"I'll take a large Irish, with room for coffee," I said, just waiting to T-bone her with the garbage truck of deductive reasoning.
She started to reach for one of those Styrofoam Jameson containers they sell at the coffee shop, when I spotted my opening.
"Wait!" I screamed, "Don't touch that cup!"
"What?! Jesus, what is it?" she cried, leaping backward in surprise.
"Don't you dare touch my cup with those hands. I know where they've been," I said, baiting the metaphorical wine snare.
"Your eyes. They're discolored. A pinkish hue. Now, you could just be tired from working double shifts to try and make the student loan payments on your useless yet astoundingly expensive liberal studies degree, but we both know that's not really the case, is it? No, this discoloration is due to none other than conjunctivitis, otherwise known as pinkeye. The most common cause of which is the improper washing of hands after using the restroom. That's right: You've got the poop-eyes, my dear. Of course, this comes as little surprise to either of us, seeing as your questionable ancestry and unlovable lips mean that you've no doubt grown up impoverished and starved for affection, and have therefore resorted to turning tricks on the side to supplement your meager service income. A fact which is only confirmed by the whore dirt that has accumulated beneath your fingernails."
That's what that stuff is called. For real. Look it up. I'll wait.
"Th ... the what?"
"The whore dirt. Do at least