Champguy

This one goes out to the douchebag who came into the bar last night:

Thank you very much for asking me a series of inane questions when I was clearly slammed and other customers were waiting patiently for their drinks.

When you asked me, "Ahem, yes, at what temperature do you serve your champagne?", I can't tell you how sorry I was that I didn't know the exact degree offhand. I had hoped my answer of "Cold" would have sufficed, but it didn't.

I thoroughly enjoyed how you continued to press me on various finicky aspects of the only three types of champagne we have on the menu, as if some kind of bubbly connoisseur and then proceeded to pronounce Veuve as "vooove". Idiot.

I can't tell you how happy I was when you then, some three minutes later (practically three hours in bar time) finally ordered a glass of the cheapest sparkling wine. Simply splendid.

And when the crowds dispersed, you really showed your true comedic side when you whipped out a copy of Debbie Does Dallas and asked me to put it on our televisions because "hardly anyone was left in the bar".

When I declined your brilliant suggestion of watching pornography in my place of work, the joke you cracked, which I didn't get, must obviously have been a funny one had it not gone over my head.

And I'm glad that you caught my puzzled expression and remarked, "You wouldn't get it. You're not a Harvard grad."

No, I'm not. Shrewd observation from you.

Shrewd observation from me: you're a big douchebag.