i saw the owner piss on his barstool. mists of my own grainbelt premium breath clogged the karaoke microphone. a bartender locked me in the bathroom stall and tried to kiss me and i scooched out underneath the door like a dirty little seal.
i still haven't been to europe because i used to spend a lot of my money in this bar, and this bar has made it impossible for me to wake in time to get a passport photo.
i haven't hung out here regularly in forever. once or twice, here or there, but not with any frequency and never on back-to-back nights.
i stopped in last night. there was a new-to-me bartender working. youngish and pretty. her hair far too clean for this bar. she looked more like a dental hygenist than a bartender. i bet she has never even dated a single customer or been involved in a fist fight with another woman. her boyfriend probably isn't an alcoholic and i doubt she hangs out at this bar, drinking luke-warm shots of whiskey and ripping open pulltabs on her nights off. she's probably never made a bad decision in her life.
long ago, this bar sold 32 ounce mugs upon which you could have your name [or nickname] engraved. my landlord has let me use his. so has some dude i met only once who goes by the name sasquatch. last night i tried to order a 32 ouncer and this pristine bartender [who wasn't even showing a single bra strap] denied me.
"you don't have one," she said.
"so?" i said.
"these are for the customers who have paid for them," she said.
"give me sasquatch's," i said.
"no," she said.
"get a pitcher," she suggested. "it's less expensive, anyway. pitchers are just four dollars."
"i don't want a pitcher," i said. "i want a 32 ounce glass. and stop talking about math."
"no," she said.
she obviously didn't know who i am.