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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

D-Bag Alert!

Single men and women (and sometimes not so single people) are always looking to find a mate at a bar.  (Which is typically a terrible decision, but that's a post for another day.)  It often baffles me when women's radars are tuned to the biggest idiot in the place even if they are amassed in nice guys. The biggest kicker is when they get hurt, dumped, cheated on, or just treated terribly and cry, "I don't know what happened.  I can't believe he did this to me!"

Well, get with it sister, because most of us saw it coming, and all you had to do was ask your bartender.

I'm gonna test you.  These three guys are at the bar with you.  Which one is the d-bag?

via Flickr



via UM News



via pointincase.com

If you didn't guess all three then you were wrong.  Why?  Because it's all about the shtick.

The shtick can be anything that stands out in a crowd; loud clothing to scream attention, sunglasses indoors (and usually at night) because it creates "mystery", the sad guy because it makes people want to talk to him and console him, the muscle shirt to show off his biceps (even though it might be 40 degrees outside), etc. 

Personally, my favorite is the sunglasses man.  I have to fight the urge to sing, "I wear my sunglasses at night... So I can, so I can..."

Speaking of which, Corey Hart, original d-bag.




It's amazing that girls can't see past the rouse sometimes.  What about this gentleman's TapOut t-shirt intrigues you?  That maybe he'll teach you some MMA moves?  Sorry to burst your bubble but he's probably nothing more than a jacked up Daniel-San.

Bartenders have seen every type of distraction in d-baggery known to man:  I have tons of money = My parents still give me an allowance; I have a really nice house = I live in my parent's basement; I like wearing blazers because I'm a refined man = I will be outside your bedroom window later watching you sleep, but it's okay because I'll do it Corey Hart style with my sunglasses on.

If these degenerates were any more obvious they would come with their own neon signs announcing it.  (And I think the men's neon orange Jersey Shore glow technically counts as such.)

What have we learned today?  D-Bags are everywhere.  Beware.

Fifteen Percent, Smifteen Percent

You had a great night at the bar, and buzzed might be a little bit of an understatement.  You check out your bill, and you know it's been a good night.  If you stay any longer, your bartender will probably start to charge you rent.  Time to cash out and tip.  (Okay, carry the one...  Add the two...)  Ahhh, 15%.  You are so impressed you can even do math right now.

Although math skills are impressive, this isn't the SAT.  Whatever bonehead started the 15%-flat-rate-no-matter-what rumor needs a serious Silence of the Lambs muzzle, because that idiot has started a trend to which no diner/drinker should wholly adhere.

Why?

There's nothing more frustrating than working extra hard for a tip and getting next to nothing.  There had to have been too many occasions when I almost grew an extra 5-feet, turned green, and almost ripped someone's face off.  I'd love to let the Hulk out, but I'd also love to have a job the next day.

There are a lot of things that go into tipping other than bill total.  First, if you have put in a longer shift or close to what the bartender is putting in (and I'm not judging), you might want to consider the tushie time you have put in.

If your rear has been parked in the same spot so long that you are almost fused with the bar stool, you need to tip according to time.  You're taking up a spot other people coming through would've occupied and tipped.  Just use the 15% as a guide and not absolute.

I have heard the rule of not leaving coins on the bar for a bartender.  I will say, I'm okay with it, as long as you are leaving bills along with it.  If you leave your dimes and pennies only, you better come prepared with a helmet because I've seen and heard about bartenders whipping the change back at the patron.  You will see the girliest of girls turn into Randy Johnson throwing straight nickle heaters back.

I also want to leave you with a little bit of advice, in case some of you think you're James Bond.  Don't ever not tip a bartender when it is busy because you don't think we notice.  A BARTENDER ALWAYS KNOWS, and we are always willing to help you out with a coin concussion to keep you reminded.

Bumpin' Uglies in the Bathroom

When you love someone, it's inevitable that when alcohol is involved, you tend to show it more; extra kisses, extra hugs, excessive amounts of I love yous.  And why shouldn't you?  Showing those you love is never a bad thing.  So what?  You're in public, as if people haven't seen a few extra smooches before...  And footsies...  And leg touches...  And your tongue in someone's ear...

Do you see where I'm going with this?

I understand that alcohol takes inhibitions away, which could be an excuse for why some people go to bars for picking up "dates", but I don't think I will ever understand the escalation to bumping uglies in the bathroom.

Recently I caught a couple trying to sneak into the men's restroom together.  Because nothing screams, "Do me!" like urinals and pee-pee soaked floors.  Next time choose ask the bartender where the bar's dumpster is because you want a cleaner place to play hide the salami.  At least the couple that tried this two weeks before chose the women's room.  Women actually care about aim.  Sometimes I think men try to make a urine mural in a bathroom, and just because you can't see it isn't there.  And there isn't a sanitizer in a bar that gets out the "just peed on" smell you just perfumed your clothes with.

When you drink with the opposite sex, the alcohol produces a Booze Haze that makes you less aware of your surroundings (much like the Alcohol Induced Headphone Syndrome I referred to in "Bar Ears"), i.e.: people who are watching you doing some heavy petting on the bar stool.

You don't have superhero powers that make you invisible.  But, if you think you are super sneaky, think of yourself as Wonder Woman in her invisible jet.  IT'S INVISIBLE, just like the barriers you think are up at the bar.  You can see Wonder Woman, right?  Well, we can see you, too, Mr. and Ms. Crotch Rubbers.

Even paid escorts have enough sense to find hourly rate places that are close.  So take a page from their book and scout the Motel 6s nearby, your bartender will be grateful that customers without public nudity charges patronize the bar.

Cheers to You, Smirnoff Ice Man

Oftentimes this blog takes on mocking many things about the bartending experience, but "Cheers to You" does the opposite.  I toast those who make me think, and that is just plain awesome.

A man's drink says a lot about the man himself.  Cheap beer bought by someone young usually means a college student, martinis usually mean refinement, long islands usually that someone wants some punch in their drinks.  But there is one man that is seldom seen and confuses me enough that I think he is awesome.  The Smirnoff Ice Drinking Man.


Not only are you hard to find, but when you surface, you order that drink with such certainty that I don't even question it.

You don't Bro-Ice your bros because you just don't waste good alcohol like that.  Feeling the burn of "good" scotch or the harshness of beer just isn't what you're into, and you don't think that makes you a sissy.  And come to think of it, other men drink pink mixed drinks or use fruit to make beer taste better; so you're response is, "Who's the real sissy now?"

 So, cheers to you, sir!  You drink Smirnoff Ice because you  like the taste and just don't give a damn about what other people say.

Tobacco, Gum, and Boogers! Oh My!

Ah, finally ushered a few drinkers out.  As a bartender, I know the cleaner the bar, the more likely you are to fill the open spots.  I take the beer/cocktail glasses to the sink, take dishes to be washed, then start clearing away the throw-away stuff...  And as I reach for your napkin, my hand instantly regrets not flipping you the bird before you departed.

"Haha, yeah, I hawked a loogie," said the Mailman from Ohio (and I had complete permission to quote him).

Have you ever heard the term, "...and a cherry on top"?  That cherry is what makes the experience complete.  To ensure a shift will be demanding (to get through without alcohol), leave your tobacco chew, chewed gum, and snot rags behind for us to clean up.

As if dealing with wack-a-doos on a daily basis wasn't enough, you leave us bodily fluids that you have expelled from your body...  As if touching boogers should be a normal part to my workday.

You can't just say, "What?  It's not like you can get my cooties" or "Everyone does it, so it's not that gross."  Well, if this were an Everybody Poops book, that would make sense.  But this situation would be Everybody Poops on My Kitchen Table.

I'll flip it on you:  After a dinner party, you are cleaning up.  You stumble upon something on the floor.  You pick it up and throw it away.  Then a cold realization sets in when you know what it was, and you feel like vomiting.  What was it?  A used tampon (and yeah, I realize, this is gross).  But, I bet you're thinking the culprit is more than a Cootie Queen.

And my response to the bar culprits is more than, "Pickle you, kumquat."

I'm going to tell you about a newfangled invention that bars have, that are really great for things like this.  They are typically round, sometimes ovule, maybe 2-3 ft. high, and are hollow.  They are called garbage cans.  And they are found throughout the bar.

Anything you are pulling out, spitting out, blowing out, etc. from your body, feel free to dispose of it yourself.  Otherwise, being called a "lint licker" will easily be the best moniker you'll be dubbed.

Crotch Bravado is the Downfall of Your Swag

The doors open, you wonder if the bar is ready for your game.  Looking so fresh...  No, phresh.  Got your flat-brimmed fitted and your swag on.  What's your entrance?  G-Walkin'?  Buck Jumpin'?  Jookin'?  Cue pimp walk.

Great first impression.  Not too many broads in the place tonight.  Female bartender.  Niiiiiiice.  You can hear your theme in your head, "I'm a hustla baby, I just want you to know..."  You sit down.  Say something real smooth.  "Hey mama, I have an 11-inch anaconda...  Nah, I ain't serious baby, it's really only a 10-inch python but you get the idea."


Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?  For her sake, I genuinely hope not, because if there were such a thing as verbal herpes, you'd be spreading it like an epidemic.

Not only as a bartender, but as a person, my question to you is, has that actually ever worked before?

I cannot choose which concept is more laughable:  the fact that you think I care what is going on underneath your FUBU pants, or that quoting lines from a pornographic movie is okay in real life.

Dirty talking your bartender is a whole other category of a Napoleon Complex.  Your crotch bravado is setting off serious red flags that are screaming, "Listeners beware!  I'm really hung like a light switch."


Any jokes or statements regarding swimsuit zones are flat-out creepy and there's no loop-hole on this issue.

I can give you one place in America lingual VD is tolerated, Sheri's Ranch Brothel.  But, if you insist on spreading the word, I am bound to call animal control to euthanize your 11-inch issue.

The Cost of Free

If ever there was a phrase that every bartender could erase from a patrons vocabulary because it is our nails on a chalkboard, it would probably be "Can I have a free one?"

Why?  Because you are using profanity.  If this were a perfect world, I'd go old school disciplinarian on you and offer you an Irish Spring cocktail, so I could wash your mouth out with soap.

Let me tell you what I'd like:  a million dollars, to look like a super model, and a Porsche to drive around in, and that isn't going to happen either.

This is neither a flea market nor a mooch market; you can't bargain your way down to $free.99 or get something for the price of on the house.  And since Terminix doesn't work on getting rid of people, your bartender is forced to deal with this pest issue.

When you ask, "Can I have a free one?", this is what I actually hear.  You are essentially branding yourself with a scarlet letter: C for Cheap.

Obviously I need to get the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future to haunt your Ebeneezer keister till you learn some money manners.

If you get cheap on us, we will pull out the inner child on you.  Remember when your mom used to get on your about cleaning your room, and the more she asked, the less likely you were to do it?  Grab a mirror and wave; meet mom.

I also wish asking for free stuff worked in life.  "Hey, sir, no don't order any drinks, can you give me a 20-dollar-bill and leave, please?"  Doesn't sound right to you?  Well, if you aren't willing to give me your money for nothing, don't expect alcohol for nothing.

SIDE NOTE: If you want to learn what else not to say to your bartender (that we hear too often) click here.

Bartering for Beers, Classic

So, a man walks into a bar, and says, "Bartender, I'll have a beer."  Then reaches into his pocket pulls out tons of miscellaneous items.  Counts out all of his loose change and says, "I have $2.41 and some m&ms.  What kind of beer can I get for that?" (True story.)

There are certain things that happen every bartending shift, that no matter how weird your day is, they are guaranteed to happen: customers come in, they receive their goods, they cash out, and then leave.  Literally the ABCs to a bartending shift.

When you bartend, you can usually pick out the people who drink socially, are looking to get sauced, and those who are jonesing for alcohol so bad they would probably suck an alcohol swab dry.

Sometimes I run across Mr. Swab Sucker that must thinks he found a DeLorean and traveled back to the Old West, where the bartering system is still in use.

Not that some things aren't worth bartering for, such as swapping a monetary tip for Steelers tickets, but when your payment offerings are m&ms that are so scuzzy that the red ones have turned pink, I would start to think you are sniffing glue with your alcohol swab dinner.

I can't trade cows and chickens for moonshine.  And this isn't 1864.

Can you imagine if I tendered m&ms for payment?  That would mean I could pay my bills in Twizzlers and Skittles, and maybe buy a house worth 1,000 previously chewed gum wads.

Let me be frank for a moment...  If you are paying in nickels and dimes to begin with, give your couch a shake down and you can probably come up with enough for a bottle of Vlady from the liquor store.  As much as I'd like to entertain bartering as a classic American game, Monopoly money isn't real money, and neither are m&ms.

A Bartender Is Your Friend, Not Your Girlfriend

Jackpot.  This bar has a good looking bartender and she's into you.  Obviously.  You can see all the signs: she keeps smiling at you, keeps coming back and making conversation (mostly about you and what you do), and your beer mug is always full.

Two scenarios can possibly play out:

1)  You don't want to be the cocky d-bag you know she sees on a daily basis, you pull a slick James Bond move.  You get your credit card receipt and you write your phone number on it.

2)  You ask her for her number, and she pulls out a pen and writes a number on the back of a receipt.

So impressive.  There's no way anyone has ever done that before.  We should start calling you Rico Suave (Swav-ayyy).

Really?!  (I kind of feel as if I'm in an Amy Poehler/ Seth Meyers REALLY?! skit.  It's that obvious.)

And one of two things will play out:

1)  She doesn't call you, but you do receive a phone call from someone named Ruth, telling you, "I eat shmart buscuits everwee day."  (Just want to point out that it would probably break some laws about possible identity theft IF WE KEPT YOUR CREDIT CARD RECEIPTS.)

2)  You get the phone number, wait two days and then call.  Three rings.  "Hello, Domino's Pizza.  How can we help you today?"

Let me give you some great advice:  Your bartender is your friend, not your girlfriend.  It's our job to be nice to you.  We work for tips.  Do you have any idea what the hourly pay for a bartender is?  $2.83.  All joking aside.  So when we say, "We work for tips," we legitimately work for tips.  Now, that you are following, let's finish the word problem...  And how do we get good tips?...  We are nice to customers!

Ohhhhhhhhhh! (Light bulb goes off.)

It never ceases to amaze me how many times a patron mistakes niceness for interest.  It is all around you, in several different scenarios. Your grandmother is nice because she wants hugs; your elementary school teacher was nice because she didn't want to be fired; a dairy farmer is nice to his cows because he doesn't want kicked in the chest.  In all these scenarios, there is no charm and attraction.  (If you're disagreeing with me on this, I'm willing to bet you've seen one too many X-Rated movie.)

As much as you gentleman would love to find a significant other comparable to those in chick flicks, we'd love to find Bill Gates as a regular customer.

Just remember that if a bartender is nice to you, he/she is simply good at his/her job.  Tip accordingly.  If you think I'm off my rocker, I hope you like Chinese take-out.

"That Lady"

Since the "that guy" post I've been asked to write about his counterpart.  So, thar she blows!

It's your night out.  Get your hair did, put your face on, and pick out the right outfit.  Time to find yourself a man who will keep the drinks coming.  You open the doors and do your super model strut; Tyra Banks eat your heart out.  And you know you're looking good...

You get your drink and put your radar on, how can any man resist you?

The only problem is the only thing men want to buy you is a full length mirror.

Yes, skin usually equals a man's attention; that's why the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition is so popular.

But, let's get real here, there's only one Tyra Banks in the world, and most of us will never look like her.  So, why would we think wearing a super model size would ever get us free drinks?

"That lady" happens way too often at the bar.  When she thinks her sexy outfit is exuding pure sex, but it exudes desperation/craziness.

I feel like as a woman, it is much easier to get a man to get what you want, versus a man to find a woman to get what he wants.  So, is it necessary to try that hard?

Not only are muffin tops offenders, but I love when a woman sits down and her ENTIRE thong is hanging out of their pants.  Don't you feel the draft?  I'd assume your cheeks might be a little chilly...  And as a bartender, it's not really my job to tell you that you are flashing the innocent bystanders, but I really, really want to.

There are three things on a check list that can help you identify whether you are an offender:

1) Are people around you often in the mood for muffins or baked goods when you are around?
2) Do people often ask if you're a cat owner, without knowing anything else about you?
3)Are you closer to getting your AARP card than your driver's license and shop in the Junior's Dept.? or you borrow your teenage daughter's clothes, because you're the same size?

If you've answered yes to any of these, please, please, please, look at this picture again and take it all in, then cover it all up.  Although I see crazy things at a bar, some can be avoided.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, e.g.: Manners!

It's busy, maybe three deep at at bar, and you're thirsty.  You see the bartender through the sea of people, then as if the Red Sea had parted by Moses himself, you see an opening and you dart to the bar hoping you are one step closer to getting your beer.

You aren't noticed right away.  You start flashing your money in the air; that doesn't work.  You start snapping your fingers; the doesn't work.  You start yelling to get the bartender's attention; that doesn't work.  You get impatient.  How long can it possibly take to get a beer?  I mean, you twist off a cap, cash them out and move on.

Obviously this is why you aren't being served.

Remember the everything I need to know, I learned in kindergarten signs?

There's a reason why this is so popular.  Because small teachings when we were younger still hold true when we are adults.  Remember, "what's the magic word?"  Yes, please and thank you go a LONG way when you want something.

Personally, if you want a bartender's attention, learn their name, say, "Excuse me", and know what you want.  There is nothing worse than an impatient bar patron flashing money, like it's bait for a fish.

WE'RE NOT STRIPPERS.  If we were, we'd have names like Cherri Pie and come with bios about how many golf balls we can fit in our mouths at the same time.



Also, if you think we're all motivated by money, ask yourself this question:


Are you this guy:

My guess is no.  But, if you think that you're just as good as him, you're probably this guy:

Remember:  Your money is just as good as the next guy's, whose money we will also be glad to take.  But you are probably looking to get boozed up, and we'll make you the soberest person in the place, and then you won't have an excuse as to why you are an idiot.  So learn your manners, and then you can blame it on the alcohol.

"That Guy"

The ideal bar for most is what was depicted in Cheers, "where everyone knows your name."  But do you really want your name to be "that guy"?

We all know who "that guy" is.  It's the one that most people don't know by birth name, but by some distinguishing characteristic; usually one no one says to their face because it's mocking or making-fun of them.  Such as, "Do you know Dave So-and-so?...No?  Oh, I mean Drunk Dave."  i.e.: the guy who brings a case of beer with him wherever he goes, for no other reason than because he wants to make sure no one else drinks it.  "Ohhhh, that guy."

There are many other "that guy" qualifications, such as "creeping", where you just say creepy things and weird everyone out, "scrooging", where the terrible tipping rumor spreads like wild fire and you hear "Bah, humbug!" way past the Christmas season, and "excessive blasting", where your bodily functions (like chair rumbling) will get you permanently labeled as "Toots McGoots" for life.
NOTE:  These are real things, inspired by real life.  If you think I don't know a "Toots McGoots", think again.

Everyone has their nights; drunk nights, sick nights, bad nights, and embarrassing nights.  They key is to be normal every once in a while (with the exception of the creeping, scrooging, and blasting, which are pretty permanent labels).

You don't need a gimmick other than normalcy.  We relish in the idea of having regular people who don't cause problems or make us reach for our pepper spray at the end of the night.  Don't be "that guy".

Bar Ears

You had a crazy weekend.  Filled with drinking, people, and some fuzzy details that you can't wait to divulge to your closest friend.  You make your plans: meet at a bar, drink, and maybe eat in between revealing your juicy weekend excursion.

Pinky promises, blood vows, promising of one's first born, etc. if details are repeated are exchanged and then you start spilling your guts because no one is listening.  Your secrets are safe.

Wrong.  Your bartender is always listening.  It's called "bar ears".  And we hear EVERYTHING.

The reason?  Any bartender is taught to be tentative in order to get bigger tips.  Which is why you get drinks in a timely manner, get your check quickly, or get your food order in ASAP.  We aren't eavesdropping on your convo, but although we'd like to have selective hearing, we can't flip the switch to that setting.  It would be like telling a genius to choose to selectively be smart, or a comedian to selectively be funny.  With those restrictions, you're paying for mediocrity. Who does that?

Moreover, let's look at the situation:  people talking about secrets + in public + alcohol = you might as well have posted it on Facebook.

I liken this to wearing earbuds/headphones and listening music loudly, then trying to talk to someone in the same room.  It often ends in Earbuds screaming the conversation.  That is EXACTLY what happens after a few drinks.  You get Alcohol Induced Headphones; your outside voice is now your inside voice, and it just keeps getting louder after every shot of tequila.

I know you are thinking, what could a bartender actually hear?  Couples discuss intimacy, friends talk about hook-ups, people talk smack, patrons describe criminal acts, couples cheating, and this is the proverbial tip of the iceberg (minus the juicy details).

I'm not complaining.  Bartending wouldn't be fun if there wasn't entertainment.  And that's exactly what people provide when alcohol becomes part of the equation.

However, if you want to avoid the public alcohol megaphone effect, grab your favorite bottle or case, and invite your BFF over.  Otherwise, be assured that your secret will be safe between you, your pal, bottle of Jack, and your bartender; and while the first three might not be talking, sometimes what we hear is just too good not to repeat.