Notes From a Dive Bar XVII

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I'm in the present. Things are tense.
A guy threatens me with that most dangerous of weapons - YELP!
You're a dick, he says.
I cut it off.
But he has no balls for a fight. I can tell when I go around the bar. He cowers like a little mouse. He squeaks and yelps as he barrels through the door, head first.

Someone says they have seen me on Facebook.
I'm a Twitter man, I say.
You don't like Facebook.
No, I just don't like faces, pointing to my own. I like birds.
Birds?
Yeah, they fly away when annoyed. And drop the odd shit on a human head.

Guy asks for a whiskey in a tumbler.
What are you, I demand, a blogger?
What? he asks.
Never mind.
He takes a picture of the whisky.
What are you doing? I ask. Is there something in the liquor, a dead roach, a booger?
No. I'm posting to Instagram.
What's that? I shout. Is it like f*cking Yelp?
No. It's a place where people post pictures about their lives.
Take a picture of us, I say.
Selfie.
Post it to Instagram, I command.
Click.
You know, some people say I can be a dick. Does that make this a dick pic?
Delete.

Now, where was I? Oh, that's right. Reading a newspaper back in the age of yesterday.