Kalah Allen

Dear Wanna-Be Hipster Bartender: You're under the impression that you're somehow punk rock. If you drained all the ink from your tattoos, you'd still be unable to pen one original thought. Yours is a cookie-cutter mentality, molded from the generic dough of idiocy. When you open your mouth, a shriveled-up little cock dribbles out words like drops of urine. In short, you suck and are losing the owner money. You asked a veritable bar full of old-school service industry workers if they'd ever tended bar before (implying that none of us knew how difficult it was). You ignorant, fat, whiny fuck. Your job is cake compared to some of the shit-holes some of us have worked in. A monkey could do your job. And that goes for the rest of you morons out there who think you're doing us all a favor by pouring us a drink. Yes, yes, you're all going to be famous one day (we know), but for now waddle your obese ego over to the tap and pull the lever. After that we'll give you a little tip... if you can manage not to sneer into our whiskey.—Anonymous