Look, I get it. I'm an old regular, you are the newest bartender, and you don't want to start rolling out the red carpet for me right away. Your seething contempt is noted and very new Portland. It's all forgivable, but where you cross the line is when your hipster doofus buddy brings a mangy mutt into the bar, which you pet for five minutes before going back to serving drinks without washing your goddamn hands. Sticking your fucking dog hair fingers into the lemons and limes. Making tots. I'm sitting here and debating whether to text the owner and you're ignoring me yet again. Entitled bar patron? Absolutely. But at least I'm not giving the customers heart worm for fucks sake.