Mexican Restaurant Mayhem
It’s Sunday at our favorite Mexican restaurant — the kind of day where every table is full, every child is sticky, and every adult just wants queso and quiet. The hostess says there’s a forty-five-minute wait unless we sit in the bar. Sold.
We slide into a booth among other families who’ve clearly had the same idea: grab a margarita, pretend it’s not chaos.
Enter: The Barstool Asshat.
He’s alone, already three Long Islands deep, and auditioning for “America’s Loudest Victim.” He’s berating the poor bartender because, and I quote, “There ain’t enough liquor in this drink!” She’s being polite — overly polite — trying to keep her job while he keeps losing his dignity.
His volume climbs. Her patience thins. The rest of us pretend to read our menus, silently praying for divine intervention or sudden power failure.
And then, from the booth next to him, Heaven delivers a messenger. The unlikeliest warrior rises.
She looks like she’s on her way to a church bake sale, handing out bulletins instead of smoke — soft pink sweater, pearls, hair sprayed into architectural compliance. Her husband blinks, already mourning what’s about to happen but powerless to stop it.
She lowers her fork with the slow precision of a sniper, turns toward the bar, and in a voice that could split granite and carries the vocal fry of an industrial metal vocalist who smokes three packs of Marlboro Reds a day, she barks:
“HEY.”
The drunk man turns, grinning, ready to flirt his way out of trouble.
Big mistake. He has no idea he’s about to get spiritually curb-stomped by June Cleaver on Judgment Day.
“Do you HAVE to be such a FUCKING ASSHOLE?!”
You could feel the air pressure drop.
“You’re making EVERYONE in here miserable! If that poor girl wasn’t so nice, she’d call you a cab and toss your sorry ass straight into the parking lot!”
Silence. Utter, holy silence. Forks suspended mid-bite. Even the mariachi music seems to tiptoe away.
The drunk blinks. He’s just been verbally neutered and spiritually declawed by a woman who probably says “heck” when she stubs her toe. He slaps a few bills on the counter, mutters something unintelligible, and wobbles out into the sunlight — reborn, humiliated, and possibly sober.
The bartender exhales like she just survived combat. The bar collectively exhales with her. Pink-Sweater Fury? She calmly dabs her mouth with a napkin, takes another bite of enchilada, and returns to her regularly scheduled sainthood. Somewhere, a child whispers, “Mommy won.”
Diagnosis (Case Notes)
- Chronic Booze-Loudmouth Syndrome with secondary Entitlement Outbreak.
- Sudden exposure to Holy Rage in a Cardigan produced rapid behavioral correction.
- Witnesses reported chills, awe, and mild applause.
Recommended Treatment
- For Staff: Keep one pearl-clad avenger on standby; stronger deterrent than tequila shots.
- For Patrons: When diplomacy fails, unleash the Suzy Homemaker of Doom.
- For the Asshat: Two bottles of water, one deep apology, and forty years of reflection.
Moral of the Story
Never mistake quiet manners for weakness. Some angels carry pepper spray and a perfectly pressed sweater.
Queso was extra that day, but so was she.
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