When in Rome

Let's be honest... It should be safe to assume that most people don't go to their barber and ask for a hand grenade and a blowjob, or to their local carwash and solicit a printout of sexual predators living in their area, or to their cobbler and request a discourse on applied astrophysics. Why is it, then, that some gentlemen feel the desire to adhere to their ritualistic ordering of cocktails, libations so dainty they would make a Sunday afternoon tea party crumpet blush, regardless of a bar's specialty or the presence of conscious females of proficient hearing and sight?

Overheard at a busy neighborhood watering hole known for its extensive beer and whisky bill of fare:
Bartendress: What'll it be?
Young Sir #1: Hi, can I get a Stella, a glass of water, no ice, and an Electric Lemonade.
Bartendress: Sorry, we don't make club cocktails.
Young Sir #1: What?
Bartendress: We don't make drinks that you'd order at a club. This isn't a club.
Young Sir #1: Well, what do you make?
Bartendress: We mix liquor plus water, soda, or juice.
Young Sir #1: (Relaying unnerving information to Young Sir #2 and others in his party) Ok, I guess he'll have a gin and tonic?
Bartendress: Any special kind of gin?
Young Sir #1: Well.

Poor Young Sir #2 had to settle for the lingering taste of juniper berries and quinine, a drink of satisfactory taste to the masses who wished to prevent malaria in the 18th century, instead of the soothing synthetic blue from the island he swore rhymed with "Morocco." A different night, perhaps. Young Sir #1 should be nominated for a Bronze Star for his effort if it weren't for his guilt by association for allowing his companion to order well anything.

The problem, friends, was not in the tropical drink itself but in the context; an Electric Lemonade could be the perfect accoutrement on a muggy day in the West Indies or a cool night at a local Tiki-themed establishment. No, the hiccup was in that the cocktail was his go-to choice in this scenario, behavior I would liken to the case of squashing a cockroach by instinctively reaching for a loaf of Wonder Bread.

Next time, play it safe and simply order a beer or a glass of something that contains a liquid or two of which at least one is 80-proof or higher. This isn't club night, stop looking like such an asshole.

Cheers.