To show my cynicism toward the elegant decor that holds up the misfortunate drunks... I wrote a poem.
Ode to a bar stool: There once was a girl that no regulars knew, She drank all the vodka and turned a deep greenish blue, She stumbled and cried upon her 3rd drink, Claiming she never can hide from a creepers long wink. Then she vomited on her new suede prada shoe.
But don’t blame the stool upon which her ass laid, It was the sturdiest of all like the plastic from which she paid, The plastic of her soul and her dreams of a free round, The stool tried all evening but her face still found the ground, The worst part was the improvement the ground made.
It improved her face but her ego was gone, Like the tiniest piece of yarn that she called her thong, You must be thinking that poor stool cried, And it did because that bitch stole his stool pride. At least he could laugh when she sang her karaoke song...
Before He cheats by Carrie Underwood.
This happens every weekend, I’m glad to have enlightened your brain. -cynical sugar