Poke You, A-Hole

One of yesterday evening’s interesting encounters.  Middle aged, mom-jean wearing, lady’s pint-o-grog is nearly empty.  I’m clearing empty glasses whilst greeting and taking orders from a three-top directly next to her.  I’m simultaneously rattling off drink suggestions and making notes of what some of them would like to try.  Mid-sentence, I feel the hot iron poker of her Skeletor-like finger right to my kidney.  This hard-Jersey-living, Caravan-driving soccer Mom has nearly caused me to go down for the count and almost caught a fist to the face (my New York instinctive reaction to such attacks).  She follows with “can I get my check?”

I turned around and say “please don’t touch me.  You can’t do that.  If you want my attention, just ask.”  She’s clearly insulted at my retort and gives me the silent treatment.  Ballsy rat-faced wench scurries out the door and this is what I find… 

Go on with yo bad self Mama! Keep poking alive…

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