We both go down to the bar. All the drunks are still loitering around, slurping the last few drops of beer in their plastic cups. Melvin is there, and miracle of miracles, he actually seems sober. People ask me if I'm new. I've worked there for two years. I do not find this amusing at all. Ty tells me I can talk to the clientele if I wish. I say "Oh, okay," but inside I'm thinking, "Oh my god! You expect me to mingle?" Mingling is not in my job description. I don't mingle. I loathe mingling. But luckily, they all stagger out a few minutes later, and Ty and I are left alone with the bartender, Summer.

Let me tell you about Summer. On a smart scale of 1 to 10, she is maybe a decimal point three--and that's only because the part of her brain that moves arms and legs is still functioning. My run-ins with Summer have not been pleasant. The first time I met her, she handed me a guest pass on a holiday weekend. I was swamped, so I told her she needed to fill it out and I'd take it when she was done. She came back three times, and still did not fill it all the way out. I mean, this is not the theory of relativity. This is not quantum physics. It's a guest pass! There are four lines you need to fill out! I finally got so tired of her coming back that I just filled it out for her. That's how stupid she is. Anyway, I see her every single frickin' Saturday night when I work. Sometimes she brags that if she "wiggles her ass" the customers will give her more tips. (I'm not against this; if she's comfortable shaking her booty in front of drunk old man for a few bucks, more power to her, but really, there's no need to brag to security about that.) And she takes forever to count her money. I mean, for friggin ever. Who ever I'm working with will be down there for forty-five minutes while she counts her damn money. For all the other bartenders it takes about ten minutes. Lori thinks she's milking the time clock, but I think it's just because she's really really stupid. Nothing else I've seen her do leads me to believe that she is bright enough to milk the time clock.

Anyway, so Ty and I are alone in the bar with Summer. She asks if I'm new. Okay, she just saw me LAST WEEK! She's seen me every single Saturday for the past few months, and saw me almost every single weekend last year! What the hell? Then Ty and I check the doors, the windows, etc., making sure that everything is all locked up. Then we pick up the trash for Summer--not in our job description, but we figure that if we want to get out of there before dawn, we should help out a little. Then she asks Ty to count her quarters. This pisses me off beyond belief. She's a freaking bartender, why the hell can't she count her own damn money?! See, it's people like her that hold the feminist movement back. While the rest of woman-kind struggles for things like equal pay for equal work and non-discrimination in the work place, she's asking somebody else to count her damn quarters. She is the absolute epitome of everything that is wrong with today's society: she's stupid, she's lazy, and she wears too much eye makeup. Asking somebody else to count her quarters--what the hell?!

Next week, I close the bar by myself. She better not fucking ask me to count her damn quarters because I won't do it. And she can wiggle her ass all she wants to, she will still be counting her own damn change.

Asking somebody else to count her damn quarter. What in the hell is wrong with her?! Does she think she can just skate through life pawning her work off to other people? Does she think she can shake her butt and that will make up for the fact that she's completely incompetent? What is she going to do when she is old and saggy? What then? Who will count her quarters for her then?

God that sort of thing just pisses me off.

So anyway, as I'm making fun of Summer and explaining to Ty why her asking him to count her quarters is picking away at the wood on the bottom of the barrel of how low a woman can get, he says, "You're way more attractive than she is. And you're smart too."

Aaaaawwwwww.

calvin & hobbs