Cue the eyeroll...

Dear Stella Atrois,

You stuck-up prissy little bitch.

I don't care about your ritual.  I don't care that you train bartenders to slice the head off my beer with a letter opener. I just want my beer quick-like so I can get back to (instert bar activity).

Anyway, you're not even slicing off enough; there's way to much head on that beer. I don't want any head. I want as much liquid as possible. I'm paying per the ounce! Per the ounce! And who wants a mouth full of head? (That's not what she said.) Head is frothy nothingness on which I choke. I spit on your head.

This post brought to you by SOPA.

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