Dear Drunk, Rude, Roll Your Own Cigarette Smokers: YOU SUCK. Bartending in an establishment that is teeming with degenerate video lottery players is one thing, but you and your tobacco rolling have my made life even more of a living hell. Despite the fact that I loathe you, I still smile all day without getting tips from you and your Busch drinking, complaining about Soc.Sec., non-tipping ass friends. Then while closing I have to pretend to not want to off myself when peering into my tip jar - only to look down and see your tobacco all over the goddamn floor. Dealing with you is one thing, but you now have also becoming my closing duties. Your cheap ass results not only in my pathetic tips, but also another reason that I wonder why I don’t work with farm animals instead. They stager around in their own shit all day and don’t tip, but at least I wouldn’t be able to understand what they were saying when they complained about prices and told me that I was a bitch.
The Diary of a Dive-Bar-Tender aka Old McDonald
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