What The Fuck?

Reportage on a conflict with a bartender:

I'll make a long story short. This guy was a fuckin' prick. I am one goddamn grateful bar patron. I tip patriotically, I make extremely agreeable conversation if there's any to be made, and I try to keep my shit straight. So after about the fourth eye-roll-dramatic-sigh followed by "when you've figured it out get back to me" I fuckin' flipped out on the guy. Mind you, I'm ordering drinks for a bunch of people and this fuckface's primary hangup was that I didn't answer his question of whether I wanted a Miller draft or bottle within point 1 milliseconds.

Personally, I don't want to drink that shit beer in any container. But I happened to be ordering the beer for a (broke ass) friend and so momentarily stammered. You see, I wasn't really prepared for the question. Probably because I really don't give a fuck. If you are really a good bartender (or a sentient human) you can probably (for your own sake) make a decision to just give the guy a fuckin' beer, take the money and leave while realizing that if he's ordering a Miller Lite he's not really concerned with whether it's a draught or a bottle.

But anyway, I finally said that what I'd decided was that I'd rather talk to the other bartender because he was a fuckin' asshole. He tried to stammer out some comeback but it didn't really work and I was like, "What? Spit it out man, what have you got say?" And he made a throat slashing motion indicating I was "cut off." So I called him a bitch and told him I didn't give a fuck what the fuck he said. Then I went outside and lit up a camel light, bitched about it to some gay guy, and finished my beer. When I turned around to leave he was standing right behind me. I guess you had to be there. It was minorly intense.

I only wish some of my highschool friends were there to back me up. We would've taken that place over and fucked some shit up. And we would've been in the right. Absolutely in the right.