Bethesda is one snooty town

So I'm at this bar called the Harp and Fiddle, which is a pretty decent place, if you like pretend-Irish bars in the US. I'm with a friend that I hadn't been with in six months or so, and so there's a bunch of catching up to do. So here we are, on a Wednesday, at happy hour, chatting about our miserable lives and generally having a good time when a little old lady walks up to us and says:

"Could you two please lower your voices? My husband is playing, and both your voices really carry." and she has this look on her face (the "could-you-kids-please-shut-the-fuck-up-eh? please? ok? thanks." THAT look)

Both of us are dumbfounded because we don't know what she's talking about. I mean, both Kim and I are from Baltimore, where sure, there might be the occasional fight and gunshot wounds and drug dealing, but NO ONE has come up to us and told us to shut up. EVER. So we stare at her, and then we see she's walking back to the other side of the bar, where sure enough, there's a wizened old man playing on a lute or something. We had thought it was bar music, and we we had to talk over it to hear each other. Turns out it was this septuagenarian with a replacement hip cranking out civil war era tunes on his venerable instrument, much to the delight of his wife. I mean, she had her eyes closed and was swaying to the music in the kind of unchained rapture that I will attribute to menopause and a lack of sex for a couple decades. And of course a giant pineapple up the ass.

I mean. What the fuck.

Last time I checked, we weren't at the Carnegie.
We're at a bar.
At a fucking Wednesday happy hour.

I'm sorry I had to raise my voice to be heard above the cacophony that your geriatric spouse was cranking out, ok? But the next time you want to experience auditory orgasmic bliss in silence, tell your hubby to play Wagner in bed.

And the next time, if there is one, that you tell me to shut up, I WILL punch you in the face. Or well, maybe kick your fucking cane out from under you.