Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Go on Take the Money And Run

I've done a lot of crazy shit in the one or two times that I have accidentally ended up at Summers. There was the one time I busted a hole in the wall because the Golden Tee machine ate my quarters. There was that ONE time where I drank too much. There was also that time I tried to walk through the kitchen because I didn't want to pay the cover for a UFC fight. There was the time that I yelled Oregon Sucks! instead of Oregon Ducks. Then there was that time that I tried to eat some tin foil, hot sauce, hard-boiled egg, salt, pepper, cigarette ash, a piece of a moldy tile and a dollop of whatever was left in Sonny's bucket after he washed the floor in the Red Room unisex bathroom.

Even so, for the number of stupid mo fucking dumbass things that I have done over the course of my "career" at Summers, I have never taken the money and run.

I've never run out, walked out, sneaked out, crawled out, begged out, whimped out, sauntered out, stumbled out (i have stumbled out but that's besides the fucking point, just wait for the punchline), fallen out, freaked out, tripped out, laid out, laid about or passed out on a tab/bill/cheque at Summers.

As bad as the service might be on any given night (or any given sunday), that's no reason to skip out on your tab. I'm not pointing fingers, I'm just saying.

Just pay your fucking bartender and complain about it behind their back like I do.


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