A couple sits down, and the woman may cover half the things I hate about people.
She sits down, asks me if we have Coke or Pepsi products. I tell her which, she starts going off about how she wants the other and yadda, yadda.
Won’t drop it, just going on-and-on like I picked our soft drink of choice or like she can even tell the difference once I put crown in it.
Then she starts complaining about our sports decorations.
“Well I’m a fan of…”
She asks for a drink that I’ve never heard of, it may have been called an “Only dried up hags drinks me,” I can’t remember.
I ask her what’s in it.
“Oh you don’t know how to make a twat-cicle?”
Maybe that was the name, anyhow.
I make it, bring it down to her.
“This is why I should bartend here.”
Okay, at this point I hope she shits her pants in church while receiving communion, so I say:
“Because you know how to make one obscure drink?”
I try to pull of an “I was being funny face,” but I think I just scowled.
“Oh, I know how to make every drink, I’m certified!”
Of course you are bitch, yet I’m the one with the job. I was hoping she was going to ask me how long I’ve been bartending, but she didn’t.
I get the order of the guy with her… He wants a shot of Apple Pucker. Okay, so I’m pretty sure she’s got a bigger dick than he does.
Total ends up being $11.75, she gives me $12, “I’ll tip you on the next one.”
Sure thing “bartender.”
Then, she wants to buy my shirt. Not the exact one I’m wearing, but one like it.
“We don’t sell these, they’re for the staff… They say staff on back.”
“Yeah, that’s why I want it.”
I had to turn and walk away, because I was inches away from blurting out,
“So you can have more proof that you’re a certified-pretend bartender?”