Open Letter: To The Bitchy Bartender

Minor Lapel rants about things that piss him off.  Let’s just say that you don’t want this letter addressed to you.

From:  Minor Lapel
Dear Stacy: 
I’m writing about that conversation we had last Friday.  Do you remember?  You were working at a bar that lets in 18-year-olds, and I was trying to buy a beer?  No?  I’m pretty sure you were still about 39 last week, if that helps.  You’re like, twice my age, but you work at a college bar.

That’s not helpful?  OK.  Well, anyways. 

I was trying to buy a beer, but I didn’t want a bottle of Bud Light, even though that was the drink special.  A bottle of Bud Light is like a Big Mac served on china.  It still sucks.   And I don’t care if it “only” costs $2.  If I only drank to save money, I would just stick to bum wine.  It looks like the rest of your shitty bar clientèle made that decision a while ago.

But that’s neither here nor there:  I was trying to buy a bottle of 312, and I ordered it as a “three twelve.”  Why?  Because that’s a logical thing to call a product that starts with a three and ends with a twelve.  Nevertheless, you told me your bar didn’t carry three twelve.  As I considered this, debating whether or not to slum out with what I’m sure would have been a warm and stale bottle of Bud Light, you told me that you did serve “three one two.” 
Stacy, we need to talk.  While your attempt at sarcasm is commendable, you should probably leave the wit to people who haven’t failed the GED yet.  I’m trying to order a beer at a place whose sole purpose is to serve alcohol – try to keep that in mind.  If you really want to get into a debate about appropriate diction, I would love to engage you.  Correcting the way I refer to a beer, however, isn’t going to make me want to tip you any more than I already do. 

And, let’s be real:  that crystal meth isn’t going to pay for itself.
Kisses,

Minor Lapel

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