N is for Negro Modelo, a popular Mexican beer. And judging from how you've mispronounced it, I wouldn't recommend you ordering it in Compton.
O is for orange skin. You're not tan. You look like a Fanta. Stop stinking up my section with your bargain bin beauty.
P is for patience. I was born without it. So let's limit our stupid questions to three.
Q is for queso. Fact: Queso dip is common in Midwestern Tex Mex chains, not in authentic Mexican restaurants. So when I tell you we don't have queso dip, and your come-back is "But they have it at On the Boarder," I hope we'll share a moment wondering why you aren't there in the first place.
R is for restaurant. That's right, you're in a restaurant. Not a sports bar. Not a day care. Not a coffee shop. Not a speed dating event. Not a brothel. Not a coke house. Not a beauty salon. Not a theme park. Not a hotel. Not an Apple store. Not a storage locker. Not a gym. Not a slide show. Not a scrapbooking party. Not a doctor's office. Not your mistress' house. A restaurant. Behave accordingly.
S is for server. That's right, I'm your server. Not your best friend. Not your babysitter. Not your psychiatrist. Not your personal assistant. Not the cook. Not the hostess. Not the owner. Not your personal DJ. Not your compliment dispenser. Not your baby fawner. Not your self-esteem booster. Not your boyfriend. Not your prospect for later tonight. Your server. Behave accordingly.
T is for tipping. I'm not here because of my passion for rattling off shity menu items or watching you drink away your low self-esteem. I'm here for the cash, just like every other working American. You think Don the car salesman loves pulling into the Toyota lot each morning because he can't wait to talk someone into a Camry? Or that Tia goes to sleep each night counting the hours until she can answer phones at the law firm again? No. They want cash. So don't act like it's some privilege to wait on you. All I see when I look at you is my Mastercard balance.
U is for ugly women in in appropriate clothing. They should be tied together and locked in the freezer. Just my two cents.
V is for victory. Though you might carry a modicum of power with your wallet and your ability to complain about me to management, I am not you, and therefore victory is mine.
W is for "We're in a hurry?" Oh yeah? Then find a drive-thru, asshole.
X is for Xanax. I pop them like Skittles. You may thank them for my fleeting good mood.
Y is for youth. I don't get them. They text, they Tweet, they talk in monosyllabic exclamations that go way over my head. They rack up a $20 bill among eight people, tip for shit, never say "Please" or "Thank you," and have no idea how vastly superior I am.
Z is for zeal. My job does not foster zeal. So if you expect me to roll up to your table all sunshine and smiles, you are in need of a clown, not a waiter.