you're on my turf, redstate. recognize...

Dear table full of assholes,
It’s not my fault that you’re wearing Old Navy’s 1999 pleat front chinos and a fake Rolex. Nor is it my fault that your evening apparently involved being rejected by a series of women in retro tank tops and ethnic earrings. Clearly, your mother never taught you that when you see a woman standing alone in the middle of the Redwood Room holding 2 drinks, surrounded by sleazy businessmen and mid-level prostitutes, and you’re sitting at a perfectly empty table with an array of chairs, you’re supposed to offer one. And if you can’t manage that, and she’s forced to ask if it’s okay if she borrow a chair for a matter of seconds until her friend comes back, don’t make her feel like a peg-legged, eye-patched, hairy face freak. Finally, no matter how fucking hot and sophisticated you think you are, smugly sitting there with your wedding ring shoved in your cheap-ass pocket, never forget that there is something to be said for being a gentleman.
To everyone.
The quickest way to lose your air of imagined fabulousness is to lack charm. You could just have easily sucked it up, asked me how my night was going and discovered that I’m delightful, hilarious and better looking when I’m not so fucking terrified and awkward. Mais non.
You had to sit there like a trio of shitheads, far too cool to even smile. Which is why I was forced to lean forward, introduce myself and let you know how much you suck. Sure, I came off like a bitter, rejected woman, sipping my drink that some far better looking stranger happily bought me at the bar, complaining that I wasn’t getting enough attention. And quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. Just as I would tell someone they had toilet paper on their shoe or a booger hanging out of their nose, I had to tell you.
You are assholes.
I repeat, you are assholes.
Next time, that red wine I was holding might just end up all over your iron-free Izod…