WHY ARE YOU YELLING?
You know we can hear you, right? You're not trying to get our attention across the bleacher section of Fenway Park. You are less than a foot from me in a cigar lounge with jazz playing lightly in the background and the ballgame on mute. The person you're yelling at (through my brain) is two feet away, leaning in and staring right at you.
Yes, we get you're excited about whatever you're saying. (The actual words are distorted and nonsensical because they're So. Effing. Loud.)
You haven't been here long enough to be the in-house loud, obnoxious drunk (yet).
SO WHY ARE YOU YELLING?
Are you dying for attention? That's probably not the way to get it. Actually, you're getting attention--just not the right attention.
I reach into my bag and retrieve three Advil. You don't get the hint, but I guess guys like you don't live in a world of subtlety.
I lean way back. Nothing changes.
I get up and move away, needing a break. And you lean even closer to that poor soul, while maintaining the same decibel level. I should rescue him. He is my beloved, after all.
Maybe I'll wait for the Advil to take effect first, so I don't stab you in the voice box with a cocktail straw. Not that anyone would blame me...
In fact, I'd probably hear the roar of the crowd, as if David Ortiz just hit a grand slam.