At a boozy girls lunch on Saturday, a girlfriend of mine who bartender's at Tiger, Tiger (did some tard with a stutter name that place?) She claims that bartending is seriously hard work, way harder than my job, that she deals with far more assholes than I do and keeps her cool. Them is fighting words. Advertising isn't what it was in the 80's (far less cocaine and company lunches), but it sure ain't a freakin picnic! There are assholes swinging from the rooftops, ego's the size of the everest and plenty a tard in this here swine flu infected building! (Maybe a bit of exaggerating for dramatic effect, but I was well tipsy at this stage.)
Bet : Said friend will get said Advertising wench a shift at said night club establishment, probably this Saturday. If I don't loose my cool with alleged assholes and make more tips than said friend. I win.
I intended to practice pouring drinks at home for the Captain this week and may consider some fake tan (Uniforms on the skimpy side.) as preparation.
But back down! NEVER!
Like Braveheart, without blue face paint, I charge into the carpeted, puke drying on the walls pit of assholes.