Objective: To kiss your ass and those of your clients until payday

I'm trading in my flip flops for impractical shoes and will strut around Montreal for the better part of tomorrow in search of a new, likely drug-addicted and image-obsessed employer.
As you all know, my job provides me with financial independence, male attention and endless hours of postmodern yuppie-style laughs that have me addicted to it more than black coffee and Diet Coke combined. I've had enough of counting my pennies and watching my bank account deplete for four consecutive months, so tomorrow my tits, ass and I are off to the races to shake martinis until the corporate execs go back to the office.
Wish me luck!

Still too good for my former Euro Trash employers...

I quit my job on Sunday. Yep, no more corporate suits, nose-jobbed trophy wives, under-age dealer groupies (and their dealers, of course), shitty 'house' DJs, Quebecois celebrities, stripey-shirted douche bags, Arabian oil lords, seedy-yet-entertaining strip-club owners, or ignorant and rich little princesses who ask for no dressing (instead, salt and lemons) on their garden salads.

Well, at least for four months. Fear not, loyal readers, I will be a bar star once again and live to tell the many humorous tales.

So I asked my boss why I wasn't awarded the schedule I deserve. Why, oh why, may I not be the one privileged enough to serve vodka-Red-Bulls at a high volume to unworthy yet cash-bearing patrons?

"Well, you're not really enthusiastic enough. Sometimes you don't look like you're happy to be here." (this is code for: "You don't party here on your days off with us, and you don't grab our asses as much as we grab yours, and well, that is what enthusiasm means to us.")

Working for these boys isn't a job; it's a lifestyle.

Fuck that shit. I've got higher aspirations, like being a barmaid at some other shitty, $9 Heineken bar. But in the mean time, allow me to celebrate with the money I will no longer be earning! YAY!!!!!

You can send donations (food stamps, cash, drugs, clothing, non-perishables) to my unemployed ass at my mom's house (leave a comment and I'll send you her address).

I am too stylish and intelligent for my Euro trash employers

Because I have enough taste to choose not to wear gold lamé 'bar shirts,' I am denied the promotion I deserve.

My bosses will marry me, fuck me and serve me drinks until I can drink, fuck and wed no more, but will not let me pour vodka-red bulls at high volume on Fridays.

Dick Measuring

If the world was about to end and all that was necessary to save it was to have a man run around a restaurant and touch all four walls after last call without stopping to engage in homo-erotic activities, two biceps with a typical man's conscience between them would fail to save us all from catastrophe.
Why?
Fucking arm wrestling.
A man cannot turn down the opportunity to reveal his inebriated sub-human strength to a crowd of grunting and hollering males.
It's like a pre-mating ritual, only there are no potential mates in sight, save for me, the alleged 'feminist' of the staff who has x-ray vision. From this tired, weary, behind-the-bar vantage point, I can still clearly see the penis size of each man who is in the process of trying to defend his Johnson's (and therefore his) so-called honour.
To my un-surprise, their dicks are all small.

Corporate Suits Love Me

So I am the best barmaid in the world.
Lonely white-haired men sporting Black American Express cards are drawn to me like moths to a flame.
I'm not sure what it is, but I get such a kick out of them telling me over the bar of their secret Panamanian financial hideaways and high-budget, yet low-caliber movie productions that I just beg them to go on about their loveless and relentlessly quantified lives. It's sad and I, the fair barmaid, fawn over them, topping their Greygoose-on-ices, making them feel young again.
I really do love my job.