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…

Do I Look Like I Would Run?

So the other night, douchebag and douche-baguette GF roll up to the bar late evening… a well-dressed Caucasian dude about 45 or so, in a suit jacket, and his younger, well-manicured blonde girl toy.  Both take about 10 minutes of studying the menu before finally ordering.  These folks are not answering when I say “hi, how are you?” or “what can I get for you?”  Whatever.  I continue along offering what I believe is excellent service, brushing off their rudeness.

They wind up with a couple of entrees.  The chick orders vodka and soda, and the dude orders coffee.  I’m nice enough – as is customary.  The bar is not full, but not completely dead either.  These two are complete dicks.  Every interaction is some kind of curt order or no reaction at all – especially Miss DB.  The guy utters something like “this is milk, right? I want cream.”  I politely inform him it’s half-n-half and he’s plows through his coffee happily.  

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