The other night at Smitty's I was bummed since there were more men in the joint than usual. Even more annoying was that I was stuck next to Andre, quite possibly the most annoying dude on the planet because he didn't know squat about bar etiquette.
Like most of us, I hated Andre because when he was in a good mood he'd be the guy flaunting everything he owned -- from his Swedish watch to his German car -- all the while basking in wretched French cologne.
Now I'm the kind of guy that usually drinks and drives American - I don't want to know about your foo-foo wines or Cognacs and I especially don't need to hear your problems all night when I have my own.
But he wasn't in his usual good mood the other night. It seems Andre's lil' cufflink - the exotic one he really didn't deserve - recently found itself in the French cuff of a better shirt. I told him he needed to get over it ASAP.
After hearing a thousand reasons why he needed her back, I bought him four shots of Jack, got him beyond sauced, and thoroughly enjoyed watching him puke in the parking lot from my bar stool.
Head hung low, his Tiffany chain smacked him in the eye. I smirked and scooped up the dough he left on the bar and jammed it into my back pocket.