Andrew Jacksons Friend

Illustration by Bob AulTwice a week for more than a year, you've come into the bar where I work, and you still address me by one of three terms of endearment: "barmaid," "dyke" or "bee-yatch." "Barmaid"? What's your problem? Too many Renaissance Pleasure Faires? Reading The Canterbury Tales in your spare time? And what's up with "dyke"? Is that because I won't go home with you?

Asking you to use my name has accomplished nothing. So let me ask you this: I ended up in a strip club because that's where the money is. But why are you here? I'll tell you: You're repellent—stupid, mean, crude; after two Bud Lights, you're like a monkey on crack. The only female attention you can attract is the kind you get with money. That's not the best kind of attention: even while we count your tips, we're laughing at you—especially my boss, the woman you think really likes you. You're too self-absorbed to notice, but next time, take a look at her: while you're talking, she's rolling her eyes (in most social circles, that's body language for "spare me") and yawning (translation: "you're boring me"). She stays near you for the money. So keep spending those 20s. Without them, you're no one.

Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at

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