On one unfortunate Cinco de Mayo, I shouldered the burden of serving an aspiring comedian and his posse of unwed mother-strippers.
I greeted the table, only to have him interrupt with a drunken:
"Hey HEY hey!!!"
"May I bring you all anything to drink?" I asked.
"It's CINCO DA MAYO, hold da MAY-O, BWHAHAHAHA" he exclaimed. Lord knows how many painkillers and paint fumes came together to construct that sentence.
I can only describe our budding entertainer as a mix between SNL's Keenan Thompson and every crazy beggar who's ever harassed you on the streets.
"Yes, it IS Cinco de Mayo," I continued. "And may I bring you all anything to..."
"Lighten up, man!" he said. "You so serious!"
I offered the same weak smile I give to someone who offers unsolicited advice or tells me I look like David Cassidy.
"Aiiiiight. We're gonna do TRES MARGO-RITAS. Double...no TRIPLE, the tequila, BWHAHAHAHA!!!"
Is it wise for someone I presume to be homeless to mix prescription pills with copious amounts of alcohol?
"Would you like those blended or on the rocks?"
Mr. Crazy mulled this over as if I'd inquired about the meaning of life or the best Hollywood intersection for purchasing a Yugoslavian prostitute.
"Which is better?" he asked after two minutes of introspection.
"I prefer on the rocks."
"AWWWWWW, that's how you roll, huh? On the rocks? Like Rocky, on the rocks? Are you a boxer? BWHAHAHAHA!!"
"Yes. I'll be right back with your drinks."
I returned with the margo-ritas. To my dismay, the hookers at the table were encouraging Mr. Crazy by fervently laughing at his jokes.
"Is everyone ready to order?" I asked.
"IS EVERYONE READY TO ORDER?" Crazy repeated. I assumed he was checking on the hookers to see if they were ready.
"What may I get for you?" I asked.
"WHAT MAY I GET FOR YOU?" Crazy said. Ah yes. The mimic game, the old standby in any good comedian's bag of tricks, especially if that comedian is four years old.
I stood there like a statue as Crazy cackled.
"Should I come back later?" I asked.
"SHOULD I COME BACK LATER?"
"Nothing I say is funny." I said.
"NOTHING I SAY IS FUNNY..."
And with that I walked away. Naturally, I left them alone for a good ten minutes. And when I returned, they were gone. The drinks were still on the table but Crazy and company had flown the coop.
I looked around to see if their retreat had been recent. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crazy peering from around a corner, covering his mouth to conceal his laughter.
He walked toward the table with his harem of fleas.
"WE GOT YOU GOOD MAN! YOU THOUGHT WE DINED AND DASHED, BWHAHAHA!"
I was not amused.
"Yes, how clever of you," I said. "From now on I'll need a set of keys or a credit card if you're going to continue sitting here. And by the way, because it's Cinco de Mayo, you're only allowed to sit at a table for 90 minutes. You've been here for almost an hour. It's time to order."
"OHHHHHHH dude! I get it. Now YOU'RE trying to fuck with us! 90 minutes, hahahaha that's a good one."
"Riiiiiight," I said.
Once they hit the 89 minute mark, I informed the manager, who told Crazy & co. that their time was up, that they'd need to find an open mic night in Van Nuys, Reseda, or any other spot in the valley that would accommodate his ill sense of humor.
Crazy left a piled of crumpled bills as payment ($3 tip on a $40 bill), as well as an invitation to watch him perform stand-up at some venue in Orange County.
Anyone want to go?