Let's talk crazy.

This one goes out to all the lunatics who are drawn to the bar like moths to a flame. Those nutty mother fuckers who walk in demanding drinks, lose their money, get into fights, talk loudly, lie pathologically, dance, laugh and cry - all within a matter of 60 seconds. This is how people get 86'd. I'm not against hearing a sad story here and there. "I've never met my father." "My son thinks I'm crazy." "No one loves me." "My girlfriend beats me." Blah Blah Blah. You're depressing everyone in here. And you just tipped me one dollar. Now, I might not be a licensed therapist, but I deserve more respect than that. You just tortured me for a fucking hour with your personal tale of woe and now I can't even afford to buy myself a candy bar? How am I supposed to console my mind, which is now ravaged from how depressing you are? How unjust is that? And now you're playing sad songs on the jukebox and singing them to yourself while crying... Great. Now you've got to go. This isn't your bedroom and you're not a fourteen-year-old girl dealing with unrequited love. You're a fat, old, sad person who needs some fucking Prozac, stat. More tales of crazy customers to come... If I get angry enough, I might even reenact them on camera...