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The Worst Person At The Bar

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I have a problem with you. You know who you are. You’re that piece of shit that goes to the bar before cover, and posts up on a bar stool in a central spot. You being there early means that whenever I get there with the crowd, and I want to open my tab that I’ll undoubtedly forget to close, I’ll have to politely wait for someone around you to move. Not you, though. You’re a fucking statue.

You think you’re the shit. We all see you there, every night, buying rounds for the bar and making eyes at the bartender. Unfortunately for you, those shots aren’t making you any friends, and your looks are just adding to your tip. You’re merely enabling my friends and I to leave with one of the girls you have unknowingly lubed up. So thanks for that, at least.

There has to be a background story for you, right? Oh good, there is:

You were going to rush as a freshman. You came in with AP credits, a spot on the club team, and a girlfriend.

Then the top house, the one rushing you, fucked you. Their all-star fifth year super senior saw your blonde girlfriend’s boobs flopping up and down like Kate Upton on a runway, and found them fit for his dick. Oh, the heartbreak. You found out, and thought, “Well fuck them. If this what Greeks do then they’re all a bunch of asexual fucks with no means other than their parents.”

Your anger swelled. Your favorite topic of discussion became how “fucking gay” frats were, and how all of the girls who affiliate themselves with them are “simply whores waiting to be knocked up.” Your girlfriend, the one who you came to school with and who then wrapped her fun bags around Super Senior’s magic stick, became the “ultimate sorostitute,” and you dubbed her a “slamgina with chlamydia who isn’t worth a thought.”

As it usually does, especially when you tweet, word got around about your feelings of hatred. You quickly became the bitter, unappreciative, worthless freshmen fuck that repeatedly got shit on as soon as you left your dorm.

“There goes McFuck” and “Did you see the video, asshole?” became regular morning, afternoon and nighttime greetings (because, naturally, your ex-girlfriend’s tit-fucking mistake was filmed, and put up on redtube and youjizz as a “college girls dorm” hot pick).

But I’ll give credit where it’s due, you didn’t transfer. You stuck around because perusing a pre-law Poli Sci degree at any other school just didn’t make any sense. Instead, you settled into the academic crowd of legal aids and campus tour guides, familiarizing yourself with “cool” websites and Vineyard Vines catalogs in order to stay what you thought to be “socially acceptable.”

Fast forward to your spring sophomore semester. You’re on top of the world. The internship you cherish at the coffee shop in the government and politics building has rendered you infallible, and the fake ID you bought from the internet gives you access to the bars. Now you’re sitting there and this background story has gone full circle.

Here is the irony: all the drinks he is buying are paid for with an AmEx. We know this because he flashes it to gain clout and attention. How do you get an AmEx in college? Your parents give it to you.

Dear Self Entitled D-Bag,

You are a hypocrite, but thanks for the easy lay with your ex. She loves it when I’m balls deep.



PS. Some advice? Either transfer or start commuting, therefore empowering you to go sit at some other city’s bar and take up seats.

But please, leave your tab open here.

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