To the drunk guy at Hoops last night…


I thought you should know why I suddenly split when you turned to talk with the guy on the other side of you. Yes, you were being loud and offensive which was why I gave you the cold shoulder outside of the washroom but I can chalk that one up to a simple misunderstanding.

Following me to the bar and trying to make amends by buying me a shot was a nice gesture but you fucked it up by sticking around afterwards and trying to be my new best friend. Newsflash: we’re not “relating” and while your proposal that we get “shit-faced” and sullenly mull over our collective sorrows is very Bukowski of you, I’m going to have to decline.

It’s not only that. Your repeated attempts to get the other denizens of the bar to cease with their celebrations of Canada’s triumph in Olympic hockey by screaming, “Shut the fuck up!” made me feel less like I was trying to enjoy a well-deserved pint at my local and more like I was baby-sitting a war vet with the emotional development of a fourteen year-old and PTSD to boot. Trying to throw a balled-up napkin at them was not such a hot idea but at least I was able to stop you. I might have had less success if you’d gone for a pint glass instead.

The reason we got along so well is because I’m a bartender and one of the more tiresome facets of my job is keeping idiots like you in check. I’m pretty good at it too but that doesn’t mean we have anything in common. The fact you occupied the seat next to me for over fifteen minutes when you don’t know me paints you squarely as a friendless dick who comes close to realizing the sad truth on the drunken, emotional rollercoaster that is likely a typical night for you.

I’d wish you the best of luck in finding other angry, young men to play with but I don’t think it’s in society’s best interests for you guys to congregate. For every Black Panther, there’s an Al Qaeda.

Just sayin’.

(Re-posted from Craigslist. I couldn’t resist.)