I know I shouldn't, but her fake, oil-filled, kickball tits are pouring out of her low-cut top like two fucked up Kuatos. Plus her face is carved to shit. She looks like a past-her-prime Nascar wife who graduated from the University of Florida's community campus with an associates degree in Sociology. And she's only in her twenties. I know I'm supposed to ask her a bullshit question, compliment her smile or her eyes, but I don't give a fuck. Her shit is outside of her shirt in an overfilled water balloon manner. If I don't mention the elephant in the room then I'm as transparent as she is. Plus I'm not attracted to her in the slightest, so it makes it easy to be an asshole.
"I like your tits." (even though I don't)
"I'm sure everyone's told you this, but you have really nice breasts." (lie)
She gets a look of disgust on her face. How dare I!
I walk away with a buzzed smile. If no one else is going to call her out it may as well be me. Don't come to a bar dressed like a former Hooters girl and think you're the hottest thing since an oozing dick, because you're not -- no matter what the chubby Mexicans tell you. You're the equivalent of the tanktop douchebag with an armband tattoo. To take offense, to pretend you're not trying to show off -- and actually believe it -- is pure naivete.
I'll be the realist. You'll be the bimbo who gets free drinks and walks away from her benefactors.