It takes a lot to piss me off. Really. Slow service, weak drinks, I'll get over it. But few things have angered me more in recent years than bartenders fucking with my jukebox selections — or, as was the case last Friday at Yeoman's Road Pub, my buddy Sal's jukebox selections.

One of his tunes — Marvin Gaye's gorgeous ballad "God is Love" — actually got cut off mid-song so the cretin behind the bar could hear yet another cut from heavy-metal has-beens Iron Maiden. Because, y'know, that's what the Davis Islands happy-hour crowd, which last Friday included mid-20s professional types and a cute senior citizen couple, want to have blaring while they unwind after work and/or during dinner. Apparently, the bartender and his dirtball buddy had the means — secret code, remote control — to alter and interrupt jukebox selections.

Sal operates differently from me. Rather than rage at the bartender for being a controlling prick, he engaged in a rather hilarious, unspoken, passive-aggressive jukebox battle. (Besides, our coworker Melanie accompanied us and probably wouldn't have wanted to witness any ugliness.)

When I nearly lost my shit about a year ago and contemplated committing the kind of act that can get a man a couple years up in Starke, it was because the songs I chose had been nixed. That's right. I put $5 in the jukebox, and the evil woman bartender, at the insistence of her three asshole regulars, threw out my song choices. Gone. And, I guess, she figured I'd just sit back and take it. Which, I guess, I kinda did. Except that I had her take $5 off my tab after I spoke with the owner.

He acted like it was no big deal that his employee had seriously offended a customer who would've definitely run a robust tab had I not been offended to the point where I felt like taking a flamethrower to the place.

Brophy's Dug Out Sports Pub. That's the shithole where I got fucked with and still seethe just thinking about it. Located in St. Pete, on that stretch of Fourth Street N. lined with apartment complexes near the Howard Frankland, it's an establishment I wouldn't revisit if it were the last safe refuge during a nuclear winter.

My doomed visit to Brophy's occurred when I lived in Bradenton. I was visiting St. Pete to hang with my brother, who lived across the street from Brophy's at the time, and we were looking to tie one on at a place within walking distance. When we — my bro, his girl and me — got to Brophy's, all the billiard tables were occupied. A gal was shooting pool by herself. She was cute but a tad frumpy and maybe new to the area, without many friends. She cheerfully agreed to let us join her.

If memory serves, an onslaught of hair metal blared out of the jukebox. I felt behooved to blow five bucks to create my own soundtrack for the evening. My picks were pedestrian, populist stuff that might not impress but weren't offensive. Having spent years in a blue-collar town like Bradenton, I knew better than to put some Miles Davis or Frank Zappa on the juke. My selections were all upbeat barroom fare: Allman Brothers, Otis Redding, Stones, Hendrix, Aretha, Temptations — nothing but classic rock and soul. The kind of music that typically goes over well with any crowd.

Midway through my second selection I saw the bartender at the jukebox. My song cut off. Hair metal returned. The Three Assholes at the bar chuckled. Two more hair metal songs went by. It dawned on me: My music had been 86'ed.

"Hey, what the hell's going on?" I said to the bartender. "Did you just delete my songs?"

She shrugged and looked at the Three Assholes.

"We don't do 'play nows' here," Asshole No. 1 said, referring to the option that allows customers to pay extra to hear their selections immediately. "You skipped my music."

"That's too bad," I said. Asshole No. 1 stood. I held my ground. My bro walked up behind me. After a few tense moments, the owner came out and offered to take money off my tab. But there was no apology for the stunt his bartender had pulled.

The Yeoman's scene was less dramatic. But it was fucked all the same. After having our ears pummeled by old-school metal, Sal managed to get some Al Green and then Hall & Oates on the jukebox. I'm not too keen on their saccharine ditty "Say It Isn't So," but it's soothing, which is the kind of music you usually want to hear during happy hour. I ordered a drink at the bar while the song played. The bartender took my dollar tip from the jar, gave it to his dirtball buddy — who was wearing a faded black Iron Maiden T-shirt — and told him to "play something good."

Iron Maiden roared. Then Pantera. Sal retaliated with more melodic pop. Dirtball countered with more metal. Finally, other patrons weighed in with selections by contemporary jam-band fave Robert Randolph and the Allman Brothers' "Jessica." The pale, scowling bartender gave up trying to control the music selections. Unfortunately, his insistence on commandeering the jukebox will make me take pause before returning to an otherwise great pub with tasty food and cheap beer.

Yeoman's Pub & Grill, 236 E. Davis Blvd., 813-251-2748.

This article appears in Oct 10-16, 2007.