I've gotten used to you people taking your stupid fucking dogs into every bar in town. The laws against it aren't enforced and the health department winks and tells bar owners that if you say it's a service animal, well, it's not really possible for a bar own to independently verify that, so... But there's a limit. No fucking dogs on the fucking furniture, please, and don't let your fucking dog run all over the fucking place. And if your fucking dog is on one of those fucking annoying retractable fucking leashes, and you let out all the slack, then your fucking dog is running all over the place even if your fucking dog is technically on its fucking leash.

And if you can bring your fucking dog into this bar, I can bring my fucking aversion to fucking dogs into this bar. And we can share this bar—me, you, your fucking dog—so long as you keep your fucking dog off me. It's not too much to ask. And if your dog does get up on me, or too close, I can snap my fingers and glower at your dog and point in your direction, sending your fucking dog scurrying back to you with its fucking tail between its fucking legs.

Before you fuckers jump on me for being a passive-aggressive pussy, I said all of this to the dumb fuck with the adorable pooch.