Do you believe in hate at first sight? Of course you do, you misanthropic vandals. I sure do.

I'm working the evening shift this week. This schedule placed my butt squarely in an executive swivel chair during the third game of the World Series. While testing the limits of human pizza consumption, I decided to stay past shift's end at ten so I wouldn't miss a single pitch. Afterwards, I would depart and fly east to some dodgy nightclub event my friends have been hyping for weeks. When the 11th inning rolled over and midnight approached, I resigned my perch and went to my car. I expected the game would still be playing when I reached my destination.

When I arrived at Cherry Red a little past midnight, the obnoxiously red club was sparsely populated. A small group of baseball fans huddled in one corner, where the game was playing on mute. Before I could join them, I tackled a crucially important task: getting a nice fizzy gin & tonic.

I leaned on the bar and signaled the bartender. He was a short little guy with spiky short blond hair that was messy in a carefully calculated way. His eyes were far too large for his tiny head and they bulged out of their sockets like throbbing hemorrhoids. The expression on his face was that of a nauseated frog. I knew immediately that I hated this man and wanted him to implode or evaporate or get smeared to the asphalt by a very large vehicle.

I was raised to be polite, cordial, and kind. I concealed my disdain (or so I thought) and waited patiently for the amphibian to serve his previous customers. He saw my wave and turned away with nary an acknowledgement. Customers sidled up to the other end of the bar and he stood there, chatting with them, studiously avoiding my beseeching gaze.

I was missing precious baseball. Not acceptable. I traveled down the bar to where he stood idle and ordered my drink with a volume impossible to ignore. "Gin & Tonic, double lime, thanks!"

He frowned and wearily poured me a weak drink. "Three bucks." He feigned being far too exhausted to be bartending the likes of me. Poor baby. I'm not exactly sure how a bartender with ten customers in his whole joint can work up a head of arrogant superiority, but he managed. Wow. I really hated this fucking guy.

Next, I imposed upon him for a round of shots and beers for my friends. He sighed. Such hard work, tipping bottles.

So I'm watching the game. My head is craned upwards to the highmounted little television. That little shit swooped in and snatched my unfinished drink away. I ordered another and asked him to let me finish this one.

"If you ask for a second drink, I'm gonna assume your first is finished, man. That's why I took it."

"No. It was already gone when I ordered this one. I'll hold this one in my hands."

"Whatever."

At 1:30am, in the 14th inning, the White Sox finally won the baseball game. The supercilious cuntface lined up free shots for everybody at the bar. Except me. Steam may have hissed from my ears. I'll have to check eyewitness accounts.

I asked for my tab. I pocketed my credit card and signed the bottom of the paper slip. I thought about leaving no tip, but I decided a single dollar tip on a tab that size would scream "fuck you" in fifty-foot tall neon letters. Yes.

I was right. As I walked to the exit, he ran from behind the bar and followed me to the door. He grabbed me by the shoulder and I spun around, wondering which friend I had neglected to give a goodbye.

"Here." He held a crumpled dollar towards me. I took it. "Don't come back." I realized he had just returned my hateful meager gratuity. My message had been received, loud and clear, 10-4, Roger Roger.

I responded with a booming voice that pierced through the techno music. "I won't. Fuck you." The whole bar turned to look at me as I left.

I walked down Sheffield. In a great mood. 5:17 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm