Stupid Girls

“Do you know how to make Alien Pee?”

“Get an alien to pee in a cup?” I guess.

This girl looks 16, but her ID assures me she is just barely 21. She rolls her eyes, “It’s a drink…”

“Haven’t heard of it.”

“I think it has Midori and sweet and sour in it,” she says.

“That’s a Midori Sour.”

“No!” the girl next to her insists. She is also barely 21. They look like the kind of fraternal twins where one is overly thin and pretty and plastic and the second is homely and obviously loves comfort foods. “We were at a bar downtown and they had it on special. It’s called Alien Pee!”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. Funny how some people think they are experts after they’ve been to a few bars. I don’t waste my time explaining basic marketing to them. They slam their Sex on the Beaches and order a pair of fuzzy navels.

By the way, it’s only three in the afternoon. The homely one slurps down her fuzzy navel and asks if I know how to make a Baby Mama. When I shake my head no she says, “Oh, well she made it up.”

“If she made it up, why would I have heard of it?”

Both girls shrug but don’t say anything. They won’t admit how special they think they are, local celebrities in their own minds (just like most of the people in this sad little town). “Well if you ever want to make it,” the wannabe mixologist chimes in, “It’s Malibu rum, pineapple juice and cranberry juice.”

I just look at her, my jaw clenched to stone, holding the laughter back. “You didn’t make that up. It’s called a Malibu Bay Breeze.”

Blank stares. I’m kind of embarrassed for them. It’s true, the most annoying demographic in bars is the twenty one-ers.

Another round of sugary, hang-over inducing cocktails later and the larger of the two pulls her Visa out of her purse. Droplets of sweat are beaded across her brows and above her upper lip as she asks, “Can we start a tab?”

My favorite part! “Probably not since I’m going to have to cut you off.”

“Cut us off?!” Surprise and indignation in unison. They argue. They complain.

I point at the sign above the bar and read it for them, “It is illegal to sell alcohol to visibly intoxicated persons.”

“I’m not drunk,” the first one says.

“Me either!” says the second.

Arms crossed over my chest, with all seriousness I respond, “So why are you sweating? You’re sitting still!”

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