Kalah Allen

Look, I get it. I’m an old regular, you’re the newest bartender, and you don’t want to start rolling out the red carpet for me right away. Your seething contempt is very New Portland, and is noted. It’s all forgivable, but where you crossed the line is when your hipster doofus buddy brought a mangy mutt into the bar, which you petted 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 for fuck’s sake, at least I’m not giving the customers heartworm.—Anonymous