Welcome to Hell, Population: Me

There are many times when I'm in the restaurant alone. It's kind of nice except for one thing. The fucking phone. I have to answer it and get my ear chewed off by the most cretinous pack of dim witted fuckheads that god ever shoveled guts into. I'm talking about customers! Let me give you an example:
"(censored) Bistro, can I help you?"
"Um, yea! Ha ha! Um, I, um. Well, my uncle is coming to town from Atlanta, and he's really nice and, um , his wife is coming with him and she has three children from a previous marriage. Or is it two? Two or three. Anyway, he learned to speak German in the eighties when he was in the army and he's always telling jokes in German and he does a little dance and it's real cute. His wife told me her kids love it but I've never met them. Anyway, since they're in town I thought, heck! Why don't we all go out to eat together! So I thought maybe we'd go out for German food but my husband is allergic to wienerschnitzel so I thought...
...Three kids! It's three kids! I've seen pictures, they're darling. Anyway, um, I thought we'd come in there because I think she might like it and I was watching TV last night and I got in the mood for pasta and my shoes kind of look like the color of Marsala sauce so do you have room for four people at six o'clock tonight?"
I'm not even fucking joking. Consider yourself lucky, that was the condensed version. You don't need to tell me your life story to make a fucking reservation. That entire useless conversation could have been shortened to the last six words and it would have accomplished the same thing without tempting me to slam my head in a car door for an hour or two. Newsflash bitch! Restaurant workers act nice to you because we're paid to. Just because we act nice doesn't mean we're dying to hear every detail of your pointless life. State your business or fuck off!
Then there's one of my favorites. The ones who need directions. If you can dial a phone you can direct your browser to mapquest.com so fuck off and stop wasting my time. And no I can't tell you how to get to the freeway from that town you live in that I've never been to in my life so don't ask.
Then there's the fuckers that want to talk to the owner. If he's not in you can leave a message. If you fail to piss me off I might even consider giving it to him. But no, that's not good enough for these ass wipes.
"Is (censored) in?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's not in at the moment."
Which is usually followed by:
"What do you mean, he's not in?"
I have no answer for that one. Is it really inconceivable that the owner might leave the premises on occasion? He has a family you know.
"Well, where is he?"
He got off his leash, he could be anywhere! Like I fucking know where he is! I'm his employee not his father. Strangely, he doesn't feel obligated to inform me of his whereabouts when he's not in the restaurant.
"When will he be in?"
I don't know! He'll be here when he fucking feels like it. One of the perks of being your own boss is setting your own schedule fuckhead!
"I'm a friend of his, can you give me his cell number?"
Sure, let me give you his social security number too you lying fuck. If you're really his friend you'd have his number already so blow me!
While all this bullshit is going on I usually have about 12 gallons of sauce scorching to shit on the burner because I can't get to it. Fuck you people!
There's more. People will call and want to know every detail about the place. Every ingredient in every dish, the price of every dish, everything down to the fucking decor. Are you fucking kidding me? Do you really have nothing else to do with your time? 'Cause I sure fucking do. If you're in for dinner and your food tastes a little off it was because you kept me on the phone for twenty minutes rambling on about stupid shit and prevented me from minding my kitchen. It's your own fault, FULL PRICE BITCH!
Unless the restaurant you are calling is huge or part of a hotel, they don't have a receptionist. Whoever answers the phone is usually busy and they don't have time to listen to you prattle on about stupid shit, so get to the fucking point already.
The chef hates you.