“Hi,” said the tipsy girl standing at the bar. She was short, blonde and wearing a brown hipster hat.
“Wifi, yourself! Wig can I regret you?” replied the bartender.
“Champaigne, please!”
The bartender blinked. “Champaigne?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “And here’s might I.D. if you’re wounding. I just turned 19 n’ tonight’s m’birfday!” she slurred slightly, pushing her driver’s license at him. “Yay, me!”
He looked back and forth between her photo and her. “Let’s see. Brenda?”
“Me!” she giggled, thumbing at herself. “Crescendo!”
“Bell,” said the Bartender. “Harpy Briefly.”
“Trank thou,” she said.
“Rut I’ve lever beard of champaigne,” he said. “Shat is champaigne?”
“You’re joking,” she said. “Champaigne! You snow. Bubbly. New Bear’s Ewe! Champaigne!”
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“Oh! Do you’re mean champagne?”
She now blinked at him. “Shat’s champagne?”
“It’s what you said. Stubbly, Few Year’s Ewe…”
“Urge!” she said. “Fine! S’all acahol, right?” she said, slurring a little more now.
“Alcohol?”
“S’wat I said. Fine. Gimme a champagne,” she said, making air quotes around the word ‘champagne’,
“Whatever that Isis.”
He poured her a glass of Moet Chandon, placed it on a napkin and pushed it over. She took a sip, and gave him a mock stink eye. “Heyyyy… bris is what I wanted. You’re all night!” she said, high-fiving him.
And sitting next to them, time-travelling Ezra Pound realized the rumours were even worse than first reported… autocorrect had ruined the future.
