Dear bartender who won’t look at me to let me order,

I know you’ve been busy tonight. The endless requests for Mojitos has been taxing, taking it’s toll on you through the mashing of mint leaves in the glass with that wooden thing. You’re going to need to ask your Bacardi rep for a new one of those.

I know you’d rather serve that group of four girls at the end of the bar, and I don’t blame you. If there was a hot female bartender here as there is in many other establishments, I would probably have a better chance at getting a drink because I look like a sucker and she thinks that being hot will make me tip her more. However, she is not working tonight, and you’re all I’ve got. All I want is a rum and coke, or possibly a redbull and vodka, I haven’t decided yet.

It’s busy in here and I’m leaning in hoping to make eye contact for that brief moment that indicates I would like to purchase one, maybe two alcoholic beverages from you. But you and your black button down shirt are having none of it. You know I’m here, my existence is not debatable like that of the Yeti, Extraterrestrials, Leprechauns, Unicorns, the Lochness Monstser, Delta Force, and the Chupacabra (soon to be interviewed on davidgorcey.com).

You are about to make me irate with your insolence. I have seen Cocktail, and I know that this experience could be so much better. You don’t even do anything cool to deserve the extra dollar social mores dictate I leave on the counter once you bring me my beverages. Strangers are now jostling me in ways other people would pay good money for as we vie for your attention, but you are taking your sweet time with the 4 Cosmos for that group of three girls and a confused guy. So get over yourself, bartender who won’t look at me to let me order, because if you don’t, I’ll take my $12.00 somewhere else.