As*holes Among Us

Mondays are always difficult, in part because Sunday nights I have trouble sleeping, but today was especially stressful. I won't be in on Friday because I'm taking a personal day--the one personal day I get all year--for a family wedding and I'm already worried about my lesson plans. I'm certainly looking forward to the wedding. The lesson plans? Not so much. It is definitely easier to be in school than to stay home.

Anyway, I felt super stressed today. And I didn't bring lunch (my own fault) (wouldn't have had time to eat it if I did), so I decided to go out after school. Since I can finally travel north to Springfield now that the Big E is over, I decided to go to one of my favorite places (that shall remain nameless but is near the Basketball Hall of Fame and is one of 10 in a greater Hartford restaurant group).

My choice of bar stool was somewhat limited since I arrived at the tail end of extended business lunches, but I was okay with my seat. I eat out often, and often alone, so I feel practiced at the art of small talk--when required.

My goal was chicken Milanese with arugula salad after a lemon drop martini; it was not to talk to the three businessmen to my right. But when they asked the bartender what she was shaking for me, and she said, "lemon drop," I decided to add "or 'Monday Medicine' as I prefer to call it"--both to break the ice and let them know I could hear their conversation. "Hahaha," they chuckled. Mission accomplished,

My late lunch/early dinner proceeded without out incident.

For a little while.

Then the bartender decanted their second bottle of wine.

(Read: then the douche bags ordered another fancy bottle.)

So while I enjoyed my meal and a glass of wine, I got to hear stories that included words and phrases like "dirty hippies," and "she was hot, but her sisters are like double wides." And, "oh yeah, my cousin would call me to take her fat friends to the prom."

Yeah. From the "dirty hippies" judging man who was wearing a version of a (more) salt (than) pepper, crispy, gelled mullet that he apparently thought compensated for the receding Widow's peak.

They finished their second decanted bottle and asked the bartender for advice on how to proceed. More wine, they wondered? Or eXpresso martinis? She steered them toward another bottle of wine, which steered me against ordering another glass.

As I finished my wine and took care of my tab, I vented my disgust via text messages, instead of saying this before I left.

Clearly cuff links don't confer class. And if you were half as worldly as you think you act, you'd know that it's eSpresso, not eXpresso....Dirty hippies? really?! Hmmmm...jealous you didn't have the balls to resist "the man" in your simple, bourgeois lives and gave it all up for those cuff links? And those poor fat girls you had to suffer through dates with? I sure hope they have voodoo dolls and pluck the rest of your ridiculous mullet hair by hair, and that they time it perfectly so that the last one goes the same day I hope your tiny little dicks fall off.

Cheers. Have a good night.