So at work tonight I'm busy as hell and this leather-faced bottle blonde with tits that looked like two fried eggs nailed to a wall keeps leaning over the bar and shouting for the other bartender, who was doing his level best to ignore her, despite standing mere inches away.
"I want Grey Goose in my Hpnotiq martini! Not too much pineapple juice - that makes it ooky! And make my friend one too!" the harpy shrilled at least 473 times in a thirty-second interval. Yes, she really said "ooky". I wanted to break the Grey Goose bottle over that harpy's empty skull. "Here, lady. How's about a nice warm mug of SHUT THE FUCK UP."
A realization dawned. I hate drunks. I'm a bartender who hates drunks. I hate self-righteous recovering drunks, and I hate actively drinking drunks. I shouldn't think this way. Drunks pay my bills. Drunks usually tip well and many of them come back again and again like moths to a flame. Drunks usually think I'm a fine fellow, an admirable rock of reason and sanity in their shifting, liquid lives. I make drunks happy. I'll bet hookers feel the same way about johns that I feel about drunks. I'll take their money with a smile, give them what they want, say something witty enough to get a laugh and then move on to the next one, having offered the illusion of companionability. I'm like a hooker for drunks, except the fluids I exchange with them are spirituous instead of bodily, and I make much less money.
Because I work in a relatively upscale place, I don't really have to deal with hordes of drunks. It's only on Friday and Saturday nights that they come out in droves. And because I close on those nights, I get to see the little dramas play out until the lights come on (cue that Semisonic song, you know the one).
Oh well. It's a living. I am such a hater.
Repetition in Tolstoy II.
6 hours ago