Hello, bartender. I would love a Hawaiian Punch in the Balls. I can’t tell you how to make it. Okay, then. I’ll have an Oral Sex on the Beach. No, I can’t tell you how to make that, either. Howza bout a Dick in the Dirt? I can’t tell you how to make any of these drinks I’m rattlin’ off. I’m not a bartender. I just know what I like. Did you flunk bartending school? What the fuck CAN you make? You don’t have the right to be offended. No offense. Okay, I’m sorry, please excuse, please excuse. Please to bring me a Slow Comfortable Screw. Oh? I’m surprised. I thought you would know how to make that one for sure. Bring me a…a…a…um…uh…a Mexican Mouthwash. Shit. Luckily for you I’m the only one in this bar. But it’s only four-thirty in the afternoon. I’m sure dickwads and faggots and bitches and whores and assholes and motherfuckers will start trickling in here pretty soon. Bring me a Flaming Blue Jesus. Bring me a Flaming Turd Rocket. Bring me a Grape Crush. Bring me a Velvet Tongue. Bring me a Velvet Presley. Bring me an Alligator Sperm. Bring me a Malibu Barbie. Hey, I’m as tired of this as you are. You know, I’m an idiot. The name of this bar is Whatever You Want, Baby. With a name like that I thought I could not lose. I thought I could waltz in here and order what the fuck ever kind of drink I wanted and get it with service and a smile. I thought I could walk in here and get my pussy licked clean with a snap of my fingers. As you imagine, I am not a satisfied customer at this point. Where’s the manager? I would like to complain. I want a free order of extra spicy buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing, not ranch, and a bunch of celery sticks. I would like a can of spicy peanuts. I want to hear “Strange Fruit” by Billie Holiday on the jukebox right now! I’m tired of this Jessica Simpson Ashlee Simpson Brooke Hogan Justin Timberlake Christina Aguilera Black Eyed Peas Beyonce Paris Hilton Britney Spears bullshit. Bring me a chocolate cake shaped like a volcano with an eruption of hot fudge lava. Bring me a President Bush voodoo doll. Bring me a Chef Boyardee cheese pizza. Bring me a guileless book without a plot. Bring me a bunch of tiny mermaids instead of Sea-Monkeys. Bring me some salty chips and salsa so spicy it will put even more hair on my upper lip. I’ve struggled with facial hair and gray hair and constipation and acne for years. I keep waiting for the shit to end. I keep waiting to wake up one morning pristine immaculate sexy Snow White Rapunzel Cinderella. Where the fuck is my prince? The man who will slash through the briars for my kiss. A man who will journey through time and space for a whiff of my cunt. A man who will kiss my frozen blue lips and bring me back from the dead. I’m not coming on to you. You aren’t my type. My type is a man who delivers. You have given me nothing that I want. You have not pleased me. You have not met the Make Misti Happy quota. I’ll give you a few more chances. This does not mean I’ll go to bed with you. This means you will get a tip. This means I will not bomb this bar on my way out. Yes. I am in fact a terrorist disguised as a stupid American woman. I am wearing a mask and a turban. You can’t see the turban for all the hair. If I was not wearing a mask you would be afraid. If you saw the turban you would know to call the cops. Am I right or am I right, motherfucker? Don’t play the politically correct Can’t We All Just Climb the Ladders and Slide Down the Chutes game with me ‘cause I’m not havin’ it. This is a bunch of bullshit. Okay. Forget I said anything. Forget I went off on a tangent. Like a Betty Crocker cake in grandma’s oven I’m done, dude. Bring me a Tropical Hibiscus. Bring me a Roswell. No, I don’t have an opinion on aliens. If they are among us I welcome them just as long as they don’t take my six dollar an hour job. Bring me a Panty Dropper. I’m not flirting with you. Bring me a Bill Clinton Zipper Dropper. Oh, don’t get me started on that shit. Don’t start asking me politically loaded questions. We’ll be here all damn night. I think Bill Clinton should have faced the American people with Monica Lewinsky’s Victoria’s Secret thong on his head and said, “I fucked her good, y’all. Well, technically I did not fuck her. I didn’t put my dick in her pussy. I did, however, eat her pussy and I did insert my erect cock in her mouth a few times. Hillary wasn’t fucking me and I didn’t think it would be too classy for the President of the United States of America to order a call girl delivered to the Oval Office like a goddamn Papa John’s pizza. Monica Lewinsky was there and I was glad she was there. I was grateful for her presence in my life. She fulfilled a vital role. If it wasn’t for Monica Lewinsky I would have screwed America better than any Republican. Instead of fucking you, the good people of America, I fucked an intern. But like I said, I never actually inserted my cock in her pussy. That would have just been wrong. No God in no heaven could have forgiven that shit. Thank you. Thank you very much.” Okay, bring me a Pearl Jam. Okay. Bring me Eddie Vedder’s autograph. Okay, bring Kurt Cobain back from the grave because that son of a bitch is my only hope. Okay, bring me the balls of Jesus. No, I don’t really want those. I’m squeamish. Bring me a Wu Wu. Bring me a Popped Cherry. My cherry was popped when I was twenty-two but that is none of your business. Bring me a K-Town Cherry Cola. Bring me a Candy Store. This is getting ridiculous. I really think you should learn a new trade. Ever thought about being a plumber? Plumbers make a shitload of money. That wasn’t a joke but thank you for laughing like you think I’m witty. Thank you for laughing like I’m Amy Poehler. If I made my living as a comic I’d be dead. That was not a joke. You are easily amused. You must be the baby of the family. You must come from a long line of nincompoops. Bring me a Bloody Tampon. I don’t know how to make a Bloody Tampon. If I knew I’d be behind the bar right now mopping the floor with your ass. Bring me a Count Stroganoff. Bring me a China White. Bring me a Horny White Girl. No, I am not a horny white girl. Appearances can be deceiving. I’m a pissed black girl about to go evil on your punk ass. Bring me a Dirty Girl Scout. Yeah, I was a Girl Scout once upon a time. I didn’t sell enough cookies so they kicked me to the curb. Don’t be sorry. I’m not. I had fun doing my own thing. While the Girl Scouts were earning badges and camping out I was writing about revolution in my Snoopy diary. Bring me a Viking Blood. Bring me a Rum Cobbler. Bring me a Ruby Runner. Bring me a Kali Fury. Bring me a Big Easy. Bring me a Big Titty Ho on a Motorcycle. Bring me a Little Green Fucker. Bring me a Cayman Climax. Bring me a Fisting in a Mexican Prison. No, I have never been fisted. If you are threatening me I’ll call the cops. Are you threatening me? Are you getting turned on by the mere thought of your dirty fist up my dirty ass? Are you wielding an erect penis? Good. Make me a Cowgirl’s Prayer. Okay. Then make me a Texas Prairie Fire. Goddamn it man, my patience is wearing thin. Bring me a Bong Water and make it quick. You fucktard. Bring me a Japanese Sex. No, I don’t like sushi. What the fuck does sushi have to do with the price of tea in China? Bring me a Sour Pussy. No. My pussy is not sour. My pussy is sweeter than the day is long but I am not about to prove that to you by putting it on your face. Bring me a Glitter and Trash. Bring me a Busted Nut. Bring me a Dirty Shirley. Bring me a Pink Milk. Milk does my body good? Oh, that’s original. You don’t get laid much, do ya? Shit. Bring me a Dripping Wet Pink. Bring me a Southern Pink Flamingo. Okay, forget pink. Bring me a Class Act. Bring me an Oh My God. Bring me a Mud Pie. Bring me a Harrison Ford. Yeah, he kicked ass as Han Solo. Yeah, I think he was hotter than Luke Skywalker. Bring me a Dublin Double. Bring me a Duck Fart. No, I have never been close enough to a duck’s ass to smell its fart. Have you? Of course you have. Not much to do down on the farm after the cows have been fucked and the sisters have been put to bed. Bring me a Flaming Duck Quiff in honor of your childhood memories. Bring me a Cookie Monster. Yes, that dude from “Sesame Street” with the googly eyes who surprise surprise, loves him some cookies. Bring me a Beam Me Up. No, I am not a Trekkie. Bring me a Just Shoot Me. Bring me a Curtain Call. Bring me a Hillbilly Asshole. Yes, I’ve seen “Deliverance.” I’d like to forget the images that movie burned into my brain. To make that possible, please bring me a Canadian Zombie. Look. This is me removing the white kid gloves and putting the boxing gloves on. If you don’t bring me a Hairy Sunrise I will be forced to kick your ass. Forget it, I’m still on probation. Just bring me a Hop Skip and Go Naked. You worthless primordial slime. Tell me. What can you make? I don’t want a Screwdriver. I don’t want a Long Island Ice Tea. I don’t want a Seven and Seven. I don’t want a Tequila Sunrise. I don’t want a Cuba Libre. I want a drink that has a fucked up name! I want a drink that nobody else has ever ordered in this bar that does not live up to its name! I want a Horny Toad! I want a Dirty Apple! I want a German Wake-Up Call! I want a Bite of the Iguana! I want a Fruit of the Loom! I want a Nut Twister! I want a Tropical Titty Twister! I want a Full Nelson! Where are the buffalo wings? Where’s my endless delight? Where’s the blue light that makes me angelic? Where’s George Jones? Where’s Johnny Cash? Where’s Gary Stewart? Where’s Willie Nelson? Where’s the bathroom? Life refuses to give me what I want! I am going to have to learn how to stop caring! I am going to have to learn how to settle! I am going to have to compromise myself! I am going to have to let it all go in one long exhale! Bring me a Corona with salt and a lime! God fucking damn it!