To The Bartender That Cut Me Off The Other Night

To The Bartender That Cut Me Off The Other Night

First, I’m sure you’re happy to know that I’m alive.

I know you were wondering what became of me as I drifted off into the night like a Texas Panhandle storm collapsing upon itself. Well, I’m here now to tip my cap to you, because if it wasn’t for your gut instinct and keen sense of skepticism regarding my BAC, I’d probably be in jail or face down in a drained pool somewhere. Props.

Second, it seems that I owe you a bit of an explanation. You see, I don’t get out that much anymore. Sure, I’ll do dinner and a drink or two immediately after, but I’m talking about out out. Like, guys getting away for a weekend to sweat their balls off at a golf tournament and pound Chiltons at a college bar out. When you’re banging on the door of 30, it just doesn’t happen that often. With that being said, I’m not trying to make any excuses. But like any good deviant, prefacing an apology by explaining the frowned upon behavior is par for the course.

Third, and I’m sure all the man-hugs and loud reminiscing gave it away, but I ran into a buddy I haven’t seen in like a year or something. Not an acquaintance or some spare from work, this was an old running buddy of mine. Of course I had to give it hell after seeing him. Did you kick him out too? I’m seriously asking. He just kind of disappeared and has no recollection of how he ended up back in his bed. He has a family, by the way.

That brings me to the apology.

Mistakes were made. There is really no getting around that fact. For example, I had no business entering your establishment like the goddamn Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels. Assuming that really happened, which is likely because 2 of my friends corroborate the story, it was borderline disrespectful. I was a tool. I probably am a tool. My bad.

Next, let’s discuss my utter disgust at your lack of local beer selections. While I remain disappointed at your bar’s glaring lack of diversity, it was rude for me to roll my eyes and demand “Coors Light, assuming you even have that here.” Again, I have no way of confirming whether or not this actually happened, but based on past behavior, it’s very likely.

Moving on, I would be remiss if I did not address what was in all likelihood the nail in the coffin. Of course, I’m referring to the Wild Turkey incident. First of all, no one shoots Turkey. To think that I would even contemplate that, let alone actually do it, is one of the most alarming things about this mess. You drink Wild Turkey if you’re looking to raise the bar, but you shoot Wild Turkey if you’re looking to burn the bar to the ground. What an idiot. So I have to say, I don’t blame you at all for your steadfast refusal to pour that second shot of white trash dragon piss.

And that brings us to the dead eyes. When you’re on the wrong end of your twenties, there will come a time when combining day drinking with night drinking will have severe consequences. Saying things you don’t really mean, passing out at bars, or bailing early because you recognize that you have no business being in public any longer. It happens. The key is recognizing the telltale signs – swaying, crying, lashing out, falling, and the aforementioned dead eyes. Thankfully for you, you did just that. When you looked into my eyes, half shut and bloodshot, you recognized that there was no one home. And though I attempted to hide my cold gaze, and you could have shaken my hand and felt flesh gripping yours and maybe you even sensed our life styles were probably comparable, I was simply not there.

So after conducting a full review of my behavior, a process that included numerous interviews, screenshotted Snaps, Uber receipts, and bank account activity, I have concluded that you acted properly in cutting me off and dismissing me from your establishment. You have a tough job, and assholes like me make life hell for you. Sorry about that. And if it’s there, please go ahead and trash my debit card.

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