Come On - Where Are Your Manners?

Friday night was supposed to be a chill night. Most of my boozing friends were out of town, and I was still waking up from my hangover from Thursday night. Thursday night is always trouble for me - the night usually starts at Sweetwater's happy hour, and ends at Twisted Taco where a buxom Eastern European brunette happily takes my credit card and watches me pull out my metaphorical net and start dragging the ladies in... or out. Last Thursday had me getting a ride home with a friend, and then sleeping off my hangover in the bathroom - with even more worries to follow as soon as I cleaned myself up.

However, a girl I haven't seen in a while wanted me to come out to Twist to party with one of her Emory friend's who was working her last night at the restaurant/bar. I wasn't incredibly interesting in seeing this girl - but I had it on good information that the EmoryGirl was a hot blonde who loved to get hammered. And that was enough to get me out of the house, even as my stomach cursed the Demon rum still in my system. So out I went, and didn't see the girl I was supposed to meet (who cares), nor the hottie EmoryGirl (damn!).

After walking a lap around the place, I head to the bar when some drunk asshole steps... on... my... ankle. Not my foot, my friggin ankle. I look at him, and he is all like, oh wow. I keep looking at him and he is like, "My God he is going to kill me!" The guy looked like a pussy (and he was black), but I really didn't feel like getting 86'd from Twist. It is shitty as far as chill bars go, but it is pretty good for dinners and corporate type happy hours - so it would suck if I had to explain to co-workers or clients why the cute hostess won't let me in the door. So I let him go. A simple apology, and or a drink would have solved the issue instantly.

This is happening to me a lot lately - where I have to have staredowns just to get a simple courtesy for someone scratching my Aussie boots, or hurting my feet, or spilling my drink. I am usually pretty courteous myself, and if I get courtesy - any injuries are forgotten. But in an environment where judgement is always impaired and hormones are running, shouldn't courtesy mean that much more? It did in Missouri.