I Hate Your Drink Order.

What do you want to drink?  Oh you don't know? And then you ask for a drink menu.  A drink menu?  Are you a 17-years-old girl on a weekend visit to a regional college? Have you never seen a bar before? There are only 12 drinks at a bar, and all bars in the world have EXACTLY the same 12 drinks.  If you have ever been to a bar, you can feel confident ordering your preferred drink at any bar, and therefore your facetious giggle and hair flip serve only to hasten the erosion of my lower teeth enamel as a grind them in an attempt to squelch my rage.  

Any of 12 drinks are more amusing to me than you who does not even have a single preference in this world but who floats through life unaware like we were all part of your hallucinatory dream sequence . Does it amuse you to waste  what may be the last 10 minutes of yours or my life before you say: "Hmm, I dunno... What's good here?" and settle for a Sour-Apple-Tini or some such abomination.  With clenched fist, I will proceed to order what I always order, a Rob Roy.  And the feckless bar-matron will say, "What is that?"  I guess as a bartender she's never come across Scotch? Vermouth? Bitters?  Allow me to make one for myself. AT HOME!!! Which is where I'd rather be anyway. The only thing I will order in a bar is a condom from the bathroom dispenser, which I will use as a protective sleeve for my wallet so that you can't spill your bullshit drink and ruin the leather again!