Dear 40 Miles of Bad Road...Again.

You just couldn't resist. You knew we had an issue, but yet you still came in and sat at my bar last night, looking to start some shit with me. Yes, I know your boyfriend meal ticket was there, but did you ever stop to think that maybe he came up to get away from you, hoping you wouldn't show up because I was working?? Nah, in your sick twisted mind, everyone loves you. Sorry to break it to you, but everyone likes him and tolerates you for his sake.

I decided to be the bigger person and go out for a break and let the cocktail waitress serve you. I could've been a bitch and just cut you immediately off, but I thought I would be nice. Big Mistake.

It took you 45 minutes to drink your drink, so that told me that you were already shitfaced. You see, I know your patterns, I know everyone's patterns, and you suck your first 5 drinks down like they are ice water.

So I did last call.

Your boyfriend got a drink. The nice gentleman that he was talking to before you so rudely exploded on to the scene and demanded everyone's attention got a drink as well.

Then you ordered one.

I told you no, you've had enough. You should've quit while you were ahead.

Alas, it seems "good judgement" isn't something you practice, or have heard of, clearly.

Screaming, "Oh, sho you ain't gonna sherve me??" (Clearly slurring your words) is the fastest way to never get another drink from me.

Then, when I discreetly (another word you've never heard of) tell you no, you wait till I'm out of eyesight, but again, another bad choice, not earshot, to yell that I'm a fat ugly bitch.

No you didn't.

First of all, I may be a little soft, and yes, I am a bitch, but ugly? Have you looked in a fucking mirror, ever?

Let's talk about you, for a second, shall we?

I know you think you are some hot little thing, but wearing belts from the Junior's Section as skirts and tops from the little girl's section so your wrinkled saggy boobs hang out, tanning twice a day, bleaching your skanky hair till it's breaking off, and getting drunk every single day, does nothing to help disguise the fact that you are 42, look 62, and are speeding downhill with no brakes on the highway of looks.

Oh yeah. And you are FORTY TWO, not 21, news flash. Act like it.

Since I won't have you verbally abuse me at MY bar, yes, it is MY bar, I asked you to leave.

You wanted to argue, so I turned the music off, and using my best outside voice, said, "Get the FUCK OUT of MY bar."

Now, threatening to call my drunk ass boss at 11 pm does not scare me. If it was someone my boss could tolerate, maybe, but you? Not so much.

Offering to "Let's go, outside!" Just made me chuckle. I'm 30, not 13, I have no intention leaving all my customers to sit in here, while we go "Duke it out" in the parking lot.

Grow the fuck up.

You didn't want to leave, because you don't bother to do anything anyone tells you to do, so I went to the phone and called the cops.

Okay, you got me, I pretended to call the cops, but it worked, didn't it?

Your parting shot about calling my boss and telling him I was doing shots behind the bar? Please do. I'm on camera, and if he even suspected I was and watched it, he would see that you are lying, as usual.

And your boyfriend telling me that you weren't drunk because you were with your kid all night?

I find that hard to believe. Firstly, you are never with your kid, that's why he calls 47 times a night asking you to come home and feed him dinner.

And Secondly, see above. Even if you were with him, would I think that you are such a model mother that you wouldn't get shitfaced because your kid was around?

Please.

So farewell, 40MOBR. I shall do my damnest to make sure you are 86'd.

Sincerely,

The Mayor.