Saturday, September 15, 2012

How To Be The Best Drunk In The World Pt.1

            Now I’m not saying you are a drunk.
            Yes, you may chug a Coors Light tall boy when you wake up or sip on a glass of Prosecco while you write your blog. Maybe it’s totally fine if you brown bag Absolute Vodka and walk with your super hot girlfriend down 1st Avenue pretending to be hobos. There’s no judgment if you carry wine in a clear flask, taking copious pulls off the nip like it had the fucking antidote.
            These things happen when you’re out there in the drinking world. Most of the regular folk take their drinks cautiously.
            You take them gratuitously.
            I’m not saying you have a problem. You know if you have a problem. If you forget to go to work because you’re drunk, you’re a loser. If your relationship ends because of your drinking, you have failed. Contact your nearest AA group and get your addicted ass a sponsor.
            But if you’re anything like the people I roll with, you’re a professional drunk, one with pride, dignity, class, and an age old metabolism that puts any kind of whiskey hangover to shame.
            If you can’t handle the swings, get the hell out of the playground.
            Here’s the thing. You can learn to be this kind of drunk. The one that only becomes more charming as more booze slides down your throat.
            As a bartender, I have access to every kind of drunk. I have seen them in all walks of life.
            There’s the lonely drunk. This guy tells everyone his problems right after he introduces himself. Poor bastard. It’s like springing a guilt trap. You don’t want to leave him alone, and he’s certainly not getting the hint of how annoying he is to others. He’s the type who goes home, masturbates with his tears, and hangs himself with Fox News blaring loud in the background.
            Then there’s the obviously wasted chick who need to fuck someone. It doesn’t matter who. Ladies, trust me, she’s out there. I see one of these girls weekly at the bars. It doesn’t matter who the dude is, she wants to play the ‘ride the cock-horsey’ game with any willing participant. The saddest thing about this lady is when the men are afraid of her and she’s left blankly staring at her phone alone, and starts bitching to the bartender about her broken heart.
            Then I have to take her home.
            How about the Creeper? We all know the Creeper. The dude who hovers around girls, just slightly behind them and to the left. He stares with eyes of want and a strange smile reminiscent of someone who just took a satisfying shit. I ALWAYS defend women against the Creeper. The Creeper is the reason women can’t have a fucking drink by themselves at a bar. I HATE the Creeper. Women have a god-solid right to drink alone and it’s this retard that ruins the party for everybody.
            There are so many fouls in the baseball game of drinking. The key is avoiding these little defects and drink with a class that is undeniably attractive. Remember the other night when you were drinking alone and saw that group just having an exceptional time together?
            Yes, they are drunk.
            Yes, they a loud (but not annoyingly so).
            You wish you could be with them, laughing and joking about Mitt Romney or talking about how bad-ass the last season of Breaking Bad was.       
            There’s a certain style to drinking well. It’s just unfortunate that there’s so many ways to do it badly.
            Allow me the moment to break down some of the more unpardonable offenses made by these traitors of intoxication.

            Don’t Know What You Want

            Is this your first time in a bar?
            Did you just turn 21?
            You would not believe how many people walk into a bar slowly, a look of bewilderment across their face, weirdly staring back and forth, creeping their way cautiously to the wooden bar.
            I come up to greet:
            “Hi there! What can I get for you?”
            They don’t answer. They don’t even look me in the eye. They just look completely confused, as if they simply were magically transported into a bar beyond their control.
            “Hello?” I ask, concerned about their sanity. “Any questions?”
            “Ahhhh….” They say, still not making eye contact.
            “Would you care for some warm milk or a Shirley Temple?” I offer.
            Let me tell you something, people. If you are a grown ass person, you know what you drink. A professional race car driver knows what tires are the best for their speed. Especially if you’re a guy.
            Come on, man. You know exactly what you want, or should, as a man.
            With women I cut a little more slack. The fairer sex have always been a little more interested in experimentation than the fellas when it comes to drinking, and I respect that.
            But if you a dude over the age of 25 and you give me that fucking lost look when I ask you what you want, expect to be degraded by me in front of your girlfriend right then and there.   

            Jukebox Politics
            Hey man. I know that a jukebox in a bar is the ultimate form of drunk democracy.
            I get it.
            I respect it.
            Even if I know that my Ipod playlists are some of the most complimented and fun collections for any bar evening, I will still not get completely offended if your dollar tune choice cuts out a great Pixies song. But if you think playing that fucking Rhianna song that spews out of every bodega in 5 minute intervals is cool, I’ve got a couple words for you.
            Get some goddamn taste.      
            “More Than Feeling” is probably the most played bar song, just above “Don’t Stop Believin’”, the other dreaded song for any bartender working with a jukebox.
            Don’t do it.
            Resist the urge to be just like everyone else.
            Play a rare Wu-Tang cut, or get some awesome retro Skid Row on there.
            Whitesnake works (thanks Tess) for some serious cheesy rock: “Here I Go Again On My Own” is apparently my new theme song.
            These are fun songs.
            But if you think putting on 14 Meatloaf songs in a row on my jukebox is cool, you will not only lose your songs when I skip them, but I will publicly demean you in front of everyone, Judas-ing the fuck out you.
            Also, there the uber-sad song someone (typical depressed) plays, completely ruining the mood for the Saturday night crowd. Hey, I like Elliot Smith too, but not on a busy fucking night. Okay, “Independence Day” works ‘cause it’s got that great drum track, and maybe, just maybe you can get away with “Stupidity Tries”, but if you throw on “Angeles” I going to stab your bi-polar ass.     

            The Smelly Food Person.

            Yo. Eat a fucking Subway sandwich at my bar.
            Totally fine.
            As long as you ask first.
            But if bring some rank, smelly ass food that fills the whole bar with a wretched scent, you are the faux paus of the evening. And I can assure you, nothing dries the ladies up more than the smell of stale hot dogs. Eat something clean and scentless. Use your head.
            Just the other day someone brought in some shit to my bar that left the whole place smelling of wet fart. And I, as the bartender, must sit there, trapped, embarrassed that yes, my bar smell like a dogs ass on a Friday night.
            I’ll be the one needing suicide watch when that happens.
            And furthermore, why are you eating in a bar? Take it home or stay at a table. What? Restaurants don’t serve liquor anymore? I don’t get it. Drink a beer for dinner. Liquid diet that shit.  
            Like body odor, own your scent. Stopping making everyone else have to deal with your issues. Get drunk with class.

            To be continued….and sorry for the long absence. This summer was a cruel one for sure.   Keep reading, and tell your friends.
            Trust me, beaten, bruised, and tattered:
            The bartender still knows every motherfucking thing.