TULSA, OK -- Stacy Dansen thought that getting drunk last week and using a ouija board at her bar, Put Out An ABV, after hours sounded like a fun idea. She never really believed in ghosts or demonic possession or the afterlife at all, for that matter, but now she has irrefutable proof that something transcends this plane of existence. “I think I’ve been possessed by the soul of this restaurant,” Stacy said sweetly, cleaning menus in a dark corner of Put Out An ABV. “It’s like I can’t clock out. I haven’t been able to turn off my customer service voice ever since I used that goddamn ouija board.” This statement has been confirmed by her coworkers. Who maintain that, even when complaining about guests, she’s cordial. She was overheard today saying: “That darn bitch over at table thirty-two needs another side of ranch, please. I know, they’re the fucking worst, but I’m so glad they came in today!” Her boyfriend has also come forward to assert Miss Dansen’s claim, stating: “It’s starting to interfere with our sex-life hardcore. At first I thought she was just role-playing when she asked me if she could polish my glassware. Turns out that wasn’t innuendo. Then when we did end up having sex later that night, she wanted to know if I was enjoying everything the whole time. It took a while, but when I finally did finish Stacy was all like: ‘Thanks for coming in! Is there anything else I can get you?’ I don’t know, man, I’ve been looking online for restaurant exorcists but all the links end up being about AA meetings.” Stacy’s tried everything she could think of to end her misery: drinking a glass of water while holding her nose, watching Waiting backwards, even doing all her closing work for once. All to no avail. Every time she drinks herself to sleep, Miss Dansen wakes up to find that she’s rolling silverware at work, with no recollection of how she got there in the first place. After much digging, Sauce On the Side was able to find an expert on service industry possessions: possible docotor, Dale Conrad, veteran server and aspiring erotic novelist. “I’ve seen cases like this a thousand times before,” Dr? Conrad told Sauce OTS. “Classic server possession right here. Fortunately, the curse can be lifted. All she’s gotta do is stop working front of house and spend a month in the kitchen. Those irreverent, disgusting jackasses are the only cure for her. Thirty days over a fryer will cause anyone to forget all about how important it is to be nice to people.” Stacy’s only comment after being told of her solution was: “I dunno, suicide sounds pretty good, too.”
RIVERSIDE, CA -- Clinton Newton can be found any given Sunday afternoon gloriously drunk, just next level wasted, shouting any complaint, relevant or otherwise, at anyone who makes the mistake of looking into his eyes. This Sunday, however, Clinton directed his ire on the actual origin of his problems. Timmy and Chad, the weekend dishwashers who collect fidget spinners for sport, are currently being chastised for putting metal sixth pans on the same shelf as the plastic ones. Obviously the level of profanity being used is completely unnecessary and the message is being lost through myriad tangents, but the fact that Chef Newton is actually yelling at the right people has everyone in shock. “By now, he’s usually berating customers for stuff like this,” Candice Calthrop, the bartender who over-serves him every Sunday because she’s scared of what would happen if she cut him off, told Sauce On the Side. “I’m not even sure if he’s aware that he’s referring to the correct ‘inbred idiots.’” In a typical restaurant, this would be the point where someone suggests writing up the perpetrators in question. Unfortunately for the staff, the last time this was suggested Clinton got lost on the way back with the forms and ended up firing a server for sending out raw chicken. Instead, everyone’s taking solace in the fact that Chef is directing his anger constructively for the first time since 2006. Below is an excerpt of the drunken rant. Chef Newton: You two fucking fucks! Why did you stack the pans like this? Chad: What? Chef Newton: That’s what I thought no fucking excuse! You’re both so goddamn useless. You two just look like abortions that didn’t take-- Timmy: No, we just didn’t hear what you said. Chef Newton: I know you little bitches don’t listen to my face when it’s talking. So here’s how shelves work motherfuckers. You know what? This is why you didn’t go to that baseball game last week. Because you have no idea what it’s like to be a winner. That’s where your fucking Christian parents went wrong. Not everybody gets a trophy. The exchange went on like this for another thirty-five minutes. It’s worth noting that both Timmy and Chad are Jewish.
DETROIT, MI -- The Nobel Foundation rocked the world this week when they announced that the winner of the 2019 Nobel Peace Prize would be none other than Chef Jeffrey Chavez for the incredible act of forgiving his sous chef, Derrick. Chef Chavez joins the ranks of champions for civil rights, climate change, and world peace. When reached for comment, one prominent member of the board stated: “We usually assign this award for those who act on a global scale, but we treat every nomination with equal weight. And it just so happens that Derrick is the fucking worst. Have you seen his menu suggestions? They’re absolutely worthless. Lobster Mac and Cheese? Nice try, Derrick, this isn’t 2009.” The incident that awarded Chef the Nobel centers around the weekly truck order and how Derrick inexplicably didn’t do it. “We were out of literally everything after a busy as hell weekend,” Chef Chavez recalls. “So I ask Derrick why the truck hasn’t arrived yet. That’s when he realized that he fucked up beyond all belief. To be honest, sure, I thought about killing him, but to what end? I didn’t want to go to prison for some kid who’s not going to have anyone show up to his funeral. That’s when I turned to him and just said: ‘That’s okay. I forgive you.’ I’m not sure where it came from but I did it.” Chef Chavez is currently embarked upon a national speaking tour. Packed auditoriums around the United States have heard him talk openly about groundbreaking topics ranging from the nature of forgiveness, not blaming yourself for having a total fuck-up of an employee, what it truly means to be a sous chef with no talent and everything to prove, and finding innner peace through slamming things really loudly so everyone knows how mad you are.
LEADVILLE, CO – Server Stacey Jones at Well Done My Good And Faithful Servant steakhouse winced as her customer at table 47 ordered the $54 Filet mignon plate well-done. From her previous experience at other restaurants, she expected there to be a riot in the kitchen when she rang it in. But little did she know that the grill cook on duty, Mark Harrison, would be breathing a sigh of relief. “Unlike the mediums and below, I don’t have to keep my eye on it and worry about forgetting it and letting it overcook,” says Harrison, “I can just set it and forget it while I work on, you know, the 37 other things going on at the same time. It just takes a little of the pressure off.” Mark has noted that he has never had a well-done steak sent back because it was overcooked. Furthermore, he notes he does not get anxious watching it continue to cook under the heat lamp, unlike the medium-rares, which are usually medium by the time they actually leave the kitchen (thanks food runners). “Everyone thinks us chefs hate seeing a perfectly good filet mignon go to waste being cooked to well-done. But at the end of the day, I’m not the one paying money to eat it, so why should I care?” Reports say the customer was disappointed in the steak, saying it was “dry”, “chewy” and “took longer for us to be served than the table next to us, who ordered the fish and chips”.
HERE, MY STATE -- I woke up this morning, like all mornings, on the couch in my parents’ basement with a hangover that could put Bacchus down for the day. I know I have a limited amount of time before work, only enough time to watch Failure to Launch twice in a row while crying into my favorite morning after breakfast: Instant FUCKING Ramen. So I roll off the futon I call home and army crawl my way to the kitchen: a microwave placed directly on top of a mini-fridge next to the toilet. The most efficient way to get Instant Ramen, ambrosia of the line cooks, to its final resting place. And guess what I see?! NO FUCKING RAMEN!! So here I am, praying to the porcelain god to release me from this hangover and this nightmare that is being without my ‘men. And I know, in my heart of hearts, I know that one of those dick-less wonders I work with stole it. They must have thought this would be a great fucking prank to play on me. Sneak into my parents' house after I’m passed out drunk and eat what is rightfully mine, even if my parents do still pay for all my groceries. And the assholes didn’t even make it right! There’s broken noodles all over the floor and futon. There’s even some in my hair for christ’s sake. How big of a dumbass do you have to be to fuck up Instant Ramen. You literally just pour water in it and throw it in the microwave. And I will fight any pervert that tells me they heat up the water before pouring it in. Not all’s lost, I guess; at least they left me the chili spice packet. My adderall script ran out the other day.