The doors open, you wonder if the bar is ready for your game. Looking so fresh... No, phresh. Got your flat-brimmed fitted and your swag on. What's your entrance? G-Walkin'? Buck Jumpin'? Jookin'? Cue pimp walk.
Great first impression. Not too many broads in the place tonight. Female bartender. Niiiiiiice. You can hear your theme in your head, "I'm a hustla baby, I just want you to know..." You sit down. Say something real smooth. "Hey mama, I have an 11-inch anaconda... Nah, I ain't serious baby, it's really only a 10-inch python but you get the idea."
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? For her sake, I genuinely hope not, because if there were such a thing as verbal herpes, you'd be spreading it like an epidemic.
Not only as a bartender, but as a person, my question to you is, has that actually ever worked before?
I cannot choose which concept is more laughable: the fact that you think I care what is going on underneath your FUBU pants, or that quoting lines from a pornographic movie is okay in real life.
Dirty talking your bartender is a whole other category of a Napoleon Complex. Your crotch bravado is setting off serious red flags that are screaming, "Listeners beware! I'm really hung like a light switch."
Any jokes or statements regarding swimsuit zones are flat-out creepy and there's no loop-hole on this issue.
I can give you one place in America lingual VD is tolerated, Sheri's Ranch Brothel. But, if you insist on spreading the word, I am bound to call animal control to euthanize your 11-inch issue.
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