Working in a Shit Bar

Before I get negative, let me start with the benefits of working in a small town bar that has become the Mecca for old, sad, pervy drunks:

1. I always drink for free (i.e. I leave drunk and happy, no matter what)
2. I always feel like the sexiest woman ever (I’m usually the only vagina under 50 in that place)
3. I am being paid to party.

Working in this hole has introduced me to a new and very freakish side of living in the suburbs. I have been proposed to, offered a bikini wax (under the conditions that I could pick out the wax of my preference from Wal-Mart), and asked by a very hideous couple to join them in a threesome (oh my god, GAG)…

What can I say? It’s a classy place. Needless to say, the bartender and I use our time wisely. Often times, we sit and devise dirty names for shots (as if there aren’t enough)—our most recent was Purple Pussy Juice. MMM….soooo appealing. I think Nut on Your Knickers might be a good one too…. I need to remember to bring that up tomorrow…

Anyways, let's get back to the window-lickers who seem to LOVE the crappy-ass bar I “work” in. About a month back, a woman in her late 30s or early 40s came in. She looked as if she had finally torn herself away from her dark, cat-infested house in an attempt to re-acclimate to civilization. She was a little round, very sweaty and wearing an outfit that was obviously torn from a Goodwill rack in a mad dash. She came marching in with a false confidence in attempt to mask her severe social discomfort. I greeted her and asked her what kind of drink she would like. She responds by telling me that she does not drink alcohol and does not come in to “these kind of places”. At this point I am confused. Who the fuck wanders into a BAR at 10:30 on a Saturday night when they are ALONE and do not drink alcohol???!!! The bartender and I traded awkward glances, and I allowed him to try and get the answer from her. She informs us both in a very nervous, barking manner that she is a “good Christian woman from Georgia who does not go out drinking in bars”. In my head, I’m thinking, “I know, we got that, crazy.”

After her bizarre introduction, our false expressions of kindness must have been a green light for her to unleash a seizure of hysterical babbling about how she feels that everyone from South Carolina is a redneck with big “intimidating” tattoos and pit bulls. Also, she informs us that all men from South Carolina like to punch their pregnant girlfriends in the belly so they don’t have to pay child support. At this point, I couldn’t stand the madness anymore, so I pretended that a customer was calling my name from far across the bar and RAN. The poor bartender was stuck until one of our regulars started banging his empty glass on the bar because he was too drunk to remember what he ordered the first time. With the lack of audience, she stormed out frantically shouting that she hoped we had a blessed day and that she knows that SHE will because she loves the Lord and speaks to him everyday. Holy fuckballs, lady.

In the next hour, another customer topped off her crazy when he sloppily asked me if I had a furry butthole. I think he’s one of those pregnant belly punchers that Jesus Lady was ranting about.