Shut up.  Just shut the hell up.

You sit there, at the bar, screaming at the TV, giving anyone within a mile radius of your bar stool a play-by-play of the lame basketball game which is blaring out of all three, oversize televisions behind my head.  You flail around as if you were an injured teammate, begging and pleading to just be let back onto the court.

No one wants to hear your chatter, nor witty band camp comments.  Stop with the text message reciting, the minute facebook updates of fellow bottom dwellers like yourself.  Your opening line, forced upon those misdirected few who wander too close,  is sad and stale…just like your haircut.

And after nearly three years as your neighborhood beer slinger , I am certain it would break your heart to know that these are the memories of you that I am taking with me. Sure there were  moments of interest and the mirage of concern over your double shoulder surgery or your son’s epilepsy was hazily genuine.  But months and years later, when I have long ago escaped the oily stench of pepperoni and your perfume, you will still be at that bar, watching the same boring ass game on even bigger TV’s and I’ll be thanking the heavens that I no longer have to listen to your drivelous prattle or wonder if your haircut, indeed, will ever change.

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