When annoying bastards insist on pronouncing their name completely different from how it’s spelled. For example:

The name Naomi…is spelled N-A-O-M-I, not Noemi…N-O-E-M-I. That’d be pronounced “No-way-mee” or “No-wee-mee.” C’mon people, let’s get it right. It’s not that fucking difficult.

When I was in college (for all 17 days I was in college), I worked at Bob’s Big Boy in Fresno (best, most funnest, most decadent job I ever had — but that’s an entirely different story for an entirely different time. This post is intended to be hateful, not wistful.)

One Friday evening we were busier than usual, so the waitresses, of whom I was one, had to do double-duty seating people, because Jana, our regular, worthless, no-talent meathook of a hostess had called in sick so she could trigger-fuck her Fresno State linebacker boyfriend, Deion, in the back of a pick-up truck out in Clovis.

Well, sir, there were people packed 10-deep in the waiting area — eagerly anticipating being seated so they could gobble down their delicious Bob’s Big Boy combo plates — and I called out the next name on the hostess list.

“Ruiz, party of 4!” (using, of course, the correct Spanish pronunciation of Roo-eez)

A harsh, haughty, raven-haired woman of about 50 approached me and contemptuously sneered, “Yes, we’re ready to be seated. And it’s pronounced, Reece.

Not wanting to be insulting, I glanced back down at my sheet — on which ol’ bitch-hawg had herself handwritten her name — and double-checked that I had the correct one.

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry. There must be some mix-up. It says Ruiz here, not Reece. Ruiz, party of 4!”, I called out again.

She glared at me, and hissed, “No, Miss. That’s the correct name — but it’s pronounced Reece.”

Well, that was it. My 1/8th Hispanic ass had fucking had it. I was extraordinarily busy, and ol’ Carmen Miranda here — in bad shoes, bleeding lipstick, and, most revealing of all, foundation that was about three shades too light for her natural skin tone — was busting my fucking balls…all in the name of her hopeless, pathetic desire to be Dina Fucking Merrill.

So, I smirked right back at her and said, “Fine. If you want that desperately to distance yourself from your Central California Latino roots, far be it from me to stop you, Hermana…oh, excuse me…Sister. Reece, party of 4.”

I won’t tell you what me and the girls did to her Pappy Parker’s Fried Chicken Dinner before we served it up, but I will offer this one small bit of advice: Never, ever, ever fuck with the people who handle your food.

Ever.