Wednesday, October 13, 2010

A special place for "special" people.

Dear Seattle bar crowd,


It's like functioning at a bar is so last year.  It's a safe bet that 75% of you that walk through my bar's door are suffering from extreme brain deterioration.

I've had some interesting encounters in the past couple months, a majority of them coming from the endlessly annoying bridge and tunnel crowd that terrorizes Captiol Hill every Friday and Saturday night.  You have no idea how often I hear the word 'hipster' spat out of the mouths of preppy assholes wearing the latest contemporary fashions from Lane Bryant or Aeropostal.  Here's a few incidents I've had to experience front row, making me fear for the future advancements of mankind:

Fucktard #1: (while standing in front of the taps)  What kind of beers do you have?
Me:  We have draft and bottles and cans and your standing right in front of the taps if you'd like to take a look.
Fucktard #1: What are 'taps'?
Me:  Sigh. Can I see your ID.

Fucktard #2:  I want something sweet and like really really boozey that doesn't taste like alcohol and I need to get fucked up really fast.
Me:  Sounds like someone's ready to make poor decisions!

Fucktard #3: Can I get a Ran-yay?
Me:  I don't know what that is. (Secret time: I DO know what that is but I refuse to allow people to call Rainier 'Ran-yay'.... because it's stupid)
Fucktard #3:  Oh, Rainier.  We call it Ran-yay because it's funny to say it like that.
Me:  No. No it's not.

I just don't get it.  I've also dealt with a girl taking my silver shaker tins off my bar mat to drink beer out of.  We had someone leave a pair of shit filled boxers on the smoking patio ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON.  IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.  I have guys hit on me and then leave me 50 cent tips.  I have people that tip me like shit, come back and ask for a shot "make it strong!" and I want to jump over the bar and strangle them with their stupid sequin covered scarves.  I have people whose cards decline and then all of their friends cards decline and they have to beg someone they just met to pay their tab, but look at me because it's my fault they had to use the remaining balance in their bank accounts to make a payment on their financed tit jobs.  I have people drink almost their entire beer and tell me they don't like it, and I laugh because how could they be serious BUT THEY ARE.  I have tables of large ladies that sing 90's love songs at the top of their lungs and expect everyone to think they're the coolest.  I have people that try to yell at me for cutting them off when they can't even stand up without holding on to their equally drunk slut bag friend.

And then I remember that really do love my job.  I love my workplace, I love my coworkers and bosses and you know what?  If all of these sad little idiots didn't come in, I wouldn't be entertained.  We wouldn't have all these stories to share over beers after the doors are locked at night.  So thank you, fucktards of the bar scene, even though a lot of times you stiff me, I can go to sleep at night knowing I'll never be an embarrassment like you.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010


Dearest Bakon Vodka,
You motherfucker. All high and mighty....sitting, perched on the fridge. 
You think you are so fucking cool with your K. I mean let's get real here. You look like you belong in a Swedish dance club. And what is with that logo? Is that supposed to be the fat of the bacon. YEA, GOOD CALL. Who was the shit show who designed that? Who gave that the green light? YES. WEIRD VAG LOOKING LOGO FTW. no. NO. Horrible!
Why are you still in my apartment, asshole? I have not consumed dead animal for over 10 years.  Why would I start now? Especially with your nasty ass. But last night. You called out to me. Everyone was doing it. It was like when someone passed around the flask at the high school dance. I fucking opened my mouth, put your bottle to my lips & swallowed. I did it. I consumed you. SHAME. ON. ME. NEVER AGAIN. YOU ARE FOREVER DEAD TO ME. Dead to me just like a pig, sliced up, cured and slapped on a sandwich with tomato and lettuce.

Go to hell,
A Salty Hooker

Friday, October 8, 2010

Dear fucking random wife beater,

Dear fucking Random Wife Beater,
Oh hello there you random wife beater. How the hell did you end up in my clean laundry? I have never seen you before. No men folk have been over that wear such a garment. My damn cats are so lazy that there is no way they stepped out of my apartment to do some tank shopping. AH, I KNOW. Someone left it in the washer. I didn't look. I added my dirties, deposited my buck and a quarter, and you mixed yourself into my fabric family. The fact of the matter is...I don't want you. I don't know who the hell you belong to. I am going to fucking abandon your (NOW VERY CLEAN) ass in the basement with the lonely socks and random thong. HAVE FUN WITH YOUR NEW FRIENDS. You are no longer wanted here.
A Salty Hooker

An open letter to the cats.

Dear cats,

You are so thoughtful.  You know that fiance and I have really been wanting new artwork in the house, and you surprised us this morning with such a treat.
It's so abstract and modern.  I really respect the element of urban rawness you chose by using your own kitty barf.  It's almost too chic for the house, but I appreciate this early wedding present.   I am also thrilled that you discovered a new hobby other than sleeping, eating, head-butting, and peeing in a plastic box.  I can't wait to see what you surprise us with next, hopefully a collection of found objects that you made no haste to ingest and then regurgitate onto the living room floor.

So thank you, little cats, I couldn't have asked for anything better.
Salty Hooker.

PS- I fucking hate you.