Jessica Simpson and Cinco de Mayo

Before I relay the events of my latest run-in with the talentless Miss Simpson, let me start by saying that I love being a server on Cinco de Mayo. Seriously. Even though our restaurant (Mexican in cuisine, in case you forgot) was jam-packed and consistently on a 2 hour wait until 1 am, I had a blast.

What's more, on Cinco de Mayo, servers get away with everything. We can be as rude as we want because the management is too busy keeping with the fire code or preventing bar fights or restocking. Fortunately, all of my tables were filled with gregarious, generous people who didn't have a care in the world.

On Cinco de Mayo, people literally throw money at you. I had people give me tips that were almost double the entirety of their check. I walked out of the restaurant (albeit at 3 am) with more cash in my pocket than I sometimes make in an entire week. After post upon post of me complaining about being a server, I figured I'd regale you with the vindication of my silver lining.

But before I left with all that dough, I had yet another encounter with my celebrity arch-nemesis, the soullesss Jessica Simpson and her merry band of mindless nobody sycophants.

For reasons unbeknownst to anyone, Team Simpson, notorious for their requests for privacy, decided to spend Cinco de Mayo in a crowded Mexican restaurant during prime time hours.

Now Jessica. You might have a better portion of the world fooled, including your Bible-preaching, daughter-groping demon of a father, but to those of us who find classier women attractive, your disguise is thinner than your vocal range. No A-list celebrity would dare dine at such a place if he or she truly valued privacy. You think Jennifer Aniston or Gwyneth Paltrow (your admitted role models) stepped out to Casa Vega or El Compadre on Friday?

No bitch. Just you. Because you love being seen, hopefully because you realize that we're coming to 14:59 of your 15 minutes.

I reluctantly digress.

So my table, full of anonymous-yet-fun D-list actors (I can't even name one of them) couldn't stop gawking at Jessica, whose face was buried in her Blackberry the entire night.

(Tangent: What kind of personality-defunct cunt goes out with a group of people on Cinco de Mayo and spends the better portion of the night sending text messages!?! Get a life, whore.)

Much to my nausea and horror, the table bought a shot for Jessica. Guess who they chose to deliver it to her table?

I wasn't anticipating a warm reunion from my days at the Sports Club where I first met the sluttiest Simpson. In fact, I was praying that she wouldn't recognize me from all those times I told her she had to check in, couldn't use her cell phone, couldn't bring in her dog, couldn't bring in guests without a guest pass, couldn't page someone because the gym didn't have an intercom, couldn't bring in a video crew for Newlyweds...

(Tangent: My favorite memory, though, is the time her baby-killing rendition of "Take My Breath Away" was playing in the gym as she came in with her frizzy-haired assistant. As they handed me their membership cards without so much as looking in my direction, the blonder of the two bitches said, "It's about time this place played some good music."

"I'm still waiting," I replied.)

Back to Friday. I told my table of my disdain for The Trashiest Things To Ever Emerge From Texas, and insisted they buy me a shot first. They complied, and with nothing but Patron Silver in my tummy, I walked to Team Simpson's table with a stick firmly lodged up my ass. I got to the table. I made no introductions or announcements of conviviality. I did not even say "Hello."

Instead, I asked "Is there a Jessica at this table?" in a tone that very much implied how big of an inconvenience this was for me.

The six of them were so immersed in their own veil of tragic coolness that no one, particularly the queen bee bitch, could be bothered to acknowledge me.

"I SAID...IS THERE A JESSICA HERE? I DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT."

The token gay in Jessica's camp, wisely noticing that an attractive male was at their threshold with a shot in hand, said "Hahaha, I'M Jessica, that shot must be for me!!"

As this awkward exchange was going on, Daisy Duke's Proactively gross face was firmly planted in her phone, trying in vain to construct sentences with mutli-syllabic words of lust for her creepy father. Even after I said her name twice, she couldn't be bothered to acknowledge me.

So I said..."I don't really give a shit which one of you is Jessica, this shot is from Rick. Happy Cinco de Mayo."

(Tangent: I don't care how famous you are, when someone buys you something, the least you can do is say "Tell that table I said 'Thanks.'" People Magazine reported that when Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox were vacationing in Maui, a group of admirers sent over a round of margaritas. The Friends had the decency to send their thanks, a small gesture that signals good manners and proper social skills. Jessica Simpson, I'm sad to say, has the least-justified and most disgusting sense of entitlement this side of Star Jones.)

Token gay male came back with, "Oh honey, the 'Jessica' you're talking about...(pausing as if to brace me for my judgment day verdict)...is Jessica SIMPSON."

I looked at him, pantomimed as big of a yawn as I could, and walked back to my table.

They were so drunk and so unbelievably vapid that the memory of this unpleasantness quickly faded from their glitter-filled minds. I returned to my table and gave a full, if not embellished, account of Jessica's complete lack of gratitude or recognition. I informed them more directly that she was a horrible, rotten bitch with nothing to offer the world except infomercials and candy-scented body shit.

Then my table focused their efforts on buying me shots. I liked that tune a lot better, a tune that didn't take my breath away.