Listen Here, Pukey Pants...

We've all been there.  It's a good night...  The beers are flowin', the drinks are endless, the shots keep comin'.  You don't even know what time it is because you are just enjoying the sweet sounds of Lil' Jon at the bar. "Shots shots shots shots shots shots."  (Because who knows the rest of the words besides the chorus.)

Then it hits you.  Barf.

Let's talk about your options.  You can find a garbage can.  You can run to the bathroom.  And, most likely you have bushes outside.  We'll call this a plethora of options.  A PLETHORA.


But, where do you upchuck?  ON the bar.


It's not just that you've expelled the contents of your stomach on my bar, you think you can hide it. You can wipe it off, blame it on the guy next to you, and try to convince me that it's not really vomit, but we all know it's you.


How?


It's this magical sixth sense I have.  It's my super power.  I can read your mind, but only when it comes to drunk hurling.  It's something right out of an M. Night. Shamalan movie.  (Plot twist!)

Listen here, Mr. Pukey Eyes, YOU HAVE PUKEY EYES.  Plus, that crunk juice you insisted upon having (since Lil Jon was so convincing, via the jukebox) has been recycled from your stomach to dribbling down your chin.


Now, here is where things get messy.  Literally and figuratively.  You puke, you clean.  I am not your maid, your mother, or a janitor, so get your barf off my bar.


You want to go Mt. Vesuvius on my time?  You better pull a serious Cinderella and learn to summon all the forest creatures to make things spotless because all the help you get from me will be a bucket and a sponge (and probably a kick in the butt to help you out the door) sans sympathy.  I'm not cleaning that up, but you better believe I'm going back to middle school rules.


Whoever spews it, shampoos it.

The Things Drunken White People Do

There is a stigma that all drunk people are just drunk people.  They all act the same: drunk.  Well, call me Christopher Columbus because I have discovered a new world.  It's called the land of drunken white people.  And they do really dumb things.

So, let's do simple math (because if you are reading this blog, you might still be a little drunk from last night).  Patrons go out to drink.  They drink alcohol.  Alcohol makes you drunk.  So, for those of you who need that even more simplified:

Patrons + Alcohol = Drunk

What we can assume is that if you keep at it, you will get drunk.  Yet, white people test this theory...  And take double fisting to a whole new level.  Not only is having two drinks in hand not enough, you must drink them both simultaneously.  My question is, "Do you not think drunkenness will happen?"  or "Can sloppy drunken white man not wait any longer to make an appearance at the party soon enough?"

I think the answer is similar to the same question Tootsie Pop has been using in advertisements, "The world may never know."





We continue our journey through the night, pounding beers (two at a time now, because that is what 'all the cool people are doing') and now we are drunk.  Dancing is the next thing that white people gravitate towards.  (Because sober dancing is 'not what all the cool people are doing'.)

Now, there are lots of white men who can dance:  Justin Bieber, Justin Timberlake, so obviously if your name is Justin, you have a fighting chance.  Neither of these two guys' names are Justin.

The paradox is that it is usually to an Usher song.  "Yeah, watch me pop-and-lock like Ushaaaaaaaa."  And the picture to the left is what happens.  A man who looks like he is wearing a back brace and a man who looks like he is pooping.

Not only have these two gentlemen sandwiched this streetwalker in between themselves, but I witnessed her getting whiplash from all the humping they were bestowing upon her.

I like to call it "sex with clothes on" because white men (other than the aforementioned Justins) think this is actually dancing and if she didn't have on at least that little spandex skirt which barely covers her business, I would have to call Maury Povich to find out who her baby daddy is.

(SIDE NOTE:  Night at the Roxbury is cool to laugh at, not to imitate.  Humping a girl between you and your friend is just that...  Cool to laugh at.)

Progressing through the night, we've seen double fisting at it's best and attempting to make a pancake out of a harlot, so now the tough guy phase happens. The skinniest, nerdiest, most beanpole-looking men with names like Eugene think they are MMA fighters.

Why?

It might have something to do with the the copious amounts of Mad Dog in their system, but, hey, I don't judge.  Well, except for when you are this guy:

Other than this being an amazing butt shot of the police officer, this photo shows what happens when beer muscles happen.  Let's follow simple math again:  Drunk man puts random people in a headlock.  Drunk man gets kicked out.  Drunk man tries to punch sober bouncers.  Drunk man gets arrested.  Even more simplified:

Drunk man + Drunken antics = Rap Sheet

"Absolutely, sir, your khaki pants scream real gangsta rep."

If this situation were back in middle school, he would've gotten an atomic wedgie topped off by a swirly.  And, quite frankly, I am amazed the officer resisted.  Kudos to you Officer Rump Shot.  Kudos.

I dare you to prove me wrong.  And when you don't, I have my smart phone ready so I can post about you on this blog.

Cheers To You: Horseshoe Playing Perfect People

As a bartender, you tend to have those blase nights; the monotony just drags on forever.  You start praying that something, someone, anything will liven your night.  And it is times like this when I realize there might be someone who hears my call because I witnessed one of the greatest bartending events in history.

Some people get bored just drinking at a bar.  And Mega Touch Games just don't quite scratch the itch of entertainment you are looking for.  So, when two people come in and put a college frat house Beer Olympics to shame, you tend to notice.

Looking for a way to spice up bar games?  When in doubt, wager clothing.

This was truly a competitive game that went back and forth.  The first to lose was the female competitor and she stripped her shirt as if she had been playing for team shirtless for decades.  I knew the score was evened when she comes in to replenish their beer supply (shirt on), and she raises her fist with authority that says, "Suck it, Charlie Sheen.  This is #winning."

Not only was the score evened, but the ante upped.  Women lose their shirts; men lose their pants.  So, a word to the wise, next time you challenge a woman to anything that wagers clothing, consider wearing underpants.

If NBC broadcasted events this enthralling, ratings would never dip.  My new goal in life is to petition the Olympics to enter drinking games into true competition, because I have never been more entertained.  Operation Spring Olympics.

This is ingenuity at its best; not reinventing the wheel, just making it better.  It's as if they took the old story of David and Goliath and said, "Well David, you can use your slingshot, but a rocket-launcher might be better."

Okay, Uncle Rico... I Know You Can Throw a Football Over the Mountain

First of all, I'd like to apologize for not posting for a while...  The laptop and its respective photo editing programs have been out of commission, but are now back up.  And so it begins...Again.

Every shift there is always one person, typically a gentleman, who rehashes the "Glory Days" of their youth.  And while Bruce Springsteen's songs might be a good theme song for some old football VHS highlight reels, what I see and hear is on the verge of breaking out the American flag Zubaz pants because retro is in fashion right now.

Now, I want to be very clear to you delusional loonies, you were not a D1 football prospect, and near MLB baseball player, nor were you a beauty queen that was jipped of your title...  You were a normal human being, and my BS meter is going off right now.  But with every bottle of Miller High Life, The Champagne of Beers, because you are extra high class, you add more details to the story.  "I was a football star, baseball star, inventor of Nike shoes, and the real Hugh Hefner."


Oh, realllllllly?


Yeah, yeah, yeah, you got extra high-fives from your coach because you worked hard.  That is code for you suck, so I'm going to give you encouragement.  If you think wearing this was cool:


via: iwasa90skid.blogspot.com


Then you were probably closer to this social status:



via:  bossip.com


Do you really think I would fall for the fact that you, 5'2" man, with dainty fingers, and your stylist New Balances, was a local athlete superstar?  Oh JoePa PERSONALLY  made you dinner at his house to recruit you?  Translation:  You were in the band.  (And this isn't a slam on band geeks, I was one, but I don't claim to be a basketball superstar.  Yes, I played sports, but I also geeked it out, and tell people that.)



This isn't only men.  Women are just as bad.  Everyone was a beauty queen or model at some point.  Noooobody ever had an awkward stage.  We were all the poplar Amy Adamses from Mean Girls, and looked like Kate Moss wearing fashionable clothes.  Nine times out of ten, you might have been a model if there was a product for bleaching women's mustaches.



Inside every Uncle Rico, there is a Napoleon Dynamite.  And there is never any exception at at bar.