I have known since an early age that part of God's plan calls for me to spend a little time with some of the stupidest people on earth. Therefore, it came to no surprise to me when last night I met one of these people at a pub I often frequent when I want to be alone. And get very drunk.

She asked me what I was drinking. I told her I was about to pay out and leave just before she noticed that I had just arrived and didn't even have a tab yet. She ordered me a tequila sunrise and brought it to where I was sitting at the bar. I politely handed it to a guy who appeared to be a Marine sitting next to me. He looked as if he was too busy remembering something far more important than the drink.

"You don't have to be a fucking asshole about it," she said. "If you didn't want me to buy you a drink you should have said so."

I lit a cigarette and paused, allowing her the opportunity to correct herself, to no avail.

"I did tell you," I said.

She walked away, flying a middle finger high in the air as she did.

"Fuckin' prick."

My memory and senses proceeded to fade dramatically for the next two hours. I would often have barely enough time to notice the brown hazy ice in my glass before the bartender topped it off again.

"There's another one for you, sugar," the bartender would say before giving me a wink that I determined was well rehearsed.

I almost dropped my it when there was a hard slap against my back. A man resembling a young Biff from Back to the Future was standing behind me, with a forced and goofy grin.

"My buddy's sister says you're a real fuck hole," he said, in an equally forced and intentional meathead drawl. His eyes were more nervous than the rest of his features.

"It seems then," I said, "that my reputation has preceded me, and your love of language has preceded you. Unless you'd like to ask me to dance, maybe you should take a step back, Tex."

His eyes went cross for a moment, and I realized he was about as drunk as I was. He was comprehending our communication, and nodding to a song that played only in his head.

"She was only trying to buy you a drink, fuckhole, or maybe you're queer?" he said.

I looked him up and down.

"I'm no faggot," I said. "But I'd rather fuck this barstool with your dick before I put my dick in that broken down dirtleg of a whore."

I'm rarely so eloquently demeaning towards women, unless the opportunity is just so great that I can't bear to not be.

This didn't go over exceptionally well, as one might imagine.

He slammed his drink down, hard enough to crack the glass, and yelled "Hell No!".

A group that appeared to be his friends, including his friends sister, were now laughing and egging him on. His cheeks and forehead turned a shade of red that reminded me of the blotchy rhubarb my grandparents grew in their backyard (often the types of analogies that enter my mind after a half-dozen scotch and waters).

The Marine sitting next to me, who had gone unnoticed for much of the night, stood up and grabbed Biff's wrist, and leaned in close enough to kiss him on the ear.

"I don't much care for people mixing it up around me," he whispered in a hoarse voice. "But maybe if you have a problem with that, we can go out back and straighten all this out."

Defused. Good.

Biff left, and said Marine sat back down and turned his eyes to the television, within seconds, his eyes appeared to completely forget anything happened.

"Thanks, chief," I said, and I discreetly asked the bartender to put his tab on my credit card when he closed out.