom, etc.

And if the reporters are bad, just imagine how far down the chain their film crews must be. "Great, here’s my spot to shine, and I get stuck with some dude whose qualifications are that he once taped his dog taking a poop."

Case in point, Miss Erin O’Hearn, covering the Fitzpatrick/Murphy race (Irish unite!). Cut to Erin (we’ll pretend we’re on a first name basis) at Murphy’s headquarters, where she is in a silent movie. Her lips move, but so sound whatsoever. My hero, Mr. Gardner (Mister, ‘cuz he’s the man) comes to her rescue, citing “sound difficulties”, and moves on to the next campaign headquarters.

But Erin would make a triumphant return, oh yes, coming out of a commercial break. This time, we can hear the gathered crowd behind her cheering for their candidate, but nothing she is saying into the microphone. How’s that work? This time, Mr. Gardner is a little slower to jump to her aid. Erin, speaking with all her might into a dead mic, is then interrupted by an increasingly irate Mr. Gardner, “Erin, Erin, still not… we’ll come back.” And he had to yell for her to hear him on her earpiece over the assembled crowd, which was, by the way, coming through crystal clear.

But Erin was back after the next break to complete this unholy trilogy. This time, her voice was a shadow underneath the hulking sound of the crowd, with Mr. Gardner imploring her to yell so she could be heard… and then the screen flickered for a moment and was then filled with a defeated Mr. Gardner, who deadpanned a lovely “…and now, we can’t even see her.” And he had this “you’ve got to be f*cking kidding me” look on his face. Priceless.

Get it together, woman!

Second act of heroism:

In the midst of a huge political shift, Mr. Gardner was then forced to deliver this breaking ‘news’:

“Britney Spears filed for divorce today from her husband, Kevin Federline. The two have been married since 2004 and have two sons together. And so, they… are… done.”

His delivery of that last line was FAN-TASTIC!

Such dichotomy in that sentence. An end not only to their marriage, but also their retardedly half-witted fame. Well done, sir!

Britney and K-Fed divorce? That’s not news, you douchebags. If you really care that much about two people you’ve never met (actually met and had a conversation with, not a sweaty palmed handshake and an effort to get them to sign your t-shirt), please do us all a favor and go jump in front of traffic.

But not on the Blue Route southbound. I have to get home in time to watch Mr. Gardner on the news.

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

My Exciting Life

2006-11-06T21:15:00.000-05:00

A coworker came up to me today and asked, "What'd you do this weekend?" and I honestly answered, "I had some really bland soup."

- CPW

Adventures in Traffic

2006-11-03T10:45:00.000-05:00

As I’ve blogged before, I have a hellish commute to my job. And between that commute and my commute from work to Waitstaff rehearsal, I spend a fair share of my life on the road. Which would normally sound cool: “Yeah, I’m always on the road.” When in fact the road I’m referring to only encompasses about 40 miles. How sad.

But the road is never dull, never boring. (That last statement is covered in creamy sarcasm. I squoze it myself.)

Consequently, some very mundane occurrences I’ve taken in while on the road stick out in my mind, because, hey, there’s nothing else really happening. Now, in an effort to remove one of them from my psyche, I share it with you.

The Lighting Pole

On my way to a Waitstaff rehearsal, I got held up in a fairly formidable traffic jam. Turning on the news on the radio, I discovered during their traffic report that a light pole had fallen across the roadway going westbound. It was causing a gaper delay eastbound, the direction I was heading, but had effectively blocked all lanes going the other way. Which made me both happy and upset; happy that I wasn’t headed westbound and caught in that mess, and upset because I cannot STAND gaper delays.

Unless there’s a head rolling across traffic, I don’t understand why people have to gape at some dude who forgot to fill up as he stands on the side of the road on his cell phone. He’ll be fine. Now F*CKIN’ DRIVE!!!!

However, in this instance, as I inched closer to the “accident” site, I could see why people were slowing down to stare.

Not one, not two, but seven police cars were on the scene. Seven! You can’t even get that many when there’s been a drive-by! And I didn’t even mention the emergency vehicle, the maintenance truck, and the fire engine, did I? Well, now I did.

And behind this wall of flashing lights and buzzed haircuts sat the grumbling denizens of the westbound lane, frothing at the mouth, leaning on their horns, completely cut off from their road to freedom.

And there was the pole, lying on its side across the roadway, alone, light broken, scattered across the cold asphalt surrounded by machines and people. It was almost… sad.

But, that wasn’t what was fascinating to me about this cacophonous scene. This was not why I had turned into one of the things I hate most, a rubbernecker.

It was what the six men standing by the pole were doing:

Nothing.

They were gathered around it, staring at it. Looking at it like a football player looks at a tampon. Sure, they know what it is, they just don’t know what to do with it.

To me, it was obvious. "You grab over there, you grab there, and we swing it around until it’s no longer blocking traffic." Simple, right? Easy, right? That had to have occurred to them, right?

Apparently not. They just gathered around it, like a crime scene. I was waiting for someone to start doing a chalk outline.

“We’re pretty sure he purposefully jumped in front of traffic,” they would say in a police statement.

“We had fallen on some tough times,” his telephone pole wife would later say on the six o’clock news, while their son, a mile marker, wept silently in the background, “but I never thought he would resort to this.”

Life and death on the road. It affects us all.

In Memoriam…

Hugs and Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

How to Make a Good Impression

2006-11-01T18:58:00.000-05:00

As many people know, I just do this sketch comedy thing to make ends meet. It’s a stop gap until I can earn a living at my true calling, receptioning. That’s right, it’s my dream to be a professional receptionist. I’m getting there. I have a job answering phones at a small copying firm. It’s everything I ever hoped it would be, but I know someday I’ll make it to the big time.

One of the neat things about being a receptionist is that I get to meet all the people who come in to apply for jobs. I have the power to nix an applicant before they even get an interview. A smart applicant knows that making a good impression with the receptionist is the first step in landing a new job.

After 5 1/2 months at my dream job I’ve seen some mistakes at making a good impression. I’m sharing with you what I’ve learned so that you won’t make the same mistake.

1.) Learn how to operate a door. Yes, technology can be scary, but doors are almost everywhere now and most employers expect employees to be able to, at a minimum, open and shut them. Take some time to familiarize yourself with these modern day marvels. People will notice.

2.) Bathe. Now I know that not everyone needs to shower every day and deodorant is forced on us by big conglomerates as just another way to get money from us. I respect people who say, “A human smell is not a bad smell. Down with the Man.” But your funk should not linger in a room 20 minutes after you’ve left.

3.) Go to a bar to pick up women, not a job interview. Don’t refer to the receptionist (me) as “Baby” and under no circumstances should you say to the receptionist (again, me) “You better not be playing with me, ‘cause you know I like the BIG girls” even if it is meant as a compliment. (The only way that sentence would make me feel good is if Tom Welling said it.)

If you take the advice of a professional receptionist, you’re sure to land your very own dream job.

-CPW

www.thewaitstaff.com

Clocked

2006-10-23T14:30:00.001-04:00

From Dictionary.com:

v. clocked
1. To time, as with a stopwatch: clock a runner.
2. To register or record with a mechanical device: clocked the winds at 60 miles per hour.

Then, I found this definition on UrbanDictionary.com:

v. clocked
1. Act of knocking someone the fuck out: Hey biatch, you got clocked!

Which I found very amusing. And closer to the connotation I was looking for.

I would like to add another definition to this list:

v. clocked
1. Losing because of time, or lack thereof, as depicted by a device used to tell time.
2. What happened to the Philadelphia Eagles this past week.

Yep, it’s a sports blog! FOOLED YOU! (snicker)

Yesterday, with 4 seconds remaining, the Eagles lost to the Buccaneers because Matt Bryant, the Tampa Bay kicker, hit an improbable 62 yard field goal with four seconds left.

62 yards! For those of you not familiar with football, the NFL record for a field goal is 63 yards, which has only been done twice. Ever! Matter of fact, only four guys (now five) have ever hit a field goal that was 60 yards or more.

"But it has been done", you say. And I say, "Yes, it has, but not by some bum who hasn’t hit anything over 40 yards all year and who’s career long up to now was only 50 yards." And by now I'm choking you.

But here’s the thing. Four seconds. Without those four seconds, the Bucs don’t win. Without those four agonizingly small ticks, those damn Iggles win. The only reason I bring this up is because the Birds had a chance to run those four seconds off the clock. At least, one Bird did. The excellent and awesome Brian Westbrook, whose heroics go unsung far too often, and was the only Eagle who looked fresh the entire game. His late game 52 yard catch and run touchdown was impressive, fantastic, and should’ve taken four seconds longer. I now want you to see the play I just described, where Mr. Westbrook makes four people miss, and I want you to watch the very end of the play.

He slows down to a walk! Had all the time in the world. Could’ve had tea and crumpets, or maybe more appripo, a cheesesteak. But he slowed down, and could’ve shaved FOUR seconds off the clock. Now, by no means am I suggesting that Westbrook should have known to stay out of the endzone for four seconds, should have known that those seconds would cost them the game, should’ve known that Matt “I’m Nobody” Bryant would hit a 62 yard field goal to win it.

But man, did I want H.G. Wells’ time machine, or at least an ’85 Delorean. Just to be able to yell at Westbrook something about theatrics, to take his time, to moonwalk into the endzone (which is kind of hard in cleats), something to take those four F-ing ticks off the clock. But alas, H.G. Well’s dream machine was absent, and Michael J. Fox was too busy guest-starring on some show desperate for ratings.

And so, the Eagles got clocked: They got knocked the fuck out.

But they also got clocked: Losing because of time or lack thereof, as depicted by a device used to tell time.

Of course, there’s always clocked: Getting knocked the fuck out with a device used to tell time. See below:

Kids are stupid,

n. JQ
1. A bitter and hateful Philadelphia sports fan (Like there’s any other kind.)

www.thewaitstaff.com

Paging Mr. Butczjek

2006-10-19T16:12:00.000-04:00

So I'm responding to my own recent posting about Hemawipes as this story ain't dead yet.

As you recall, bunkies, there is now a hemawipe shortage. My managers are yelling up and down about scrounging 'just a few more' of the loveable little poop-swoopers. Now Waldo(not his real name) , a guy in my office, decided to crack wise and tell Clyde ( it's his real name, but he won't admit to it) , our CFO, that he's looking into a company called Butchek that still may have some. Clyde thanked Waldo and then proceeded to drive himself crazy looking all over the Net for Butchek Industries, of course to no avail. Then Waldo, sitting at his desk, calls the outside number of our company, and gets the receptionist, who sits within earshot of me and had her speakerphone on:

"Hello, So-and So Services.''

'Yes, can I speak to Clyde, please?'

"Who's calling?"

'This is Allen, from Butchek Industries.'

The receptionist, being no dummy, hung up on Waldo.

But now it's gone too far. I made a record in our ACT customer relationship management (CRM) software for Butchek Industries in Split Cheek, MO, located at 1400 Butchek Boulevard. We've named the founder Wladislov Butczjek, a Slavic immigrant who revolutionized the ass-wipe industry. Now the company is so sccessful they have to diversify.

So here's where I ask for your help.

Let's say you were a stool screening mogul (and I'm guessing some of you must be), and you had a need to diversify your, uh, holdings. Where would you invest? I'd like to see some of the non-waitstaffers who follow this blog, and you both know who you are, respond with your suggestions.

What do you think?

- Steve Lippe

aka The Notorious L.I.P., aka Biggie Size

www.thewaitstaff.com

Anthem for a Generation

2006-10-17T21:10:00.000-04:00

The other day I got a tune stuck in my head, so I made up words I could sing to it. It went like this…

I’ll tell you,
If I like it,
And I’ll lie there,
As you do it some more.

I know, I know. GENIUS. And because I write and perform for a sketch troupe (Yes, “TROUPE,” Mr. Lippe) my first thought was that this little ditty had to be turned into a song, a song we could perform on stage to the laughter and applause of thousands of adoring fans. But what would the song be about? What?

And then it hit me. Apathy. I was going to write the definitive song about apathy. It would be a rallying cry that would ring out the truth about people who just don’t care enough to do anything. It would shame those lazy bums into getting off their asses and doing something for once in their lives. Years from now it would be mentioned in textbooks how I galvanized a generation through a humorous song.

And what a song it was going to be. The lyrics would be funny but honest, and most likely rhyme. They’d definitely have to be better than that crap I’d thought up earlier. And the music. Something catchy and inspirational. I don’t actually read music, so I’d need to learn how to do that first.

The more I thought about it the more I realized that if I wanted to write the definitive song about apathy it was going to take a lot of work. So I didn’t bother with it at all.

- CPW

www.thewaitstaff.com

Have a Seat

2006-10-13T16:33:00.000-04:00

I got a new toilet seat. It’s nothing special (boring white, sturdy plastic), but that’s what’s so great about it. See, my last toilet seat was a little too exciting for me.

Let me just say for the record that I am an adventurous person. I surf the net without virus protection, I eat spinach, I go to bars with other members of The Waitstaff. I live life on the edge. But my old toilet seat was a little too edgy for me.

It was a plushy toilet seat with a wood grain, vinyl cover. My understanding is that the person who lived in my apartment before the person who lived in my apartment before me bought it at the dollar store. It had a hard time staying screwed to the bowl and often it would shoot out from under me as I sat there… contemplating things.

I used to think unusual and spontaneous were admirable qualities, but now I’m beginning to find the beauty in stability and predictability. Am I growing boring or am I growing up?

I think the latter.

Also, I think I spend too much time thinking about toilet seats.

- CPW

www.thewaitstaff.com

WIPEWORTHY

2006-10-10T16:06:00.000-04:00

So at my day job, we find out the people who make Hemawipes have gone out of business. I'm sure this raises some questions. Yes, I have a day job, despite the scads of money The Waitstaff pays me every 4 days to write crap like this. No, you can't get paid for writing crap like this for The Waitstaff. Yes, I'll tell you what Hemawipes are, and why you care.

My company provides occupational health testing to industrial sites - mostly tests that require a physical, which calls for a stool screening. If you are the only one who doesn't know, a stool is, to put it in scientific terms, a turd. A Hemawipe makes this easy to do. Rather than going to a lab, taking a squat in a test tube and dropping it off at the front desk, a Hemawipe allows you to, in the privacy of your own home, or out in public somewhere, you sick, sick bastard, simply take a quick "wipe" of the ol' tushie-hole and put it in the envelope and mail it in! Postage paid! Goes to the lab, and they tell you if you're a cancer-ridden loser or not. But. The last company that makes the cute li'l items has, to paraphrase Vonnegut, turned belly-up and gone bang!in the noonday sun.

So, we have a limited supply. And our clients are starting to clamor for them. It's a clanging cacophony of clinging corn-holes sans the comforting cloth of Hemawipe comfort.

For what is the alternative? How may you now submit your poopy to the annonymous medical professionals whose sacred task it is to evaluate your shit (and this post was profanity-free til now. Shit.)?

It's a popscicle stick.

Yes, a little wooden sliver you scrape your bung-hole with (OK, you're really supposed to scrape it off some toilet paper you used, but where's the challenge in that?)and submit it to Dr. Hankie.

So,I ask you, and I demand you speak the truth...

ARE YOU WIPEWORTHY?

-Lippe

www.thewaitstaff.com

The Waitstaff plays COMEDY WEEK at THE PLAYGROUND October 18th, 2006

2006-10-05T14:45:00.000-04:00

Comedy Week - October 18-20, 2006! A showcase of Philly's most talented sketch, improv, stand-up and comic music acts. Each night features a set of different acts. Save $$ when you come on multiple nights! One night: $12; Two nights: $20, Three nights: $21. Student discounts are also available.

The Playground at the Adrienne Theatre
2030 Sansom Street
Philadelphia, PA 19103

THE WAITSTAFF anchors the Wednesday, October 18th showcase!! 8pm showtime!
Check us out!

Comedy Week's Official Site - BUY TICKETS NOW!

www.thewaitstaff.com

It wasn't Mark Foley! It was The Roman Catholic Church!

2006-10-04T10:18:00.000-04:00

So, I'm sure you've all heard of this Mark Foley thing in the news.

Attorney David Roth, speaking on Foley's behalf at a Florida news conference Tuesday, said Foley was molested between ages 13 and 15 by a clergyman. He declined to identify the clergyman or the church, but Foley is Roman Catholic.

"Mark does not blame the trauma he sustained as a young adolescent for his totally inappropriate" e-mails and instant messages, Roth said. "He continues to offer no excuse whatsoever for his conduct."

Then why the hell bring it up? I call bullshit. Hell, I call bulldiarrhea.

------------------------------------------

SHAGGY
Gee Scoob, I don't know why Rep. Mark Foley would act that way.

FRED
Hey, gang, I don't think were seeing the whole picture.

[Removes Mask]

EVERYONE
(Gasp) The Roman Catholic Church?!

VELMA
Jinkies!

THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH
Yeah, it was me, and I would've gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for you meddling kids!

SCOOBY DOO
Scrooby Doobie Doo!

Hugs and (Legal Age) Handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

The Love of My Life

2006-10-03T16:20:00.000-04:00

If life is like a romantic comedy, and we are destined to end up with the one who annoys us the most, then I'm going to end up with my office's postage machine. God I hate that thing, but we do make a cute couple.

- CPW

T.O.'d

2006-10-02T11:18:00.000-04:00

Despite being a lifelong Philadelphian, I'm not an Eagles fan. (I'm not a sports guy at all, so don't take it personally.) But it's impossible not to take note of TO and his unwelcome media-baiting peccadilloes. I don't want to make any value judgements, but TO's a flaming asshole who should be removed from the public conscience, never to return. I don't know, but I've been told, non-stop media plays get mighty old. Not that I'm saying this latest little pill-popping episode was an attempt to get publicity, but TO's recent pill-popping episode was simply an attempt to get publicity. I wish I could just ignore him, but he's too big, too bad, too often plastered on the pixels like a too-often-played McDonald's spot to just pretend he doesn't exist.
Soloutions? Easy. I don't have any. If anyone does, please let me know c/o this blog, as soon as you can. Perhaps we can arrange for an all-TO/Dennis Rodman/Pat Robertson site, where anyone who wants to see flamboyant sports-slash-televangelist-personality-disordered pituitary cases revel in thir own testosterone-induced delusions of grandeur could get their fill at will, instead of having it stuffed down the throats of an unwiling audience who justwant to see how bad the contestants on "American Idol" suck this season.

You, the individual is the only one who can do this on a collective basis. So let's all band together for individuality, and conform to the standard of diversity.

And, TO, got any spare Percocets?

- Lippe

You're the Shitzu!

2006-09-29T15:33:00.000-04:00

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'

2006-09-27T12:23:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-09-26T13:55:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-21T13:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-20T14:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-20T09:46:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-19T12:00:00.000-04:00

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!!

2006-09-19T11:31:00.000-04:00

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!!!!

2006-09-18T09:54:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-13T12:32:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-13T11:20:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-11T10:10:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-09-05T12:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-05T11:39:00.000-04:00

A baby seal walks into a club...

www.thewaitstaff.com

NFC EAST will dominate...

2006-09-05T11:04:00.000-04:00

...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...

2006-09-05T09:37:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-03T14:52:00.000-04:00

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

How Cool Are You?

2006-08-31T10:30:00.000-04:00

COOL PERSON TEST

www.thewaitstaff.com

get it right, jocko

2006-08-29T13:22:00.000-04:00

So, since we've become a group (God, I hate the word "Troupe", but that's another rant), everyone and their blessed mother is calling us an "improv" group. It's almost 5 years on, but we still get thought of as an "improv" team by so many outside the warm comforting bath of the sketch community.

When we first started, after a show, some audience guy came up to me and said, "How much of this was improv?"

After a friendly chuckle and reaching into his gullett to remove his spleen, I explained we did not do improv, not that we have anything against it, we do scripted comedy. "Sketch", the kids call it these days.

"What fun is that?" he replied. Oy...

As we got a little more well-known, we found ourselves booked into
a fairly well-known nightclub. They assured us we'd be in their weekly house ad, and we were: "THE WAITSTAFF - IMPROV SKETCH COMEDY".

Ya can't win, sez I.

Just this week, a good friend of mine, a wonderful actor, left me a voice message, saying "I know you're busy with the improv thing..."

Please, please, I implore you, if you see me coming, and you know pissing me off is VERY DANGEROUS INDEED, have the good sense to say, "Hey, Steve, how's the sketch comedy troupe going?"

Of course, I'd prefer you'd say "group" or "team", but as long as you don't say improv, I'll retain my bile for another day.

-Lippe

www.thewaitstaff.com

I was late for work today…

2006-08-23T17:06:00.000-04:00

I was late for work today.

Oh, I guess I should mention I’m late just about every day. Not too much, more than five minutes, less than ten. But nevertheless, as the definition of late goes, I am definitely late. But today, I shouldn’t have been.

Usually when I’m late, I don’t care. Nobody in a position of power at my job seems to, either, so there that is. So, if I don’t care, and they don’t care, I might as well be late.

But today, for whatever reason, I left my abode early enough so that I should not have been late.

I have a 20+ mile drive to work. I do take a major highway, but I do not go toward a major metropolitan area. It takes me anywhere from 25-40 minutes, depending on volume, etc.

Today, the road started backing up about 2/3 into my a.m. exodus. As I said, I am going away from a city area, so usually the traffic thins out at this stage of my trip. So, naturally, I assume there is an accident. Which is fine. They happen, but with me being so close to work now, and flirting with not being late, I was getting kinda bummed with how traffic was moving.

When you’re the “late guy” in the office, whenever you’re not late, everybody gives you that look of “Wow, I can’t believe you’re here this early,” or they might say, “Wow, I can’t believe you’re here this early.”

Now, as the late-goer, I have to admit, those looks and those comments give you a sense of accomplishment, and is about the only time I feel that when I’m at my job. This is why so many people are late for work across the country. Being early once a month is the only time they get that, “I did something worthwhile at my job today” feeling. Sad, isn’t it?

So, looking forward to that feeling and being thwarted by traffic, I was extremely disappointed when I found out what was causing the delay. And when I say disappointed, I mean fucking LIVID.

In the left lane of this three-lane highway, there is a large truck going about 3 miles per hour. On it, clear as day, a huge lighted arrow pointing to the right, indicating that the motorists in the left lane should merge.

I know, you’re thinking, it’s a construction vehicle, what’s the big deal? Indeed, I said the same thing… until I drove past the truck and saw the “construction” it was warning us away from:

A Mexican riding a lawnmower.

Hugs and handjobs,

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Webtracker

2006-08-23T14:49:00.000-04:00

The Plastic Bag Sketch

2006-08-15T15:16:00.000-04:00

See Waitstaffer Dennis DiClaudio muse about one his most infamous creations, The Plastic Bag Sketch @ Dostoevsky is Dead.

The Waistaff Interviewed on Sketchcenter!

2006-08-15T14:07:00.000-04:00

What's up, gang?!

We, The Waitstaff, as represented by Kurt Runco & John DiFelice (Being the handsomest, and also those with nothing better to do), were interviewed for Sketchcenter.com this past April Fool's Day.

Hey, we're nothing if not prompt.

For an insight into The Waitstaff on the what, the how, and the who (not the band), check out the interview here.

www.thewaitstaff.com

Field Hockey is not a “hot girl” sport…

2006-08-09T11:49:00.000-04:00

On my way to work everyday, I drive past a college campus. Every summer they hold what looks to be a field hockey camp. There are fifty to sixty college age girls running around in shorts and tight shirts. And I am not attracted to a single one. See, I’m not a perv.

“Why aren't you attracted?” you may ask. You may also ask "Why do I care?"

My answer: they play field hockey. And when I say they play field hockey, I mean that they are not hot.

Field hockey is not a “hot girl” sport. I have yet to see a female that plays field hockey that’s not built like a brick shithouse.

There are no female linebackers in the NFL. They’re all playing field hockey.

Oh, and that mouth guard? Not helping anyone, ladies…

...and the skirt does not compensate. Thelma Thunderthighs is not at the top of my ‘gawk at’ list.

Oh, for those who would argue, I offer this. There are some, SOME girls who are not butt ugly, but I would not categorize them as “hot”. They are “cute”.

I mean, for every one of these:

(Cute, right? But not “hot”.)

There are three of these:

No offense to these three, um, girls, but they’re not on the “hot” list, am I right?
Did I just say, “No offense”? That might be the most offensive thing you can say to a person: “Oh, guess what, you’re ugly.”

Well, I’ve done my job for the day. I’ve made three more people insecure about themselves.
Of course, almost right after writing this, I came across the following:

And I apologize.

Hugs and handjobs, kids.

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

Honeymoon in Europe - Part II

2006-08-08T10:09:00.000-04:00

So, I know you’ve been licking your chops in anticipation and quite frankly, it’s unattractive. Seriously, stop it. To continue the epic journey, here is this weeks installment of My Honeymoon in Europe.

Barcelona, SPAIN - 8am

So we land in Barcelona, and I’m a crotchety mess. My beautiful wife, god love her, claimed she had no problem with the time change. I believe she said, “The sun came back up, and my body’s like, ok, let’s go!”. I love her, but at that point, I could’ve strangled her. Ah, marriage.

Barcelona’s airport is pretty nice. The only thing that kinda sucked was that you had to take a bus from the plane to the terminal. Except this bus had no seats. It was basically a subway car on wheels, with bars sprouting from everywhere for people to hang on to. It looked like something the A-team would’ve built in the last ten minutes of an episode. They overcrowd these conveyances with people who’ve just sat for roughly eight hours straight, forcing them to all of a sudden try to stand on a jostling bus for ten minutes. The ground crew must find it enormously amusing, watching these foreigners make an ass of themselves trying to stay upright. I sure as hell did.

As I said, Barcelona’s airport is pretty nice, and it’s also organized, and we sailed through customs, got our bags, and we we’re ready to move onto grabbing a cab to our hotel. But, first things first. We needed an ATM to get some local cash, that being the Euro. Thing is, nothing is labeled ATM. I was expecting that. What I wasn’t expecting was that no machines had that “these cards accepted here” thing, you know, labels for Mastercard, Visa, Cirrus, those other weird ones that are there but you don’t read… Now, there are machines that LOOK like ATM machines, but they are in fact, exchange machines. Handy device, but no help. Then, thankfully, a native (that sounds awfully primitive, doesn’t it? But it IS the right word, right?) used a machine off to the left, and I saw the flash of pink paper that signifies foreign money. To me, anyway.

As you probably know, most ATMs in the US offer two languages, English and Spanish, in that order. This ATM offered twelve. Twelve! I was halfway tempted to try the one that looked like Sanscrit, just for giggles, but there was a line forming behind me.

Got our bags, got our cash, let’s grab a TAXI!

Ok, I was not that exuberant. (Let me make it clear that in my state of mind at the time, had anyone within ten feet of me been anywhere near that “chipper”, I would have actually put them in a chipper.)

There was a two lane taxi stand in front of the airport and, I dunno why, but I found it weird that the cabbies stood outside their cars while waiting for passengers. They would talk with each other, or lean against their cab and read a paper. I’ve never seen that in Philly or NY. You leave your car unattended, it’ll get thiefed! (I happen to like that ‘not really a word’, so excuse me.)

So, the two front cabbies were of course standing outside, conversing. One was an older, I’d say late fifties, gentleman, and the other, a curly-haired, fortyish woman. Neither spoke English, but between our Frommer’s Spanish phrase book (more on that in a later post), and the two of them deciphering our horrible inflection, the curly haired woman ushered us inside her cab and started us on our journey to the Hilton Diagonal Mar, which by the way is pronounced “Mar”, not “Mar.” You read that right.

I have to say, Barcelona has the nicest cabs I’ve ever seen. Every single one looked brand spankin’ new, and it was so clean I would’ve eaten off the seat… of a CAB, people! Our cab was a Peugeot, a car you no longer see in the U.S. (Once again, more that in a later post)

Also, our curly haired cabbie was extremely nice, and seemed to want to talk to us, even though we spoke nary a word of her language. (I usually hate when people try to talk to you like they know you or something when you’ve just met them and will only know them for like five minutes. That’s why I never got that Taxicab Confessions show. Who the hell shares that kind of info with some dude you just met? Seriously, are all of your friends and family that untrustworthy?) So, I usually hate that, however, in this instance, I found it sweet. She was making an attempt to make us foreigners welcome in her country, no matter what. I found myself lifting slightly out of my miserable, “I haven’t slept at all” mood.

The Hilton is located to the east of Center Barcelona, right near the coast, but past where the major port is. It was about a half hour trip, maybe less, and we drove past one of the coolest/creepiest things I’ve ever seen just as we left the airport. On a cliff side, there was a peculiar engineering marvel. It looked like an Excel spreadsheet built into side of the cliff:

I realized it's hard to see, but look at the top row at those honeycomb looking things. In a moment I realized what we were looking at: a cemetery. But this cemetery used the cliff side as basically an enormous mausoleum. There were columns about seven openings high and rows about twenty long. Columns upon columns and rows upon rows of square openings, each opening housing a casket. Those in use had a pane of glass covering the opening, those awaiting their eternal twinkie filling stood gaping, a horizontal hole in a vertical finger of earth. Amazing.

When I’m fascinated by something, I usually forget the mood I’m in. I tend to dwell on bad things when they happen, and I need something of interest to break me out of my festering moods. Barcelona is a visceral, fascinatingly beautiful city, with sculptures, amazing architecture, and an abundance of greenery that catches the eye. My black mood was slowly being eaten away by this amazing place.

However, that black mood had been nicely masking my exhaustion. I was crashing. Fast. I needed a bed and a nap. Stat. It was still only 9am, early enough that I wouldn’t feel bad for catching a couple hours sleep before really ‘starting’ the vacation. Which is why I was so looking forward to getting to the Hilton, as they allow early check-in as long as you inform them, which we had.

So when we pulled into the Hilton, my eyes felt like lead, and I was giddy. Normally I would never use that word in civilized conversation, or in this case blogversation, but there is no other word for it. Giddy. I was a goofy, uncomprehending mess. We entered the Hilton, whose lobby was beautiful, in hindsight, but at that moment I had tunnel vision for the front desk.

I give my name and checked in. No problems until the attendant goes to give me a room. “Oh, I’m sorry sir, your room is not quite ready yet. Could you come back in a half hour?”

I know what you’re thinking. I went ballistic, didn’t I?

We'll find out after this next commercial break...

I always wanted to do that!

-JQ

www.thewaitstaff.com

VIDEOS!

2006-08-02T16:45:00.000-04:00

You Shaved Your P*ssy Like a Christmas Tree For Me

The Jointcracker

Tough Being An Actor

The Last Supper

Guns!

Honeymoon in Europe - Part I

2006-07-31T11:16:00.000-04:00

By Joe Quirk

So, I got married on the 1st of July (hold for applause), and you know what? I married out of my range. I got a hot wife! (hold for applause). So, I rule, and you can suck it. (hold for thrown knives, garbage, bullets, etc.)

Anywho, we went to Europe for our Honeymoon. My wife (still getting used to that) and I took a cruise around the Mediterranean. So, I invite you to follow me on Quirk's Honeymoon in Europe. New installments to follow, hopefully on a regular basis.

The Flight Over

We flew out of Philadelphia direct to Barcelona, Spain. This is an eight hour flight leaving @ 5:25pm EST, and with the time difference we would arrive bright eyed and bushy tailed @ 7:45 in the morning.

I refer to this part of the trip as Joe's Personal Hell.

This was the plan: sleep for as long as possible on the flight, and be rearing to go when we got there. The flight started ok. As soon as my wife and I sat down, the instant drowsiness hit us. Why is it that the knowledge that you dont have to worry about driving somewhere instantly gives you permission to sleep? I used to do that all the time. My sister and I used to work at the same place, and she would drive us the 40 minute plus commute every day. As soon as my ass hit the passenger seat I was asleep for 38 of those minutes. This led to an awful confrontation about two weeks into the arrangement, but that story can wait for another day...

So, the drowsiness sets in, and I'm like, perfect, I'll be out in minutes and when I wake up, I'll be smelling paella! Not because we'd be in Spain, but because the guy across from me smelled like paella.

Here is exactly where the flight took a turn for the worst. The fuckers served us dinner. And you've GOTTA eat the dinner, right? I mean, you paid your right kidney for the flight, youre gonna take every goddamn scrap of food they throw at ya, even if its been sitting in a hangar for four years. You can't NOT take it. And what you can't eat, you stuff in your pockets like mongrels. I think I still have the cookie they gave us for dessert.

So, they give us these steamed packages that look like TV dinners, only smaller. I had the beef brisket. And I gotta be honest- it was pretty fuckin' good. I was shocked. Appalled. How dare they serve GOOD food on an airplane?!

Now my body's got food, and my metabolism kicks up (Look, it's health class, kids!), and all of a sudden, I'm no longer drowsy. Matter of fact, I am wide-a-fuckin'-wake. Great.

I think at this point I pulled out my mini DVD player, thinking that it would put me in a boob tube trance and send my mind back to rest. Also, at this time they turned out the lights in the cabin, as if they saw me trying to watch a film and wanted to be considerate and get rid of the glare. I started to relax a little.

About an hour and a half into Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire (Hold all comments until the end of the blog, please), I'm wishing Harry would stop whining like a bitch and I'm yearning every time they show the kids waking up from a restful slumber. Fuckin' wizards. I turn off the damn movie.(I'd seen it already anyway and, oh, yeah, Cedric gets killed at the end.)

At this point my new wife pulls out a sleep mask, tastefully adorned with the message, "Do Not Disturb", in a lovely cursive script, and a pair of neon pink and yellow earplugs. After a moment of "There is no effing way", I concede and give them a try. These earplugs are like that memory foam stuff: you rub them in your hands until they're small cylinders, then stick them fairly far into your ear hole, and they expand to fit your ear, nullifying just about every noise in the vicinity. I put the first one in my left ear, and WOW, what a difference, this could work after all!
Until I realized my right ear canal has an off-ramp. Seriously, I plunged the plug in my right ear, and it wouldn't go in. I pulled it out and the end of the earplug was BENT! Apparently, theres a hairpin left turn in my ear, and I can't maneuver the earplug around it. But that didn't stop me from trying. Oh NO. Three quarters of a freaking hour later, I'm at an impasse, perfectly stoppered left ear, right ear open like a goddamn bottomless abyss and sloping to the left. I'm surprised it wasn't bleeding. I remove the left earplug in defeat.

As you can imagine, I'm frustrated now, and all I want do is sleep for the 5 hours plus we have left. Thing is, when you WANT to go to sleep, there's no way its gonna happen.

Ok, four hours left, where did that last hour go? I've gotta get at least a little sleep.
At this juncture I remember, because I had never been on this long a flight, I had some Dramamine with me, just in case. And what's one of Dramamine's glorious side-affects? Drowsiness! With barely contained joy I reached into my pocket and pulled forth my little white circular saviors.

At this time, I'd like to point out that what I had was not Dramamine... exactly. It was the CVS equivalent.

Now, the fact that it was the generic CVS brand was not the problem. The problem lies with the packaging. It's your regular blister pack, you push the pill through the silver backing. We've all seen them, right? Well, what differentiates real Dramamine from the god forsaken CVS brand is that, on the CVS package, there is a white paper backing on top of the silver backing. We've all done this before, you peel of the white paper and proceed with the regular push through process. EXCEPT, CVS wants you to earn their product. Oh, YESSIR. I used my nails, my teeth, my effing WATCHBAND to try and peel back that fucking paper layer! NOTHING! For a half hour or more I struggled with this tightly packaged demon seed, to no avail. I chucked it at the floor and let the insanity that was slowly creeping up my mind settle in. I muttered to myself and shifted constantly, pissed off not only by my lack of razor sharp nails, but by the peacefully sleeping denizens populating the plane. why Why WHY!

...

They were showing "Rumor Has It" on the plane, for those people choosing not to sleep (like, two people.) and those having trouble sleeping (By my count, um, ME). I wasn't plugged in to the sound, but my seething brain was fascinated by this moving picture on the wall at the head of the cabin. It was about five minutes later when I realized that Jennifer Aniston is just as annoying whether she is speaking or not. I would make up dialogue for the characters, and every time Kevin Costner spoke (I remember giving his character a stupid name, Captain something? Its escaping me.), he would threaten Anistons life, even when he was making out with her. It amused me, time passed, and my eyes closed...
... just as the lights came on.

SONUVA BITCH!

To be continued...

-JQ