Dear Bar Clientele,

We've been through a lot together. Ever since I started drinking illegally at age 17 (16?), we have had a relationship with each other wherein you exist for my amusement. You've been the background noise that hums to the rhythm of my anecdotes. You've been women with whom I chat in restrooms about, well, all kinds of inanity that women strangers say to each other in restrooms. You've been the guys whose beer goggles have meant fifteen seconds of great pickup lines (remember that time there were six in a row? Each one worse than the last? And that was his thing!) before a polite rebuff.* But last night, Bar Clientele, you crossed the line.

I now realize it was the jukebox. Maybe you weren't ready for it. Maybe you didn't get understand that you're not supposed to plug six loonies into it to hear eighteen of your favourite songs! in a row. You're supposed to put in your three songs' worth, then wait to hear if anyone else in the bar can also hold up great tunes to drink to. If someone puts on Eminem two tracks in a row (and it happened), it is your obligation to get up and select music that can make up for this travesty. Think of a jukebox as a collection plate for good times.

So bearing that in mind, what in god's name were you thinking playing six romances fortes** at midnight on a Saturday night, when the place was full but not packed and everyone was enjoying themselves? What made you think it was okay to play Coldplay and "Always" by Bon Jovi? What made you think you were allowed to slow dance to it? What made you think it was acceptable to ask the bartender to turn up the volume and oppress the conversations of everyone else in the bar?

What happened to you? Were you not allowed to eat any refined sugar as a child? Or was it food colouring? That's the only reason why you could be like that.

I hate you, and your children, and your children's children.

Notes:
* rebuff: It's got to either be a pretty loathsome pickup or he has to have a swastika tattooed on his forehead for me to be rude in a situation like that. If I was him, being laughed at by a woman I thought was pretty (and, through beer goggles, at least second-base-able) would be enough to make me cut things. You know, wheat, hair, taffy, wrists, anything. Just cutting.

** romances fortes: that means power ballads, and only French can express how I feel about them at midnight on a Saturday when it's good times out and people blast the volume to slow dance to it.