Hey you, hipster in the wool cap and unwashed flannel? I don't mind your dour expression and sense of entitlement, but when you sit in my section and treat me as if I'm part of this imaginary group of people who continually suppress you? Oh no. That won't fly with me.
First off, let's start with your posture and tone when you address me. I've merely asked, "What would you like to drink?", not "When are you going to get a job?" or "Did you remember to use deodorant?" If you don't want to be bothered by my questions and infrequent visits, order a pizza at home so your Avril Lavigne listening party goes uninterrupted. Believe me, in the Who-Can-Be-More-Hateful Olympics, you won't even make it past training while I take home the gold, silver and bronze. So put that in your Jack Kerouac-inspired pipe and pretend to smoke it.
Second, allow me to critique the paradoxical structure of your statement-making attire. Your faux vintage T-shirt was made three weeks ago by underage children in Taiwan who don't earn in one year what it takes to replenish your used fedora collection at the flea market swap each week. Glare at my red shirt and filthy apron all you'd like. At least I'm dressed in an outfit that genuinely expresses how I feel...Dirty, used, and dead inside.
Third, why don't we review how the restaurant dining system works? Within a reasonable amount of time (3-5 minutes if I really have to spell this out for you), you'll peruse our menu of rehashed Mexican items. You'll keep questions to a minimum. You'll order, eat, pay and tip. Then you'll LEAVE. What you won't do is ignore the menu then ask, with great disdain, if I can just "make up a vegetarian soup" for you. Just like your name absent from the cast lists of all those high school plays for which you auditioned, if you don't see it in print, it's not happening. Also, when you're finished, you won't be lingering in my section. This isn't Silverlake. You're not in a coffee shop. If you want to discuss all the various problems in the world and your complete apathy in resolving them, I suggest you find a more appropriate venue. Like the carpool lane of the 405.
Finally, the tip. I know you aren't compensated with gratuity at the quaint record shop where you earn minimum wage. But I am. Not only do I have to take your order, refill your drinks, supply you with chips and salsa to spread all over the table I get to clean later, and split your bill in ways that would give Einstein pause; I have to do this for the six groups around you, as well. Then I have to tip out the hostess for double-seating me, the bartender for ignoring my drinks, and the bus boy for letting me clean my own tables. So at the end of the night when you're looking at that "TIP" line and you...
Oh fuck it. Why would I waste my time lecturing hipsters? Your mind-boggling self-importance and undefinable belief system would never lead you to read about someone else's suffering. I'll just continue charging you for items you didn't order and attempting to run you over after my shift while you linger in the parking lot, chain-smoking and bitching about that stuck up privileged server who didn't understand all your vast misery and unchanneled depth. Go fuck yourselves.