I had to drive out forty five minutes to the middle of fucking nowhere, aka Hockinson, to bartend your ugly wedding. I had to endure the onslaught of ugly, tanned women in Mariposa dresses and douchey men in aviators fifty minutes earlier than planned; I had opened twenty bottles of wine in five minutes because for some reason, you thought changing the itinerary of your 'special day' would be totally okay with the staff working your wedding. I had to listen to your bridesmaids and groomsmen tell me 'I'M IN THE WEDDING PARTY I DON'T NEED TO SHOW I.D." to which I had to tell them, over and fucking over again, "Yes, you do, sorry" like I was a CD on fucking repeat. I bartended shitty beer from a keg for four hours non-stop with nothing but terrible hip hop remixes blared from some cunt with a flat billed baseball cap on the decks. I don't care if the groom toured with Slipknot with his second-rate band; I don't care if the bride looked like Sammi "Sweetheart" from Jersey Shore; fuck you, because me and my other bartender only made fourteen bucks each that night. I hope your divorce is lengthy and expensive because your wedding was quite possibly the worst night of my life. Fuck you.
Dear Trashy Wedding Party
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