To the old prima donna that came into the bar last night with a look like a slapped ass on his face:
You seemed really hard done by when I told you that we didn't have WD40 for your bike outside. This is a fucking bar you jackass. We serve beer and liquor. We oil people, not machines. Go across the street to the damn hardware store for that.
You continued to express your perma I-look-constipated-but-I'm-just-a-spoiled-midget-trapped-in-an-old-man's-body look even when you were sitting with your buddies, sipping on a Sierra. The look didn't leave your face the entire night. Even while you were eating. It was remarkable.
Oh, and thanks also for tapping me on the shoulder every 4 to 6 minutes to ask me where your food was. In case you didn't notice, hockey playoffs were on, we were slammed and 40 plus people had ordered before you. Sit the fuck down and wait like everyone else.
One more thing...your snarly request for the check was awesome. It especially made it worthwhile with your 4% tip. Awesome.
Please don't fall off your bike on the way home.
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1 comment:
Love this. Whew, I can only imagine the rage. Too bad your bar serves food. Best bar job I've ever had was a cash-only, no-tabs, no-food dive that catered to the blue-collar crowd. Those gents knew how to drink and slide a buck across the counter for every beer, every shot, every round. With regulars like that, I was living large for awhile. Then grad school came along and I traded it all in to teach comp at the crack of dawn. Hmmm.
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