You fucking retarded, hipster Joan Jett-lookin' bitch: Bringing your snake to my favorite bar isn't cool. Yes, I have a severe snake phobia. I sincerely want to get over it someday, but I have other priorities. Like getting drunk after work. I want nothing getting in the way of my after-work inebriation, and I justifiably feel that's a ritual to be held inviolate. But you have to be cool and pack around a fucking deadly reptile in public. At MY BAR. Look, it'd be awesome if I could schlep an alligator around on a leash, if only to scare people away and look cool. But I don't WANT to scare people or look cool. I hate people, but I at least respect the fact that they might be scared of said reptile. On top of that, you had the BRASS FUCKING BALLS to keep walking up to me with that fucking snake and scowling at me, like I'M the asshole. NO! You have the fucking reptile. YOU'RE THE ASSHOLE, YOU FUCKING JOAN EMBRY WANNABE. I hope that snake constricts around your neck while you're sleeping and kills you. That's why they fucking call them "constrictors," you poseur-ass punk-rock hose bag.—Anonymous
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