Right. I grew up in the 80's. I believe that children are our future. I still refuse to understand why our future hangs out in bars with their parents. This drives me more insane than having my sock on upside down. ..and few things are more annoying than the heel of your sock rubbing against the top of your foot. When I'm in a bar, I expect to drink. My time there is not to be a babysitter. This is an ongoing rant, and I really, really wish it wasn't. Bars are for drinking, not for babies.
So I settled the bill and ran off to another bar. And I'm here being socially deviant by typing on a laptop during happy hour. Perhaps the parents who tote their tots (see what I did there?) to the bar are feeling smugly rebellious, perhaps even slightly deviant. But. My typing in a bar, which is possibly annoying, holds no candle, flame, or lighter to the folks who bring their hyperactive brood to a bar.
My typing is contained to my table. My typing does not impose itself on other people at the bar, who are there to be grown-ups at a bar. I'll say it again: if you have to ask a bartender if they have milk and he doesn't know...it's not a place for your precious poopy-kins.
And as I type this rant, there is a man and lady walking with their three-year-old and seven-year-old to the FRICKING BAR!!! And there they go running amok (the kids, not the parents. Parents running amok would be a somewhat good band name). Sigh. There is a restaurant portion of this place. Alas. If this is a Colorado thing, it really needs to not be. If this is a national thing: IT'S CALLED A BABYSITTER!!! CALL ONE!!
Moral of today's story: bars are called bars because they serve alcohol and perhaps nachos. Not milk and G-rated language. Hell damn shit.
An Erinku (in crankiness):
two straws
for my happy drink
they stole my chairs
for their progeny. Punks.
No comments:
Post a Comment