“The hard part about being a bartender is figuring out who is drunk and who is just stupid.” -Richard Bernstein.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

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."

Friday, September 9, 2011

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.