If I Had a Desperation Meter, It Would Be off the Charts for You

Having a nice meal, a few cocktails, hanging out with your ladies Sex and the City style, and then...  Whoa!  Hottie-boom-bottie across the restaurant.  Pull out your mirror, check your teeth, fluff your hair, stuff your bra with available napkins.  You refuse to be the Miranda of the group.

Wait, the hottie is coming to your table.  Great!  Slip on some Marilyn Monroe charm and be elusive...  Elusive girl.  Okay, so he didn't immediately ask your name.  You got it covered.  Write it on the receipt.  He won't be able to resist your sexy note.

Let's look at this objectively.  You didn't introduce yourself.  You couldn't give the manager your number yourself.  You left this hoping he would find it.  And, here's the doozy, you expect him to call you with no information.



I hate to burst your bubble, but what is the number one complaint that women have with men?  THEY NEVER CALL.

The kinds of women who typically do this are ones that are uncharacteristically flawed.  The baby crazed, the "I'll chain you to my basement wall", the can't function in life without a man, and the I am really a man types (this isn't a limited or inclusive list, just an observation).  Men don't see this behavior as sexy; they see it as silly.  They don't know you and your anonymity hasn't intrigued them to find out who you are.


If you wanted to get their attention, flash a boob.  Men respond to skin not anonymous words.

Do you know who does respond to mostly anonymous messages?  Serial killers and those who are victims to serial killers.  I mean, have we all not heard of the Craig's List Killer?  No one should strive to be a walking Lifetime movie.

On the flip side, if  we all avoid murder, this is very sixth grade reminiscent, "Do you like me?  Circle Yes or No."  You should've just asked him to go steady and to share a milk shake at the diner in your poodle skirt.  The only thing that could have made this any less daring and more juvenile is if you dotted your "i" with a heart.

When you leave your phone number on a receipt for a bar employee, the only phone call you can expect is going to be prank.

Alcohol Makes Everyone an Expert

Slammin' back some Captains, hoping the hooch makes your night better.  Yeah, forget those idiots since they... Oh, no.  Empty.  Sad face!  "Bartender!  Make it a double."  Let's pass the time, polite conversation with the bartender since no one sitting within two feet of you indulged your bar talk.

It's inevitable.  As distanced as I can stay sometimes from patrons, they will ask normal questions and learn small facts about me.  It ranges from the normal, like age and where I grew up, to the weird like what I do for my fingernails to be so sexy (see picture for why this is a weird question).

But what gets me is that after a few, everyone thinks they are an expert on almost every subject.  Housewives are experts on mill work; mechanics on dress alterations; professional couch potatoes on treadmills.  Okay, okay, there's always the exceptions.  Ronald Reagan was a B-Movie actor and then became President.  Angelina Jolie is an actress and humanitarian.  Charlie Sheen has an acting career and alive, his biggest accomplishment after 40. (The tiger blood is working wonders.)

These exceptions are really far and few between.  Most likely you aren't one of them.  So, the apparent conclusion is that love hearing advice about pieces of my life on which I didn't ask your opinion.

These subjects range from:

• Getting a good man (because I can't find one on my own)
• Being a gold digger without being labeled as one (because that is what every woman should strive to do...  Obviously)
• Improving your sex life post 35 (because that is what I've dreamed bar talk would turn into with strangers: 35-year-old plus crotch talk)

I want to be VERY clear on the last subject.  Please don't tell me about ANYTHING that has to do south of the border.  This isn't Taco Bell.  I don't care, am not interested, don't feel bad for you, and don't want to be haunted in my dreams by anything you would divulge.

Yet, there is one piece of advice that sticks out in my mind as being the most unwanted, to date:

"Oh, honey, you need to get married.  You're waiting too long.  If you wait any longer, all your eggs will dry up and you won't be able to have kids like me."

Thank you sad and drunken lady at my bar.  Because I was really hoping you'd be my mentor into the "Cat Lady" Phase of my life.  You've made me realize that mid-20s is pushing old maid status and I should be popping out kids like the Duggars's army on TLC.

Gary Busey.

Even Gary Busey might be able to pick up on the atom bomb social awkwardness you just dropped on me.

What about my face said, "Please give me advice.  You seem so stable!"?

If you're a doctor give me advice on medical things, and accountant on money, a drunkard on alcohol.  Keep your pants on, your hand on your bar glass, and let's all stick to what we know.

WWE Wrestling Fans Are A Different Breed of Superfan

I know what a superfan is.  Pittsburgh is chock full of em.  I have seen painted faces, bathrobes made form Terrible Towels, and tutus the colors of the appropriate occasion.  Most of the time, these superfans are rooting for sports or partying on a holiday, but when it comes to wrestling, superfan takes on a new meaning.

via my.spill.com

There is no such thing as "too much" in wrestling.  Men can wear make-up, tights, wigs, or anything a normal Halloween costume would require not on Halloween, and be seen as perfectly acceptable.

This is a sport that requires Speedos.  Even Superman wore tights under his and swimmers have switched to jammers (that look like spandex shorts, but an upgrade no less), but these giants choose just a matching pair of knee pads and say, "Bring it on."

There is something about wrestling, (a movie title in the works) and it encourages men in their 50s to dress in full costume, down to the championship belt slung over his shoulder, and entrance music playing loudly in his head.




Be careful what you ask, because you are liable to get a response in wrestlerese.  Such as:

Bartender: Do you want fries with that?
Superfan: Oooooh, yeahhhhh!  (a la Randy Savage).  (Also where I want to demand that you "Snap into a Slim Jim!")

(I will say I've never gotten the Degeneration-X slogan of "Suck it!" and my unbroken hand thanks them for that tact.)

Wrestling fans go beyond the normal fist bangs on a table.  You've chest bumped so much that when you are working your day job, you have to remind yourself to use a handshake; you also own a hearse so people ask if you know the "real" Undertaker; you've done the John Cena "You can't see me" hand thing so often you've considered being trademarking that move for your professional career as a hypnotist.

I get how people become obsessed with something, but when you are watching Monday night RAW and sketching your fav wrestlers it's time to step away from all the mullets and spandex.

Drinker's Therapy

Many people are against therapy for many reasons.  They don't need it, they don't want to talk to strangers, they think they can find the solution on their own, etc.  Yet, it is ironic that a few visits and a few beers will open up the floodgates for patrons and their problems, making me Interim Therapist for the night (or however long the problem persists).

Now, I rank my listening skills incredibly high, mostly because I hear things I don't always want to, but also because I have to do what makes the customer happy.  A lot of the time that is hearing about their problems, and boy do people have problems after sippin' down a few vodka tonics.

People smell alcohol and it's as if the Hoover Dam let loose every problem known to man.  They are drunk with word vomit.  Sometimes it ranges from the bizarre (like how you want to kill your boyfriend's cats) to the "I'm not sure why you are telling me this because it is really none of my business" (like how your sex life is as lively as the celibate Jonas brothers, and you're afraid the phrase "Use it, or lose it" might pertain to you).  Why are these things you think you want to say out loud?  (Hint: PETA or Vivid Entertainment can help you out a little bit.)

Sometimes hearing other people's problems puts my own life into persepctive, but I'll play devil's advocate for a moment.  Even though you won't see a therapist because they are a stranger to you, do you know your bartender's last name?  Can you name 5 things about them that do not pertain to their job?  Maybe 1-of-10 might be able to do that, and that is being liberal with numbers.  The only difference between us and a licensed therapist is that we can tell you unprofessional things like you need to pull your bra straps up, finish your drink, and leave.  (And I always suggest you take your bartender's advice, otherwise you get a great nickname like "Train wreck" for the remainder of time you patronize that bar.)

There's a rule of thumb.  Don't ask for advice unless you might actually take it.  There is nothing I hate more than hearing about the same problem over and over again with no resolution.  "I hate my husband and I'm cheating on him with several people", "My boyfriend won't marry me", "My wife doesn't trust me", "I'm broke".  It just sounds like I need to call the Wahhhhhm-bulance to take you away.

For most of these, the resolution is to stop drinking nearly as much as you do.  Moreover, please don't complain to me about the same thing over-and-over-and-over...  You asked my opinion, I gave my opinion, so either solve it or don't.  I don't run a Dear Abby so if you want someone who will be incredibly sensitive to your needs, take my advice: CALL YOUR MOM.

If I Set the Prices, You'd Pay $1 Million Per Miller Lite

Getting a beer after a long day always makes you feel better.  Especially after it seems as if you've had to battle Godzilla in order to get relaxation time.  Getting a nice cold one will help ease all the pains of the day.  The bartender sees you and says, "What'll ya have?" and you order the mother of all beers.  (It's your usual anyway.)  You pull out your money and, whaaaaaaa?  The price increased $.50!

The bartender needs to know how disappointed you are in the prices.  THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!  You're a faithful customer and they will absolutely listen to you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, and I bet in your day they didn't even have cups for you to drink your beer out of; you had to cup your hands and drink.  But that was after you walked everywhere, uphill both ways, in a snowstorm, without shoes because you couldn't afford them.

I find it odd that fifty-cents is an outrage to most people considering there is starvation, poverty, unemployment, and Sarah Palin in the world.

But, this is why I have zero sympathy for you:

I DON'T SET THE PRICES, I JUST WORK HERE.

Alligator  arms.

I'm not wearing a tutu with a magic wand, therefore I'm not the magic Price Fairy that just made your drink a special price.  I have no say in this area.  Tightwads like you don't get special rates or get treated to a price of free-ninety-nine.  (Although, I'd like to charge you extra for a bad attitude.)

Your alligator arms can't reach deep enough in your pocket to spare an extra fifty-cents?

Well, my Go-Go-Gadget-Arms stopped working and I can no longer reach the taps.

I would love to go back to the good-ol'-days when two-bits for a monetary exchange made sense, but since this isn't the 1800s and you didn't ride in on a horse screaming "Hi-yo Silver!", you need to get with the times.

Prices inevitably rise and the more you complain, I'll inevitably stop listening.

I'll give you the two quarters if you promise to buy all the Dubble-Bubble they can buy and shove them all in your mouth at the same time (so I don't have to listen to complaints any longer).

Fifty-cents should not be worth your sanity, and beer should make you happy.  Let the booze do its job and allow me to do mine.

You're Not David Copperfield, I Can Still Tell You're Married

You're innocently sitting at a bar enjoying some brews when all of a sudden HOT-TAYYY alert!  Hubba, hubba!  Okay, hold it together.  It's been so long since a girl noticed you, don't blow this one.  Oh, snap!  Forgot  one little detail...  You're married.  Easy solution: take your ring off.  Slip that baby in you pocket and flirt away.  No ring, no marriage (while you sweet talk the ladies), no one has to know.

That is how it works in the movies, right?  Because everyday is just like the movies.  If that were true, I would be married to a Brad Pitt/Ryan Reynold's hybrid who makes $20m a year and remembers anniversaries, birthdays, and loves to eat ice cream while watching my favorite flicks.  And once I snap out of my Danielle Steele novel, I'm hoping you step into reality.

You're overlooking one glaring detail, in the movies, everything is plotted out perfectly, including spray tans.  That ring tan line on your left ring finger is screaming that you are married...  And borderline perv.

Ohhhh, you're not married?  That is just a weird tan line and you don't know how it got there?

Well, I am such a silly girl!  I should've known you're a human/zebra hybrid which accounts for the finger striping.


What is so deplorable is that you think women don't notice details.  Have you never been forced to sit through any chick flick?  That is ALL women notice.  This isn't a farmer's tan, where it shows you do manly things like yard work, changing brakes, or scratching your crotch in the sun, this tan line says you're a second rate magician.  You're cloak-and-dagger plan needed a lot more cloak and maybe a big dagger to scare us into believing you Harry Potter.

What's more discerning is that you think this works in real life.  It's really creepy, but also not very sneaky.  Moreover, you're essentially branded with that tan, why would you try to hide it?  Would you wear a lot of black eyeliner meticulously applied so you look Asian at a bar?  I surely hope not, because it's weird, and it doesn't make sense.

Let's call a spade a spade.  You're married, you're tanned, and an idiot.  Count yourself lucky your wife married you in the first place.

Sometimes I Scratch My Head and Say, Huh?!

There are some odd pairs in the world that have seemed to work (and I still don't know how), but they are staples of American culture.  For example, Laverne and Shirley's Pespi and milk, Beauty and the Beast, and chicken and waffles.  Why?  I have no clue. It's the weirdness that makes it memorable enough to start a trend.

But there are somethings I don't understand when it comes to food and drink.  Since I am a Pittsburgher, the food most associated with this area is probably a Primanti Bros. sandwich.  The sammy is piled high with an unmatchable high caloric intake of such deliciousness your heart doctor will be writing thank you notes to the company for decades for business continuation.

So lets look at something that leaves me puzzled:




What about a sandwich that was originally wrapped in newspaper makes you want to class it up?  What pairs great with pastrami and coleslaw?  Obviously a nice red wine.  It complements the french fry grease component.  Especially if you've been drinking your wine through the eating process.  Because nothing says class like a wine glass with an inch thick film of food fingerprints and particles.

Would you ever go to a McDonald's and ask for a sparkling water?  (I'd go on a limb and say even the Hollywood McDonald's doesn't upgrade like that.)  What about asking a gas station what sushi is their freshest?  (Even if a gas station does have sushi, I'm going to strongly advise against it...  And I'm sure your colon will thank me tomorrow.)  Would you go to Olive Garden and ask for chop sticks?  (Even if they have them, which this is the craziest OG in the world, and I wonder what the "chicken" might actually be.)

One of the most puzzling proponents of the odd match is Hooters.  They offer Dom Perignon with an accompanyment, totaling $199.99.  What is the accompaniment?  A bucket of wings.  Champagne and wings.  Because a bucket of fried chicken parts definitely makes me want to pop open a bottle of the bubbly.  Cheers, Hooters!  Let's celebrate terrible pairings together!

Places like Primanti's are all over the globe, so this rule extends beyond the realms of Primanti's.  Because a place that has offers you paper plates and plastic silverware never screams, "Cabernet Sauvignon!" just have a damn beer; in Pittsburgh, make it an Iron City.

I think vendors in Philly and New York would probably have more colorful language than, "Jag-off," if you asked for a Philly Cheese  Steak or a hot dog with a truffle sauce.

Asking for things like a Godiva chocolate drop martini will likely get you a drop kick to the noodle.

If you put lipstick on a pig, it's still a pig.  You can only class up so many things.  Your attitude and demeanor in a bar can be some of those things, but don't worry about your food being included.

Semi Sonic Is Playing, Take a Hint

The end of one's shift inching closer and closer is the greatest, most relieving feeling.  Almost free!  Equate it to a jail sentence (although extreme, sometimes it feels that way, but just follow along), and you have days left till parole.  Next thing you know, some new group walks in and says, "Just kidding!  You got a few more weeks in the clink!"  Those stragglers in a bar fifteen minutes before close is the parole board denying me my freedom.

You do not want to mess with my freedom.

If playing "Closing Time" by Semisonic wasn't a clue that you might want to finish your whiskey and beer (and get the heck out), walking in after the "I know who I want to take me home" part will get you a a drink with contemplation of a loogie decoration.

Have you ever heard, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here"?  Every connotation that has is absolutely, unequivocally true.  Patronizing a bar fifteen minutes or less to closing time doesn't mean you just beat the clock.  It means you've rolled the clip of Waiting in the bartender's head, and he/she is thinking of the many ways to get back at you; ultimately ending in something called "The Goat."

Freedom and sanity are all we have to look forward to at the end of the night because, unlike you, we can't get hammered while we are at the bar.  As much as I want to start slamming shots down to make my night better, paying bills by working a steady job seems to tip the scale a little more.

Taking away the freedom to leave when my shift is done is like taking a baby bear from the mama, dumb and with a wrathful retaliation.  Bartender Bear isn't a cute cartoon version that belongs in the Berenstain Bear series.

No, we aren't some wereanimal that starts bone cracking and fur growing immediately like some freak version of the hulk, but if there were anything in our hands at the time, you better believe we'd go Macguyver on you and fashion something with a paperclip, my Hawthorne strainer, and an ice cube that would injure you permanently.

Closing time doesn't mean keep drinking.  Semisonic may have had a nicer way of putting it, but it means get out before the bartender has to hurt you in order to get freedom.

I'm Not Your Babysitter, That's Why You're Cut Off

Everyone has been cut off from alcohol in their life, and if you are one of the few who hasn't, I'm sure you should have been at least once.  Yes, it's embarrassing, but it's a part of your drinking life that happens.  (It's like farting; no one wants to think about cutting the cheese, but everyone has let one loose.  It's life.)  But there are really good reasons why people get cut off, and not just for your embarrassment.

WE DON'T WANT YOU TO DIE.

Plain and simple.  Reread that statement and pretend I underlined it, italicized it, highlighted it, and pretend Gordon Ramsay is yelling it at you.

When you're cut off, the worst thing you can do is hurl and expect the, "My stomach is empty now, I can drink more" excuse will work, you're not Winning! Charlie Sheen, you're just a drunken idiot; one that just  yakked on my bar.

via 3quarksdaily.com

Vomiting is the best indication that you absolutely, no questions asked, need cut off.  Yeah, you regurgitated the contents of your stomach, but that doesn't mean you made room for another Jack and coke.  The often venerated, "Puke and rally," had to have been made up by the devil who doesn't care if you kick the bucket (and I don't think this Devil wears Prada, probably just a pitchfork).

Also, think twice about lying to me about why you and the toilet were best buds for 20 minutes.  I don't think you were checking out the seat-to-cheek ratios every stall has.  Remember, I'm the sober one.

And, helloooo?  You still have pukey eyes.  It's that obvious.

via smosh.com

Once you're drunk, I have no idea what the heck your rationale might be.  Since I am fresh out of leashes for humans, I refuse to be your babysitter.  (I will say the idea of tethering idiot adults to posts like dogs does amuse me, but I'm going on a limb to say there are probably laws against it.)

Although baby proofing you and hiring a sitter would cover all my bases, tequila will make you do strange things you never thought was possible.  If I treated you like a chicken pox patient, I'd tape socks on your hands so you don't scratch, but then you'd run face first into a wall to see what would happen.

Your best remedy is a designated driver and some sleep.  So next time, don't cuss out your bartenders, thank them.  They want your drunk butt to come in next time.

No, I Don't Have a Daddy Complex

After a few beers you're feeling good.  You looked in the mirror today, you're t-shirt is clean and you almost match.  Who can deny you look good in your Wrangler blue jeans and Clarks running shoes?  Confidence booster.  The bartender has been giving you good service.  Although she is a little younger than you, she would be lucky to have a stable guy like you in her life,.  You have a steady job, you aren't homeless, and you're retirement fund is looking real niiiiice.  You deserve some arm candy; ask her out.

There is one problem with your plan...  She already has a guy like you in her life.  He can change her breaks, has lived with her for a while, and even supported her monetarily.  He's so perfect, you might want to ask him to be your sugar daddy.

Who is he?  IT'S HER DAD, and since she already has one, you should stop campaigning to give her another one.

If you ask me out, offer to take me on vacation, or buy me a car, I am almost too afraid to give you the wrong answer because I fear that I'll get sent to my room to my time out chair, probably with no dinner, just for punishment.

When someone boasts the question, "Who's your daddy?" no one should ever be confused.

Donald Trump and Anna Nicole Smith made this concept so possible, that geezers everywhere think they have a chance with women half their age (or more).

You see gray hair and see experience.  We see dad.  You see thinning hair and think a comb over will cover it.  We see grandpa mixed with denial.

blogofbad.wordpress.com

Yes, Donald Trump married a model...  But with his money, he can afford to have a wind tunnel as a stylist and someone will find him sexy.

And we all still kinda think The Donald is in denial...  Even the comb over (and around, down, and up again) isn't fooling anyone.

I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it seems someone has to:

• We don't need shared AARP discounts
• Telling us we'd fit right in to your family because you have kids our age is just weird on so many levels

Just do us all a favor, if we're available, set us up with your single son.  Problem solved.


SIDE NOTE:  If you're measuring the age difference by decades, or you are double her age, she could be your daughter...  And that just isn't right.

Cheers to You, Awesome Drinkers

Consuming alcohol at a bar can often lead to greatness: saying unreal things you wouldn't normally verbalize, dancing (because you might only know the white man dance that involves a step to the right and a step to the left, usually to the beat of your own drum, but tonight you feel like expanding to Michael Jackson moves see below), or just being very friendly with other patrons.

But sometimes, yes sometimes, I get what I call "Awesome Drinkers".

If you're asking yourself, "I wonder if I'm an awesome drinker?  You're not.  These are a rare breed that make bartending memorable and entertain all that are in a small proximity.

Pop Quiz:  When you see a Sharpie Marker after throwing some back, what do you think to do?

Normal drinkers tattoo their drunk and sleeping buddy in the hopes Sleeping Beauty doesn't look in the mirror before going out in the world; because it's always funny to see a slightly sober man walking in daylight with curse words and genitalia pictures all over his face when he doesn't know it.

Funny, yes...  But what do AWESOME drinkers do when they spot a Sharpie?...

























They say, "I think I can make a great ink beard on my brother's face."  And, not only do they do it, they pose for pictures and post it on Facebook because they might not remember it tomorrow.

But why you ask?  They would say, "Why not?"  And really, why wouldn't you?  It's like face painting for adults.  If little kids want their face painted like a lion, why judge when adults want to look have a mustache that rivals the handlebars of Hulk Hogan?

They are the ones that often entitle or make the name "Toots McGoots" relevant in a bar because everyone has been next to Farting Man in a bar, they just never had a name that described it so perfectly.  (And how does something like Toots McGoots not catch on?)

This my friends, is exactly why I still bartend.  So, cheers to you, awesome drinkers!  You've made my night worth while.

Take It From REM: Lose Your Religion

I'm sure you've all seen it...  Two burly men having a yelling contest in a bar.  Whoever screams their opinion the loudest means they are the one who is right.  "No, you're an idiot!" "No, you're the idiot!"  "No, you are!"  Halfway through I am always surprised someone's milk money hasn't been surrendered because these arguments are on the same level as elementary school bullying, and all I keep being reminded of is the scene during "The Sandlot":

But what are these over-sized donkeys even arguing about?  Things that are so stupid and so not bar talk, I could smack everyone involved upside the head.

What is it?  Usually religion and politics.  I've never wanted to quote REM more than this moment right now, but if you take nothing away from this, "consider this, the hint of the century," a bar is your Switzerland; if you bring up religion or politics, you deserve more than a butt-kicking and name calling like "Fart Smeller."

But how do you know when you might have over stepped your bounds?  The awkward turtle.

No, you aren't in a room with deaf people signing to each other or in a room with gang members flashing a new gang sign.  They are telling you, "STFU!"  You've taken buzz kill to a whole new level.  Everyone goes to a bar to ascend to a drunken stupor, but nooooooooooooo, you couldn't let everyone enjoy the hooch for the night.

What fun is it if there isn't a little bar brawl?

I mean, if this situation played out, I'm willing to bet it wouldn't be as glamorous as the quick snapping fingers of the Sharks and the Jets in "West Side Story."  Your language is slurred, your steps are sloppy, and drooling when you are yelling because you can't control it is anything but scary; officially, you're now known as a Sloppy Joe (people want to listen to you as much as they'd like to eat a Manwich, which is not even a little bit).  You would be better off trying to be the gangsters who snap their fingers for intimidation.  We might honestly applaud your coordination.

THE BAR IS SWITZERLAND, (and for those of you who don't get the reference, that means neutral) so either adhere to that or just leave.  We don't care if you are Democrat, Republican, black, white, purple polka dot, or part of Satan's Army, just sit down and shut up.

Keep the Sloppy Joes at home, and don't come to my bar.

Guest Blogger: Anna Banana

Every bar has regulars as we have established throughout the various posts of this blog.  And for these customers, we know their drink order, their name and an approximation of how old they are (as well as how many kids they have, what their favorite color is and if they have a slight case of diarrhea that day).  Being a regular, seeing that you tip suitably, gives you a few advantages: 1) I will listen to your ridiculous life stories regardless of how inappropriate they are 2) You may get a free drink here and there 3) I do not need to card you (because if I look at your license one more time it will become habit to use your address instead of my own).

For those of you who come into a new bar, have your id ready for me to check.  Okay, so you may have a long beard that makes you look like Paul Bunyan, am I going to check your ID? YES!  Fact: people under 21 can grow beard too!  Okay, so you may have a few grey hairs mixed in with your natural hair color, am I going to check your ID?  YES, people under 21 can have a few greys in the mix too!  Okay, so you have a shirt on that says “#1 Dad” on it, am I going to check your ID?  YES, you can buy these t-shirts in any K-Mart, Wal-Mart and Walgreens, and it's not uncommon that young people become parents now-a-days.

Do not get snippy with me when I ask for you ID. IT IS PART OF MY JOB TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE 21 BEFORE I SERVE YOU AN ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE!  Do you get mad at the person at McDonald’s when she tries to super-size your meal?  Do you get mad when the lady at the dry cleaners asks if you would like your shirts pressed as well as cleaned? Do you get mad when the cashier at Giant Eagle asks you for your Advantage Card?  If you have answered yes to any of these, you have serious issues.

And if I see you staring at your id for 5 minutes before I come up to get you a drink, you can be sure I’m going to be checking your ID out hardcore and I am, in fact, going to question you.  I am going to question you like Barbara Walters did for 25 years on 20-20.  So be prepared to know your address, your middle name, your sign, who was President when you were born, and what you ate for the previous meal because you look so nervous that you might throw up on my bar. (Haha just kidding about the last one...  Or am I?)

If you are older than 21, take it as a compliment that I carded you. For the most part, I think that you are younger than what you actually may be.  There are other cases where I'd ask for ID. If a younger guy walks in with a significantly older woman (and vice versa) I will card the older woman, but it is only because I do not want to make you feel stupid. Your 20 lbs. of make-up may make you look 49 instead of 50, but not 21. Your Apple Bottom jeans may make you feel 20 years younger, but the fact that you pull them up to your belly button and your boobs hang lower than the top of your jeans proves otherwise. I am only looking out for you and I applaud your efforts, Cougar.

Most bartenders have tried to drink underage at one point in their lives. We know the ins and outs of trying to get served underage because we have gone through the steps ourselves. We know what you are trying to do and while we smile as we politely tell you, “No, you cannot have a drink”, we are laughing and thinking “What an effing moron!”

Random WTF?! Moment: Thong Lady

Sometimes at a bar you catch something so insane, you just think to yourself, and sometimes out loud, WTF?!  Seeing almost every stitch of your underwear definitely counts as this.

This takes the question, "Boxers or briefs?" to a whole new level.  Do you then ask, "Cotton or lycra blend?"  (But, do you even REALLY want to know?)

I always thought women were the self conscious, but seeing more of this woman than her doctor if she were wearing a hospital gown, I am beginning to argue what we all hold to be true.

Are you telling me you can't tell your buns are out?  Or is this "sexy"?

Personally, I would assume the term "undergarments" mean they stay "under" your "garments".  Silly, silly me.  I guess some people find Superman sexy and he wore his tightie-whities on the outside...  But somehow I doubt this woman can fly faster than a speeding bullet or leap buildings in a single bound.

Posting this, I feel maybe sensor bars would be appropriate, however, no one would get the full magnitude of what our job entails.

So, join me in saying, WTF?!

Know What You Drink

When patrons come in the bar, I can typically make 90% of what they ask me to.  IC Light bottle, easy.  Rum and coke, easy.  Long  island iced tea, piece of cake.  It's the 10% that love to make my life a sober nightmare.

First of all, why people want to do shots entitled duck fart or bloody brain, but whatever.  If pseudo cannibalism and ingesting faux bodily functions are your thing, I don't judge.  But, if you come into the bar and ask for some shot that has a name longer than if Elizabeth Taylor hyphenated her name after every marriage (Elizabeth Hilton-Wilding-Todd-Fisher-Burton-Burton-Warner-Fortensky) and you have no idea what is in it, I hope you enjoy surprises.

You want a Rocky Mountain Purple Nurple Lion Monster with a twist?

Ohhh, so exotic.  You read about that online and it's supposed to be the new up and coming shot rivaling jager bombs.  But you have no idea what goes in it.  You're not even sure that is the name, but obviously all bartenders have every recipe memorized.

You order this shot and tell the bartender that you have no clue what is in it, and the mixologist gives you this "What in the heck are you talking about?!" look; it's like you threw words in a hat, pulled them out, and decided that was your shot name.

via isabelt.com

The bartender goes to work and slides the shot down to you.  Hmmm, there are things floating in it.  Wait, must be Goldschlager with all the gold flakes in it.  MMMMMM.  You can practically taste the cinnamon.

You're playing Russian Roulette with the hootch.

Enjoy the twist.

Let me tell you what you will probably end up getting if your bartender has no patience for fad drinks: Either a New Jersey Turnpike or a Pennsylvania Turnpike (which is what I have heard them both referred to, although no official recipe exists online for this).

SIDE NOTE:  You should be alarmed right now because this is what we are now familiar with New Jersey producing:

Now you're intrigued.  What is in this mystery shot?  You remember mystery meat from your middle school cafeteria lunches?  Mystery meat, meet mystery shot.

I take a metal shaker and fill it with ice...  Then I either take all the bar mats and empty the liquids they've been collecting all night or wring out my bar rag into that shaker.  And then I shake.  (Obviously this needs to be shaken, not stirred.  Gotta stay classy.)

Mmmm, mmmmm, good.

Why in the heck would you ever order something without knowing the slightest thing about it?  Do you go to a car dealership and say, "Give me a car good man!  I don't need to know anything about it, just that it is a car!"  Seriously?  Either you are too trusting, or you're one of those people who ponder whether tuna is fish or chicken (because the packaging says Chicken of the Sea).

More than just the ordering, but alcohol is a state-of-mind changer.  You'll drink anything?  I hope you like Roofie Martinis my friend because you are opening yourself up to some perv who has no conscience, let alone an annoyed bartender.

Moral of the story?  Know your drinking stuff, otherwise be prepared to pay the toll.