Dear Bitch...Oops, I mean, 40 Miles Of Bad Road...
Just wanted to let you know how much you ruin my night every single time you step foot into my bar... I have bionic hearing, so when you are saying how much you cannot stand the bartender, and how you hate the fact that I don't wait on you hand and foot when you are shoveling your boyfriend's money into the poker machines, think about how much your shrill voice carries, and remember I can hear everything.
This is why I make you shitty drinks, this is why I don't bother to hoof it over to the gambling-junkies corner every 10 seconds (because that is about how long it takes you to suck down a soda splashed with smirnoff) and this is why you can see the clear irritation on my face everytime you talk to me.
You come into my bar as if you own it, go around to every male (gay or straight) and fawn all over them for the better part of half an hour, (and now they all smell like your purfume "Eau de Cheap Whore")and then act you've been waiting for a drink!
All the while I've been waiting on you to stop skeezing yourself around my bar, and order your fucking drink!
When you ask me for the 52nd time why I don't take smoke breaks in the bar, and I tell you for the 52nd time it's because every time I light one up somebody asks me for something, take the fucking hint. You are that somebody.
No I don't think it's a fun little game to run back and forth between you and your boyfriend, trying to collect for your bar tab. I know you don't want to pay it, how can you? According to him you sleep all day, and I can't imagine anyone wanting you to do their hair, so I'm sure you don't make any money. Maybe you should set up your "stylist" (I use the term loosely) chair in the truck stop parking lot where all the cheap hookers hang out, then you might actually get a customer or 2.
When you order yet another shot of Jager, and I tell you your tab is closed out (because, as usual, the boyfriend gave up and paid the fucking thing) and you say, "boyfriend will pay" and you use his last name (how very loving of you)
and I tell him he owes for another shot, that you had...
Don't tell me to tell him to fuck off. Tell him yourself. Guess what? He has a job, I know you are not familiar with the term, but it's what keep you in soda and a dash of smirnoff, poker money, and "Eau de Cheap Whore", so if he wants to go home so he can get up in the morning for said job, I suggest you go with him!
When I tell you we are closed, and you scream, "Hey everyone, let's go to Shitland!!" (the bar across the street, for those who don't know) don't think you are threatening me by leaving, please go, as a matter of fact, go there first, and don't grace me with your black cloud of "bitch", have the bf drop you off at shitland, and he can come to my bar, cause he conducts himself with class, which is more than I can say for you.
Sincerely, Your local Barkeep.
This is why I make you shitty drinks, this is why I don't bother to hoof it over to the gambling-junkies corner every 10 seconds (because that is about how long it takes you to suck down a soda splashed with smirnoff) and this is why you can see the clear irritation on my face everytime you talk to me.
You come into my bar as if you own it, go around to every male (gay or straight) and fawn all over them for the better part of half an hour, (and now they all smell like your purfume "Eau de Cheap Whore")and then act you've been waiting for a drink!
All the while I've been waiting on you to stop skeezing yourself around my bar, and order your fucking drink!
When you ask me for the 52nd time why I don't take smoke breaks in the bar, and I tell you for the 52nd time it's because every time I light one up somebody asks me for something, take the fucking hint. You are that somebody.
No I don't think it's a fun little game to run back and forth between you and your boyfriend, trying to collect for your bar tab. I know you don't want to pay it, how can you? According to him you sleep all day, and I can't imagine anyone wanting you to do their hair, so I'm sure you don't make any money. Maybe you should set up your "stylist" (I use the term loosely) chair in the truck stop parking lot where all the cheap hookers hang out, then you might actually get a customer or 2.
When you order yet another shot of Jager, and I tell you your tab is closed out (because, as usual, the boyfriend gave up and paid the fucking thing) and you say, "boyfriend will pay" and you use his last name (how very loving of you)
and I tell him he owes for another shot, that you had...
Don't tell me to tell him to fuck off. Tell him yourself. Guess what? He has a job, I know you are not familiar with the term, but it's what keep you in soda and a dash of smirnoff, poker money, and "Eau de Cheap Whore", so if he wants to go home so he can get up in the morning for said job, I suggest you go with him!
When I tell you we are closed, and you scream, "Hey everyone, let's go to Shitland!!" (the bar across the street, for those who don't know) don't think you are threatening me by leaving, please go, as a matter of fact, go there first, and don't grace me with your black cloud of "bitch", have the bf drop you off at shitland, and he can come to my bar, cause he conducts himself with class, which is more than I can say for you.
Sincerely, Your local Barkeep.
posted by The Mayor @12/27/2005 10:05:00 AM
2 Comments:
One thing I have never done is tend bar. Because I am a masochist, after reading your post I now fully intend to. Fair play.
It's fabulous! It's technically customer service, but you don't have to be nice and you can throw people out on their asses! Best. Job. Ever.
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