Here's a tip for you

For many years I made my living as a server. Some people say waiter, some say waitperson and some just say "hey you where's my salad?", but I prefer server.
This job is not for the weak of heart, you will see the absolute worst humanity has to offer.

In my opinion the worst thing that had ever happened to me while serving occurred about just a couple of years ago. A family of what appeared to be "extras" from the set of the movie "Deliverance" were giving me somewhat of a hard time as I waited on them. Rude comments were spewed forth from between their rotten stumps of, what in the far reaches of the Ozarks, might be considered teeth.
Dirty looks on each of their faces greeted me each time I asked "How is everyone doing?, can I get you anything else?" Of course clean looks were probably out of the question to begin with, without the assistance of soap and running water.
The floor around their table was littered with the bones of animals, which I am assuming would most likely feel right at home in the front yard of their 1975 Double wide trailer. At one point I am pretty sure I heard banjo music playing in the background.
Although nothing really went wrong throughout their dining experience, except for maybe a few chromosomes going missing, I just got the feeling these people did not like me. At the end of the meal one of the guests asked to speak to my manager. Now there are only be two reasons a diner at a restaurant would ask to speak to a manager, either something was really good or something was bad. I knew that I had done nothing wrong and provided good service to the family, so was not overly concerned that they wanted to speak to my manager.

After leaving the restaurant and as I collected my 5% tip laying under and over tuned drinking glass, my manager approached me and asked "Did that table say or do anything to give you problems?" I replied that they were very needy, not especially nice or talkative, but that no they did not do anything directly to me. It was at this point my manager told me the reason they wanted to speak with a manager. When my boss had approached the table the sister-wife complete with the 1889 graying hair that had never been cut, skirt down to her ankles and not one dab of makeup on her face announced to my boss "we think Kyle may be a homosexual".

OK so here is the deal, I don't carry a pink parasol around, twirling it as I model a brand new rainbow colored cocktail dress, but I am gay. Maybe they overheard something someone said to me, maybe they picked it up just by how I was acting, or maybe Jesus came straight down from Heaven knocked on their double-wide and said "watch out for that fag down at Olive Garden". Regardless, what do you say in a situation like that?

In this case there is really nothing I could have done besides what I was already doing. Being polite, doing my job well, and giving more than just a shred of courtesy and respect for someone that had absolutely none for me based on a single prejudiced notion.
And by the way, my manager said to these guests that he didn't know whether I was gay or not and that it didn't matter to him. In his own words "you don't have to come back here".

As a server I have also encountered an array of managers both good and bad. At an establishment, that will go UN-named, my absolute favorite manager was middle-aged drug addicted lady, we shall call Val. I call her Val because, well she really did love her Valium, and honestly who can blame her?
Val was always very friendly with me, gossiping about other employees, trading trials of our latest prescriptions and generally filling me in on confidential corporate information that could have probably landed her ass behind bars.
Val also had a very bad case of seasonal allergies. Those season being Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. She was always sick with a swollen red nose leaking like a BP oil well. I am, surprisingly, NOT an expert on hardcore drugs and sincerely believed Val to have a severe allergy problem.
Val would disappear to the women's restroom for hours at a time, only to reappear in a hysterical frenzy, with snot and cocaine residue flying in all directions. This is what I imagine New Years at Charlie Sheens house to be like. I spoke briefly with Val who obviously was very excited and said she felt anxious and out of control and asked if I had a Valium to give her. I did have a Valium as it turned out, but wasn't about to waste it on Cracky McSnottynose. Instead I reached into my other pocket and produced what I declared as a Valium, but in fact was a blue over the counter pain reliever. Val returned thirty minutes later calm and happy and thanking me over an over again for the "Valium".
Two months after this incident Val ran away with a co-workers husband. Despite her craziness I never felt uncomfortable around her and actually enjoyed working with this manager. To this day I can't pass a stressed out crack whore on the street without getting a little misty eyed thinking of Val.
The moral here is regardless whether you are redneck, gay or a crack whore in the long run we all end up getting served what we are due.