In one of my posts from a couple of months ago, I promised to donate to Planned Parenthood every time I got some misogynistic feminists are annoying you’re all just a bunch of triggered snowflakes I can say what I want jerk in my bar.  And here he is.  So, here’s my donation.  This is going to get expensive—I can already tell.

His shirt says, “Real Men like their Pork Pulled.” I’m not certain what to make of it. It’s a little kitchy for my taste—he probably picked it up at his favorite BBQ joint somewhere in the Deep South where harassing your waitress is encouraged and not frowned upon.

What’s your breakfast special?

It’s the American Dream. French toast topped with Blueberries, Strawberries, and Whipped Cream. (The American Dream, a.k.a. introductory guide to obesity and type 2 diabetes).

What about the American Wet Dream? Got any of those lying around?

Nope. We sell out of that early. Usually first thing.

It’s so cute because he thinks I’m on the menu and it’s really adorable.  He orders a double shot of Patron Silver instead. I go to pour it and, most importantly, gain some significant distance from his table.  Unfortunately, one of my regulars is at the bar.

Did you have a rough night? 

No, why?

You look a little rough today.

Maybe I am on the menu because there seems to be some sort of expectation here that you’re supposed to be served by someone pretty.  Okay, so I look uglier than usual did you want me to apologize for that?  Like breakfast doesn’t taste as good if the chick serving it doesn’t have mascara on.  I should scramble one of my eyelashes into his eggs.

I’m going to go on break now because I need a few minutes of silent meditation honestly it’s been a super annoying 20 minutes and I think that’s reasonable.  I just need to refill my positivity meter. I tell Porky over there that I’m heading out.

Was it me?

Yeah. Yes, for sure, absolutely. Any other questions?

That’s what I want to say.  Really I just laugh and say he’s been a problem since the moment he walked in, which is almost the same thing but less rude.

Hey I’m not the problem, he says. It’s your looks. They’re the problem.

And apparently, even when I’m looking “rough,” some guy in a pull my pork tee shirt still wants to take me for a ride. Although I don’t think he sets his standards very high. After all, he’s drinking tequila at 9:00 AM.

Just be forewarned, that when you come into my bar stinking of last night’s liquored debauchery, and make some joke about me being your wet dream, inferring that it’s my fault that you can’t hold your tongue because of the way I look, Planned Parenthood is going to make five dollars.  I know I work in a bar.  But I didn’t dress up for you today.  I’m not wearing makeup I barely ran a brush through my hair absolutely nothing about my appearance dictates me being receptive of anything you’re putting my way.

But, I need to realign the positivity.  Refill the meter.  Redirect the negative energy you have brought into my bar—and redirect it into something good.  I am stopping your ripple effects, reversing them, and reinterpreting them.  Good can always come from the not-so-good.  Just ask Planned Parenthood.