Scott Baio walked into a bar.
“Not you again,” the bartender said. Scott Baio didn’t respond, he just pointed at an American flag lapel pin on the blazer he was wearing over a Senor Frogs t-shirt.
Scott Baio sat at the bar. The bartender, as usual, was ignoring him. He ignored Scott Baio every time Scott Baio came into his bar, because he hated Scott Baio. It had all started with his racist Michelle Obama Twitter joke. This week, he had been surprised to discover Scott Baio in the news again, once more due to Twitter, this time getting into some kind of flame war with some blog? The bartender wasn’t sure he even knew what a blog was, and he only heard about Twitter because of his past encounter with Scott Baio, but if there was one thing he did know, it was human beings who were messes. And he hated messes in his bar.
“Hey, buddy, come here,” Scott Baio said to the bartender. “I want to show you something.”
The bartender reluctantly turned around, knowing what was coming, and he saw that Scott Baio was pulling out his wallet.
“Ugh,” the bartender said. “If you show me a picture of some woman that you tore out of a magazine who you believe is entitled to her opinion, as if that is a belief that people even need to express at this point, I am going to throw ice in your face and I’m never going to talk to you again.”
Scott Baio rifled through the windowpane credit card holder, past the Tim Horton’s punch card, the Jiffy-Lube Preferred Customer card, and the Fudrucker’s punch card until he found what he was looking for. It was a picture of a woman wearing a sports bra and a sweatband around her head. He removed the photo from his wallet and pushed it across the bar. Scott Baio cleared his throat theatrically.
“Now, would a person who had deep-seated issues with women carry around a picture of a woman, who is totally entitled to have her own opinion and even register for a driver’s license if she wanted to, and who no one should ever call a sopping cunt rag unless she was really acting like one, in his wallet? And guess what? I didn’t tear it out of a magazine, it came in a picture frame. So you don’t know anything, and women love picture frames you idiot.”
The bartender threw ice in Scott Baio’s face.
“You can’t just throw ice in someone’s face!” Scott Baio shouted. “This is America!”
“It seems to me that the type of person who would shout ‘This is America!’ has a vision of this country in which you absolutely can just throw ice in someone’s face.”
Scott Baio fell silent and thought about what the bartender had said for an astonishingly long time. Then he slowly nodded. “You might have me there, chief,” Scott Baio said. “I might not like the way you throw ice in people’s faces, but I will fight to the death to defend your right to throw it. George W. Bush.”
“You don’t recognize that? It’s one of the more famous quotes from the greatest President who ever lived, George W. Bush.”
“First of all, that’s not a quote from George W. Bush, second of all you would not fight for the death for anything, and third, get out of my bar.”
“Just one Jaegerbomb, pleaasssssse?!”
The bartender crossed his arms across his chest. Scott Baio, pouting, looked down at the bar. Water from the ice had spotted his photograph of the woman. Now Scott was furious. “Look what you did, you stupid homosexual Jew! Where am I going to get another photo of a woman? I bought the picture frame this one came in at a dollar store in the early 1990s. A dollar store that is now CLOSED.”
The bartender stared at Scott Baio. “You hang yourself with your own rope, Scott Baio.”
“SOUNDS LIKE YOU ARE A TERRIBLE RACIST,” Scott Baio shouted. “HANG MYSELF WITH MY OWN ROPE? GROSS, YOU RACIST. YOU ARE DEFINITELY RACIST BECAUSE THAT IS NOT A COMMON EXPRESSION, AND WHEN I THINK OF HANGING PEOPLE I IMMEDIATELY THINK OF HANGING BLACK PEOPLE AND WE’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT ANYMORE BECAUSE I THINK IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE WRONG NOW. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF.”
Scott Baio glared at the bartender as he crumpled up the picture of the woman and threw it on the ground. “Stupid bitch,” he said. Scott Baio placed both hands on the bar and slowly pushed himself back, and then he stood staring at the bartender.
“I will find another picture of a woman,” Scott Baio said, “no matter how long it takes. And when I do, I’m going to come back here, and I’m going to show it to you, and you’re going to realize that I have more character in my piss than you have piss in your whole bar.”
The bartender furrowed his brow. That one was difficult to work through, even for a pretty intelligent and politically engaged bartender.
He made the heil-Hitler hand gesture. “Take back the night!” And then Scott Baio walked out into the pussy-scented evening.