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.
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