I Can’t Believe This Shit

            Seriously.

Can a reasonable man in this godforsaken town get a little good, clean American fun please?

Is it too much to ask?

What I’m talking about is that I must have a built in ‘crazy pants’ magnet in my soul. I’m currently patting down my flesh to look for the bug they had inserted under my skin when I was asleep. 

What am I talking about? 

It's my curse. 

Since day one, I only attract the most desperate, deranged, psychotically bitter, father-hating, clingy, plain bat-shit women in this world.

They fucking LOVE me. I must give off the odor of madness. Maybe I’m fucking nuts and like attracts like. Maybe I have a special talent of bringing out this sort of behavior in the opposite sex.  

Now, on second thought, they probably treat any person directly in front of them with the same strange and obsessive behavior. That may just be the nature of a ‘crazy broad’. I don’t know.

As all of you know, I was raised by women: one mother, 3 sisters, 6 aunts, and countless girlfriends, both lover and not, and the number one thing I hear from folks: “Oh, men are so much better raised by females. They make much better boyfriends.”  

Let The Bartender Knows say on the record the whole ‘men are better raised by women’ is bullshit. The sick part of all is that men who are raised by women simply know TOO MUCH about women. And when someone knows too much about something, they have a tendency to sympathize with that thing.

I know everything. Or, at least, I thought I did.

I’ve covered why dating sucks in New York City multiple times (part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, google it). I’m didn’t title this piece under the ‘dating’ category, because ‘dating’ would include the process of asking someone out with an interest in something; sex, love, companionship, bondage time, what have you.

The following events are more like travesties, jokes really, for if any of these events/people/situations are examples of modern dating, then instead of drinking whiskey shots, we of the dating committee, should start ordering formaldehyde by the glass and slug them back.

Let’s start by discussing these ‘events’, so both you and I can relate, and maybe my readers can offer this bartender some solace lost in this forest of some seriously dumb shit.

The Biter:

Hey, I’ll be the first to tell you that I do exhibit some BDSM leanings just like any good old fashion red blooded male, but let me paint this picture for you.

I’m out with a girl. Things are going well. Things are shaping up. Right out of an 80’s flick, guy, girl, bar, drinks are flowing and so is the conversation. We are leaning in close, some minor kisses both on the cheek, the hand, there’s a full-lipped kiss planted. Yes, friends, things seem to be going well. I’m so goddamn picky about who I sleep with these days that I’m actually excited by this lady in front of me. Two more margaritas down and are joyfully roaming down Grand Street to my house. I couldn’t be happier. Then something strange happens.

The girl, in some weird fit of alcoholic delusion, clamps down right on my forearm and bites down hard. Like HARD. Like bursting blood vessels hard. I pull away, half-angered by the sudden pain in my right arm, half annoyed at this odd expression of attraction.

“Hey, okay, that’s enough of that now, Miss…”

She then cackles, and I see something fiendish in this lady’s eyes. Obviously, the drink had gotten a hold of her. Either that or her latent lycanthropy. Despite my protest, again with the biting, this time on my bicep. Deep. There’s marks. I separate from her.

“What the hell is your problem?” I ask her, but apparently my concern and questioning only fuel her to bite down again. “Owww, fuck, Jesus!”

I get her back to the apartment, but by this point all attraction to her has been bled out of me. My roommate, best friend, and ride or die homey is there with a girl, I think to myself, thank God, company. This lady won;t eat me, hopefully, when other people are around. We all gather at the Villa Borghese bar (what I call the bar I installed in our kitchen after ditching the kitchen table) and some more drinks, smoke, and party favors go around the room. I’m thinking, maybe all of that biting nonsense was over.

But no. Right there on my forearm, this broad bites again. “Jesus, what is wrong with you? Stop with that shit. You take bath salts or something?”

My buddy’s girl stares at the ‘biter’ with disbelief. She tries to help: “No sweetie, just nibble on him, he obviously doesn’t like that biting thing you're doing.”

Even having another woman trying to guide this ‘biting’ lady didn’t stop her incisors from ripping into my flesh. I try to remember if there was a full moon out that night.

            “Are you fucking teething or something?” I ask her.

            The whiskey comes out and I drink much of it. The last bite comes down again and I look at her, straight on. Her eyes are spinning like a slot machine.

            “You need a fucking chew toy, seriously, get out of my house,” I tell the crazy broad.

            I can’t feel past my elbow. Obviously this is some kind of strange emotional disorder, or some other neurological problem.

            I’ve seen yellers. I’ve seen slappers. I’ve even seen ‘breakers’ (the people who break stuff when they are wasted). But this biting shit is an example of far greater problems.

Like cannibalistic problems.        

The Dinner Princess:

The ‘dinner princess’ phenomenon is as old as dirt. Quite plainly, the ‘dinner princess’ is the girl that will let you take her to dinner, spend an upwards of 100 dollars (crazy!), kiss you on the cheek, tell you she's 'tired', gets into a cab, and that’s that. She gets a free meal and the guy feels like the biggest chump this side of the Mississippi.

Again, ‘dating’ should never be a bartering system for flesh. But after years of bartending and listening to people’s conversations, I have heard, time and time again: “Sure, I’ll let him take me to dinner. I’m not going to sleep with him or anything.”

Ladies. Ladies. Ladies, please. This is the worst type of honor code. Remember, men are stupid. If you agree to dinner with them (not just drinks, or some other ‘non-committal’ excursion), that is sending them a signal that you not only want to get to know them, but also would like to pursue some other skin activities in the evening.

Now I can already hear the litany of complaints: “Hey just ‘cause I go to dinner with someone I have to put out? Screw you, Bartender Knows Guy!”

I’m not saying that. I’m just trying to help the opposite sexes get along better. If I walk into an emergency room, I probably need medical services. If I wander into a bar, I probably need a drink.

So, at logics’ behest, if a dude asks you to dinner, he likes you. If you don’t like him, kindly decline.

There’s nothing less classy than a girl just trying to get a free lunch.

It's sad.   

Just plain sad.  

     

The ‘Talk To Every Guy In The Bar But You’ Chick:

Wow. Has anyone had this happen to them?

It really hurts, bad.

You ask a girl out for drinks. She agrees. You meet up. She doesn’t start biting your arm. Check. Awesome.

You’re at the bar. First drinks go down. Everything is fine. She’s says she’s got to go to the bathroom. On her way there, some guys try to talk to her. She’s friendly. On the way back from the bathroom, she’s still friendly.

You tell yourself: “She’s just a nice girl. She’s just friendly. I don’t own her. It’s fine.”

She comes back. The dialogue continues. Things are fine. A guy next to you at the bar says something. She turns, comments on it. They start a dialogue. You are not part of it. Another dude orders a drink behind you. He makes a statement. The girl responses to his dialogue now.

You can imagine how fucked up this is. New York men are persistent, and relentless, so even by pausing for a moment, you’ve lost her attention. And on top of that, feel like an asshole for feeling weird about it.

I try to think how pleased a woman would be if I chatted up every women in the room aside from the girl I asked out. Not so cool if the roles were reversed now is it?

If you say something, you come off as the guy trying to stop her independence. If you don’t say anything, then you must now compete with her attention span.

Total, flat out shitty ‘dating’ style.

Other notable things not to say, ladies:

“When I was fucking this one guy…”

“My ex used to do the same thing…”

“I thought we were just friends…”

Girls, if your over 25 and still do not know the rules of attraction, send me a letter and I will happily break it all down for you.

I’m all for equality between the sexes.

I’m just not down for the equality of being an asshole.

Till next week.

SERIOUSLY. THIS BROAD WAS AT MY HOUSE! THANK GOD SHE DIDN'T BITE ANYTHING I REALLY NEED!

DINNER TIME! THIS AIN'T NO EBT PROGRAM!

     

IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHY YOUR ALONE, YOU HAVE GOT TO START LOOKING A LITTLE DEEPER.