She called me a "Bitch".

Okay, I have to admit that sometimes I am not a nice person. Sometimes people push some inside "sarcastic bitch" button in me and I can't or won't control it.

This weekend, I went down to the neighborhood bar to get a drink with my friend who'd had a bad week at work. I quickly found the place full of the weirdest combo of college kids, middle-aged bleach-blonde drunk women and a few rednecks. I mean, it was usually full of this mix but for once I didn't know them.

Instead of the usual live bluegrass music, a local guy had talked the owner into letting him "spin some 80's, baby". Drunks wandering by had heard Bon Jovi pouring out of the front door followed by some Michael Jackson and soon the place was crazy.

I grabbed a drink and looked around for my friend. My phone buzzed. It was him.

            "Are you fucking kidding me with those people? Went to the other usual place. Meet me there."

I quickly downed my gin and tonic and waved at James, the bartender, to close me out. As I waited for him to run my card, the guy sitting on the stool next to me tried to look up at me but his weaving head and his half-closed eyes made him look like a sleepy wobble head.

"Hey, you like this music?" he asked.

I looked over where they had turned the pool table into a DJ table. The DJ who was pushing over 50, bald, with a gold chain, was fist pumping towards a group of equally old women dancing to "Billy Jean". The majority were wearing white jeans, and revealing wrinkled, sun damaged cleavage while dry-humping each other.

"It's okay."

"Okay? It's the best." He reached over and tugged at my arm to pull me closer to his slurring so I could better understand.

Suddenly, I felt a rather sharper tug on my shoulder. I looked up to see a rather unhappy girl wearing jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt that was equally strained at her bustline and her belly line.

"You talking to my boyfriend, bitch?" Not sure if she had in her equally drunken stupor gotten her point across, she raised her Bud Light bottle eye level and slowly repeated, "Biiiiiiitch."

James was taking forever to get my tab in the crowded bar. So, what the heck.

I turned to the girl, and slowly began to use small words that I hoped even when she was sober, she could understand.

"Bitch? Huh? I guess that is a good choice. I mean, you can't call me 'slut' or 'whore' because you don't know if or how often I have sexual intercourse, oral sex, or just make out with people. So, that wouldn't work. You could have gone with the 'C-word' but let's face it, we girls only use that word for girls who sleep with our boyfriends and—" I pointed down at the apparent love of her life who was now face down on the bar, "—I wouldn't go there. I have too much respect for your relationship."

I could see her trying really hard to hear something I would say that would let her attack me while attempting to keep standing upright.

"So all in all, I would have gone with 'bitch' too. However-oh, sorry, am I using too many big words for you? Good! I'm actually a really nice person, in fact I'm so nice I'm going to buy you another of what you are drinking. Hey, James, add a Bud Light on my tab and I'll come by tomorrow and pay it, cool?" James shook his head and blew me a kiss.

He handed the girl her beer. She looked at it, looked at me and repeated this a few times. Sensing new alcohol near him, the boyfriend suddenly shot up.

As I turned to go, I put a hand on his shoulder and on hers in a kind of barroom blessing.

"You two are so perfect for each other. I can just tell. Absolutely perfect. I wish you the best in the world and that you grow old together and have dozens of children just like you, with the same obvious promise of a full and fulfilling life."

I walked towards the front entrance and knowing that none of my sarcasm had registered in her drunken mind, and that I did not in fact like being called a 'bitch' unless I really deserved it (which sometimes I do), I stopped, turned and saw the couple still watching me, blinking slowly almost in unison.

I stepped into the street, stuck my head back in, looked at the guy, winked at him, and put the "phone" gesture to my ear and mouthed, "Call me."

I could hear the arguing from half a block away.

No, it wasn't right.

Yes, I'm not proud of myself.

Geesh…..that was a really bitchy thing to do.