Ode to the Hen-Pig:
A creature that should be set for extinction not multiplication.
The Hen-Pig wants a strong drink but does not want to taste the booze.
The Hen-Pig does not understand why she should tip you if you only ordered a beer. You picked a beer, that was your choice. It was your decision not to utilize my skills. A tip is still in order.
The Hen-Pig wants what she thinks is a martini.
“Oooooh..!” ”Do you make a Key-Lime Martini with a Gram Cracker crust?!”
“No no! no! no! no! you cunt, I don’t!” (I scream in my head), but out of my mouth is,
“What about a Cosmo or Appletini!?”
Ya, sure, no problem. Because you’re still living in the early 90′s, when you weighed 37 pounds lighter and you and the girls would get together to watch Sex in the City.
What is that you say?
Do I make a good Cosmo martini?
No ! No I don’t!
The look on their face is outstanding.
I can not make a good Cosmo Martini because there is no such thing as a “Good Cosmo.”
It was invented for a bartenders “fuck-buddy” that had a urinary track infection.
The Hen-Pig has cut away her long womanly hair so she can easily manage it as she shoves her face into a troff of hot wings.
All Hen-Pigs one day will find their Mecca in the Mid-West among the other multi-layered, muted-color-clothed Hen-Pigs.
It’s OK to keep that bulge sack of “deep-fried everything” under that “fashionable” thing you call a shawl and I call a MooMoo.
And of course no ensemble “onslaught” would be complete without those elastic, stretchy, moose-knukle pants.
And no outfit would be complete with out the shoes. And what scientific, cutting edge support sytem do we have to keep the Hen-pig in place? Nothing but a wafer thin pair of bunion incased, slip-on slippers.
Hen-Pig are the Shaolin Monks of hand-to-hand big purse combat.
The Hen-Pig needs this bag to insure it’s survival.
To take away the bag is to send them clucking back home. Try and cut the Hen-pig’s head off and it will still maul you with annoyance. Your only chance is the purse hook. You might live through this event with the aid of the purse hook.
That sack of needed security loot that clangs like a traveling gypsy circus it could tare down the beauty of the bar top, or it can be given a seat. That’s right, Hen-Pig! Take up another seat just for your purse, no no, I didn’t want a paying customer to sit there, toss it on the seat as if it was a child of neglect.
And when asked to start a tab, you fumble and thrash through that sack until a familiar clucking cry of “OH, I can’t find anything in this thing.”
All in all, I hate!
I hate the Hen-Pig.
I only wish I could chop you all up and fry you like bacon. Then feed you to your own kind. Maybe give you that bacon rimed, ordered at 5:30 in the afternoon, spicy Bloody Marry. By the way, this goes for every one, if it’s past 2pm, don’t order a Blood Marry.
That was a little dark.
On the lighter side, I chose this profession. There are highs and lows, big tippers and walk away not-a-dime stiffer’s. I vent in the hopes of education. Take what knowlege you can and form yourself into a steely-eyed professional. A bar sherpa, if you will. Bottom line, I’m human. I have bad days and good days and as much as I hate, I also love. Take a moment to treat the bartender with respect and take interest in them and I promise the drinks will flow strong.
Shit… Tip me big and I will slop up what ever crime to humanity you want in a glass, Hen-pig.
All things are negotiable.