Whiskey Chicks

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I have an instant disdain for the seemingly ever present hot chick that rolls up to my bar and is interested only in a “Ketel club,” Michelob Ultra or Skinny Bitch Margaritas.  Those drinks may occasionally be accompanied by a nutrient-rich and decadently filling share plate of Mixed Greens, drizzled with Balsamic and topped with 2 packets of Splenda – oh the yum.  You’re an indulgent cokehead – incessantly concerned about any calories not on “today’s plan.” Your 5’9” frame has never once been three ounces over 108 pounds since your blackout partying days prior to (miraculously) graduating sleeping through the Varsity chess team in return for finished papers at Dartmouth 4 years ago.

You’re one, who heaven forbid, can never be seen without wads of Kim K’ish cat-like black eyeliner, applied with unfathomable surgical precision, and perfectly hot-ironed hair. Under no circumstances will step foot out of your Riverside Drive pre-war solo with ugh – “tennis shoes.”  Those are reserved only for the Columbus Circle Reebok center – twice a week spin class run by Serge, followed by Krishnam’s Bikram yoga session.  No, you need you some proper four-inch Eye-Talian stilettos, or next season’s wedges at all times – ala Carrie Bradshaw.  All the denim you own is only of the True Religion variety and is pressed bi-weekly by Uri at the cleaners up on Broadway.

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