BARTENDERS WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE

             I could have been a lawyer.

            What’s more punk rock than that? In a country run by lawyers, what better profession to aspire to? If both the Senate and the House of Representatives are chalk full of lawyers, and these are the men and women who decide the Fate of our country, wouldn’t it be the smart decision to know exactly how the game is played, and, on top of that, be able to learn the rules of that game to break them and exact some kind of change? Pass a bill of legal fuck offs and slam into Congress like it’s a judiciary mosh-pit.  

            But that’s not what happened.

            I opted for a life of tax free money, loose women, and deranged drunks, swimming in an endless ocean of Jameson shots. If one is not careful, one can lose oneself fully in this sea of debauchery, only to find oneself stranded in ones mid-40's, still trying to chase 23-year-old college ass, all while wearing some kind of ironic tee-shirt far too tight on ones bloated and liver spotted stomach. That is a Fate worse than death.    

            It’s not technically our faults. Our ‘clients’ want us to share in their intoxication. No one is more boring than the sober and irritable bartender. It’s not like the common populace wants to stop drinking anytime soon. I try to imagine a world without alcohol and bars. That’s what made the Baby Face Kelly’s and Capone’s of the world so popular. People want a drink so bad after work they’ll deal with blood thirsty thugs just to get their hands on a Budweiser. And if they buy Anheuser-Busch products (owned by John McCain’s family), they already do!

            It is an essential part of life, drinking in pubs, seeing a familiar face that will greet you and slide a cold one across the bar. Hell, I remember when I was a kid, I would see one of my Uncle’s crack open a beer, take a long pull off the bottle, and set it down hard, a look of relief on their face, and say: “I needed that.” I’d stare, wild-eyed, at the bubbles of this mysterious elixir.

            “You want some?” They offered my young self.

            Trying to be a man (at 12), seeking the same feeling of ecstasy, I took a pull off the bottle and spat it out.

            Beer tasted like old man sweat. I never understood why my Uncle’s wanted to drink an octogenarian’s excretion and found such comfort in it.

            Now I get it. Now I drink 31 Budweiser’s and feel better for it.

            Beer is poor man’s Prozac.

            No, the bartender’s life is very different than those who follow justice’s blind eyes.

            I recently went on an interview for a new dive bar job. The proceedings were simple. I already came recommended by another bartender (a minting worth its weight in gold) so I did NOT bring a resume. As we have previously stated, no one will ever get a dive bartender job from a resume. The bar keeps resumes in their basement offices to use as fodder for jokes during work meetings. 

            I walk in at 230 in the morning, the bartender’s version of late afternoon, and set my sights on the man behind the bar. I roll up, dig my elbow into the lips of the old wood (I already like the feel of the place) and extend a hand.

            “I’m Matthew.”

            He introduces himself, wipes his hand down with a white bar rag, and we shake with a firm understanding.

            “Hey,” the boss man says, “you doing all right?”

            “Any better I’d be dead,” I say.

            “Hear that,” he says, giving me a once over. “so you know about this…” he asks, gesturing to the liquor lined bar wall.

            “Oh yes. All too well,” I huff.

            “I know what you mean.”

            I nod: “I’m 35,” I say, bluntly.

            He nods back with a gentile accord: “I hear you. I’m 40 and am really feeling it back here. You drink?”

            “Does Momma Kennedy own a black dress? Wanna pound a Bud Light?”

            He’s take’s a moment and I see a sparkle in the man’s eyes. He grins: “Sound about right.”

            He cracks open two bottles, We raise them under the dim bar light. They're gone in a minute and a half flat. We place them hard down on the wood bar. He nods:

            “Can you start Tuesday?”

            And that’s how you get dive bar jobs. No Law School necessary. No diplomas, no degrees. Just a hundred yard stare, a fierce thirst, and a casual understanding that you can handle a room full of liquors and the people that consume them. The bartender stands against the wave of humanity and pours them a shot. And we have to judge situations as they arise, just how dangerous or tedious they may be, and deliver a verdict.

            Here are some cases that no law degree could ever help in determining a fair outcome. There’s no logic or sense in dealings with these whiskey-soaked defendants, nor the already drunk prosecutors who have left any semblance of reason and dignity at the door:  

              

            1.

            THE BAR FIGHT

            It happens.

            Try a cocktail of a shitty day, a horrible boss, not enough money for rent, and a recent break up and that same cocktail will get spilled across the bar, dropping F-Bombs and threatening lives. The bartender can usually sense tension from a mile away, but sometimes it’s the shattering of glass or the yells of men from the darkness of the back of the bar that cues imminent danger.

            The only thing you can do is jump over and get in the middle of it. Most of the time, drunk patrons will not hit the bartender. It’s when they are so blind drunk they don’t even know who they are swinging at that you will take a hit.

            Just a couple of month ago, one of my favorite bartenders, T., took a punch to her face (yes, a woman), knocking her glasses right off her nose and giving her a bad shiner. The only good thing to come of it was that the douche bag woman-hitter left his IPhone at the scene of the crime. Not only do we know who he is, but his personal information was put up on Facebook.

            Nice job, dick head. Now you’re known as the guy who hits girls. You’ll get what you deserve soon enough. Vengeance is a dish best served ice cold.

             The dangerous thing is that once the chaos starts, there is no time to call the police or scream for help. You have got to get the skirmish out of the bar ASAP. Once past the threshold, it is now the cities problem. You lock the door behind them, batten the hatches, and pour some shots for the rest of the patrons trapped inside with you.

            I’ve been punched. I’ve had pint glasses thrown at my chest, and beer bottles sail past my nose. It can get ugly late at night, and bartenders without doormen must join the fray. 

            And bartenders can get hurt.

            Bad.      

            2.

            GET YOU LAID

           

            As I’ve stated before, bartenders are more trusted than strangers.

            Our word is better than cash money, and when a certain young lady asks us, even with the slightest hint of flirtation about you, we can add or subtract to your fuck quotient with a smile or a wary glance.

            This goes the same with female bartenders in regards to other women. I have had many a female bartender friends vouch for me to her female cohorts. There is just something trustable about a person serving you drinks. Never have drug dealers received such lauding since Pablo Escobar from the people in his village. We are those civic leaders, aware of the many tidings around the veranda. And as local celebrities, we can change the order of Fate for the right kind of people.

            My favorite move is the: “Come and sit over here,” technique. Let’s say a lonely guy friend of mine is in need of a little attention and another friend of the fairer sex rolls into the bar, I usually signal her over and guide her to the empty bar stool conveniently next to my ‘client’. I begin a dialogue with her about her day, warm her up, offer a free shot, and make a couple of easy jokes to loosen her up. Then a couple more customers need some drinks down the bar (or I fake that they do) and I leave her with: “Oh, by the way, this is my friend, X. He’s cool (I give the approving nod) and...(insert something relatively interesting about him that she may dig)...I’ll be right back.” And that is that. It’s up to the guy from there (we are not love magicians). If he comes off like a rapey stalker weirdo, that’s his fucking problem.

            But that’s us bartenders, just here to help.

            Or we can fuck your shit up. Don’t think we won’t.

            Remember that extra buck for extraneous services.

            3.

            PSYCHOLOGISTS FOR LIFE

           

            Actual psychologists get approximately $250 an hour. We get about a dollar a drink.  

            I can’t tell you how many hundreds of people I have served who have just received horrible news.

            Recently fired (like that day, the 2008-2009 recession was a tough one).

            Family sickness.

            Loss of a pet.

            Serious heartbreak.

            That’s when we shut up. Just as much as a bartender needs to know just what to say for the mood, they need to know as well just when to shut the fuck up.

            Just pour the whiskey quietly. Lift up a glass for yourself. Cheers somberly. Knock on the bar in front of them and leave them be. And keep the others away as well.

            Sometimes when you look into the abyss, you gotta do it alone.       

            There’s a whole different kind of justice system that exists in the bar rooms.

            There are rules.

            There is a right and a wrong. And it is the bartender who wears the somber, magistrate black robes. His gavel is his church key, his bouncer is the bailiff (if he even has one). Judge Wapner ain't got shit on us.

            And in a lawless world, somebody’s got to act the part.

            Let the lawyers run the country.

            We’ll clean up the rest.        

BOTH LAWYERS AND BARTENDERS WILL FUCK YOU. ONLY ONE YOU'LL ENJOY AND THE OTHER YOU'LL HAVE TO PAY FOR. 

 WE CAN MAKE HER VERY CURIOUS ABOUT YOU. OR AS REPELLING AS THE SMELL OF FRESH SHIT.

WE ARE THE FINAL JUDGE. AND WE MAKE A WAY BETTER MARTINI THAN THIS GUY CAN

(WITHOUT THE PLUCKED EYEBROWS).

SHIT GUYS DO (Starring Guest Blogger, The Bartender's Bartender!)

Greeting, fair readers. This week I'm honored to welcome our first guest bartender blogger, The Bartender's Bartender. For those active readers, you may know the Bartender's Bartender from previous blogs chiding me about my foolish and often juvenile antics. As we all know, our bartenders know way too much about us. They watch us celebrate, and they help us with our defeats (by pouring whiskey down our throats). In response to the flurry of voracious attacks I've received from last weeks blog, I have enlisted MY bartender (she's a woman, and a native New Yorker on top of that, AND works at the most dangerous dive bar in Williamsburg) to settle this beef between the sexes.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce D., the Bartender's Bartender. 

  

So I'm sitting here talking to the Bartender Who Thinks He Knows, pouring him shots, taking a few myself, and we get onto the topic of last week’s blog, Shit Girls Do.

To be fair, I usually just criticize whatever I think the post needed or what was lacking.

If I have something to say, I go right to the source.

The Bartender Who Thinks He Knows says to me, “Oh what? You've got something to say too?”

He's gotten more reactions from the last blog post then ever before and has lost ten subscribers. Like in the video game Paperboy. You do a bad job and you lose houses.

Actually, I think he was just lazy:

“You're an expert on the idiotic behavior of women and yet you can only come up with three obvious stereotypes? I expected better,” I tell him.

At which point the Bartender Who Thinks He Knows says:

“Oh yeah? Well I'd like to hear your opinion on men. Like shit guys do?”

“I couldn't possibly”, I demure, “But come to think of it yeah, I absolutely can think of three retarded things guys do”.

            And here they are:

1.

Make Us Pay For Everything.

            Especially drinks. As a bartender myself, this is the number one transgression I witness more than any other by dudes in New York.

Let me paint a picture.

A couple comes into the bar. Granted, I don't know their relationship status, history, where they just came from, or who paid for dinner, but as a bartender I have become pretty good at reading people and body language. They order a round and the girl quickly, like lightning, goes for her wallet and produces a $20 bill, arm outstretched and tries to hand it to me.

Before I take it, I watch the guy. This move is the best. He goes for his money VERY SLOWLY because he's done this dance before and he knows she is going to pay if he lets her beat him to it.

This is bullshit guys.

There is a complex dynamic which I would need a whole other blog post to explain in depth, but basically most women living in New York have earned their way on their own merit, because this is a tough town, and weak women, weak people, go home in less than a year.

Those who have made it become lifers.

The women want to prove their independence with that $20 bill, and the men, who are not as dumb as they appear, take full advantage of this aspect.

Hey guys.

Stop.

Chivalry goes a long way. And she notices every single time you do this. And she makes a mental note. That you're cheap. That you're taking advantage.

Don't think this lame move goes unnoticed (because we notice everything) and then we tell our friends.

2.

Get Depressed.

Guys in New York are emotional creatures who are pretending to be devoid of emotion. This is hard.

Most of them are not Stella Adler trained thespians so it is difficult for most men to pull off. Instead they deploy a rotation of four or five mini-relationships (in whatever form) in order to simultaneously garner attention at all times and mask their emotional emptiness (or neediness) rather than focus on one thing at a time and face these...feelings (excuse the profanity).

It's been discovered that multi-tasking has been found to lower IQ in the moment and creates a feeling of unfullfillment, since we never feel like we are actually accomplishing anything.  

Also, guys, Alcohol is a depressant. I'm a bartender. I see the way you drink. So it might not be just us getting you down.

Just sayin’.

Maybe get off the roller coaster for a few days and see how it feels.

3.

Grow Beards.

Ok, I am not sure if I want to call this one out, because I personally think a scruffy man looks sexy, like he's been up all night thinking about his art.

But maybe that's the problem.

I think combined with the other factors I just mentioned, the beard ultimately symbolizes the full on return to Cavemanism.

You want us to pay for things and take care of you, and instead of talking about your

emotions you go from tent to tent grunting and pulling hair.

             So in conclusion boys, go clean shaven for a month, buy your own goddamn drinks (and ours) and let us in a little when you're feeling down.
            And maybe when you start paying for things proper, we can go shopping the way we'd really like to, with all of our own money.

HEY BABE, I NEED A REFILL. YOU BUYING?

TOO MUCH PARTYING GOT YOU DOWN?

WELL, FUCK YOU, I DO WHAT I WANT!

OUR BEARDS LOOK GOOD. LET'S GET SOME GIRLS TO BUY OUR DRINKS! YEAH! 

WHAT WE'LL DO WITH ALL OUR MONEY!

SHIT GIRLS DO

             I just watched Bridesmaids. Pretty hilarious. Then on every other billboard I’m seeing advertisements about Lena Dunham’s new series Girls, all about a group of relatively attractive women who continually make mistakes and wonder why they are unhappy. Jesus, Lena, hang out in Brooklyn much? You could bottle the amount of livid dissatisfaction I hear from women around here. And the whole Bridemaids thing was spot on. Ever participated in a wedding? Women go CRAZY. There is more neuroses, madness, moodiness, insecurity, perfectionism, and good old fashioned bitchiness involved in the average wedding to fuel the next two world wars.

            It just seems to me that there’s big business these days in ‘women behaving badly’. And what are the twelve year old girls supposed to look up to? Fucking a Vampire? Dying in a Hunger Game? Nobody wants their daughter to be Lohan-ed.  

            So now that pop culture has given women permission to not only be assholes, but be raging, greedy, power hungry, dismissive, slutty assholes, it’s time for a Bartender Knows Public Service Announcement. As a child of a matriarchy, yes, actually spawned by women who are not only beautiful (we don’t so ugly women in my family) but successful, fair and firm in their opinions, and intellectual and ambitious enough not to just live only to drink, fuck, and complain (and in Williamsburg, get tattooed), I've got an interesting perspective on said topics.

This week’s topic is merely what intellectuals would call a ‘literary critique’ regarding observations this Bartender has noticed over the years behind the bar about the ‘fairer’ sex.

            1.

            STOP SHOPPING

            Seriously.

Stop.

I mean, buy shit if you need it, but not only has your gender been systematically taken over by fashion magazines, television commercials and cosmetic companies, but now I actually hear women defending their own enslavers.

“Shopping makes me feel good”. Yeah, honey, so does heroin, but it doesn’t mean we should do it! Other notable things that feel good: Unprotected sex, binge eating, cocaine, excessive drinking, hundreds of nameless sexual partners, bar fighting, habitual marijuana abuse, talking shit on others, etc, etc. This does not mean we should participate in these activities, and ON TOP OF THAT convince those around you that it’s a good thing. I mean, hell, most of my friends do all of the above, but at least we KNOW it’s bad.   

Fashion is the most self-aggrandizing, vacuous, shallow, competitive, vain and pointless thing that has ever been spawned upon this fine Earth. I’m not hating on theatrical costumes, film wardrobes, or any other of the creative arts, but the insistent concern over ones looks is absurd. Let me paint you a small logistical diagram. Shopping means forgetting your troubles. So you buy shit. Then you barely wear that shit. Then you’re upset again, feeling ugly and fat, so you buy more shit, playing right into the hands of the money-makers, guilting you back into spending your cash on bullshit. Buy a book. Buy a camera and take rad pictures of ponies or trees. But giving your money over to exactly the people that fuck your own gender up is psychotic.  

There are women I know with hundreds of pairs of shoes. That can’t be healthy. Let me make this short and sweet. You know the advertising world uses women’s insecurities against them (you watch Mad Men, right?). And when you buy (literally) into it, you truly are, to quote my favorite author, the ally of your own gravediggers.             

            2.

            BE NICE TO ONE ANOTHER

            Women fucking hate each other. I’ve watched you guys interact. I’ve seen more friendliness between two underfed Cobras. Sure, you got your girls, but what about those other ones. Like that bitch waitress who asked you if you wanted Diet Coke instead of Regular Coke. What a whore! Or those girls down the bar laughing too loud in way to short skirts? What bitches! I have never seen more animosity between individuals than I’ve seen between two women who don’t know each other. The amount of shit-talking rivals a Chelsea bar during Pride week.

What’s the deal, ladies? What are you fighting for? Tell me it’s not us men! We are a notch above a drunk monkey obsessively playing with his own shit, trust me, we do not deserve your concern. Then what is it?

            Take a moment and observe other women in a regular environment. Just during the writing of this blog here at an undisclosed café on Bedford Avenue, I have heard 1 out of every 10 women actually say thank you to the foreign women serving them their triple decaf soy Cappuccino. NONE of them made small talk (Note: More men make small talk then women. Just a side note, another café observation). And don’t just take this Bartender’s word for it. Grab a pen and paper, sit down like a scientist, and make the observations for yourself.

            Reality is right in front of you.

All you got to do is open your ears and listen.

            3.

            FALSE ALIGHNMENTS

            So your having guy trouble, huh? Who are the people you turn to first? Your girlfriends, right? Or how about your favorite gay male, he must know the confounding mystery of why he’s doing what he’s doing, right?

            Wrong.

            You are asking the wrong people in the end. The only people who truly know about straight guys are straight guys. That’s it. Your girlfriends are equally as clueless as you are about our strange and bewildering ways. They are in the same battle as you.

You’ve got your ‘never gets hit on’ friend. She’s the one you constantly try to hook up with guys, but then the guys always end up hitting on you instead. The ‘never gets hit on’ girl is shy, right? Now, remember The Bartender Knows Credo about Shyness: If you are over 25 and you’re shy, it doesn’t mean you’re socially awkward, it means you’re just a dick. If you can’t handle base level dialogues with an average person (I’m talking eye contact, question asking, and smiling, it’s remarkable how many people can’t even do that), you’re just an asshole. Your “never gets hit on” friend doesn’t get hit on because she’s probably a self-obsessed jerk who can neither maintain eye contact, ask questions about others or smile. She hasn’t been laid in 11 months, what the hell does she know?

            What about your ‘constantly fucking’ friend? You got one of these, right? But she’s not much help either. Her legs are open so consistently she can barely speak unless it’s in orgasmic grunts. She’s the one who solves every problem by falling on a penis. However, the last time she had boyfriend was back in the day when she was slightly Goth and writing bad poetry. Now she’s a size queen with a subtle coke problem. She’s no help either, especially if want some kind of successful ‘normal’ relationship. The ‘constantly fucking’ girl is more afraid of intimacy then her own reflection in the morning.

            And your gay male friend, what does he know? Don’t be confused. Just because he has a dick like your straight guy doesn’t means he knows anymore about us than you do. Let me repeat: Gay men only know about Gay Men. You know the “my only friends are gay dudes” girl. These women look up and realize that every night they are in a gay bar. And not a cool Lesbian Bar. They’re hanging out in places like the Phoenix off Avenue A- a burly, all male, sweating not hot gay bar. The “my only friends are gay dudes” girl is no help at all either.

            So who can you turn too? In the end, go to the source. If I got problems, I go right to another straight girl to get the answer. And that’s what your Bartender is here for: so send over them questions!         

            4.

            THE HOT AND COLD PHENONMENON

            Ladies. Please. Tell me what the hell is this?

            You like a guy. You act crazy for him. The guy is stoked. He’s crazy about you back. Then the next time you see him, it’s like you barely know who he is? Talk about mixed signals. And I’m not talking about when you just meet. Games are inevitable in the early stages of any courtship. I’m talking about even months in. I have heard from countless guys about this phenomenon. 

            I think there is some kind of confusion some ladies have. They believe that by acting cold they are either protecting themselves from pain or attempting to appear elusive (i.e. attractive). Either way, you are on the shortcut to being dropped like a bad habit.

            If you like someone, just be a regular person. That’s how they do it in Paris. If those girls like you, they’ll stare you down until you sack up and talk to them. Here in America, when you mean to girls they like you even more. It’s fucked up. And true.

            So there it is ladies, the state we’re in. And don’t worry. I’ll be continuing my ‘literary crtitique’ about the fellahs soon enough. But that one is just too easy, isn’t it?   

           

            Till next time!

LADIES, PLEASE. LINDSEY LOHAN IS NOT COOL. 

ANGRY COBRA! AND A LITTLE UNDERFED!

SHE'S AS COLD AS ICE.

COSMIC BREAK UPS (Or, "It'sThe End Of The World As We Know It")

I wake up and my cat Lysander is sitting on my head. I crack an eye open, blurry from last night’s debauchery, and hear a strange flittering sound from her mouth. She stretches up to the window pane above my pillow, her yellow eyes intent out the window.

The flittering sound continues. She is no longer the shy kitten I once knew. Her tail wags back and forth, her shoulders hunch like she’s in the African brush. Then I hear what’s riling her up. Out my window in a recently blooming tree is a nest of new baby birds, all happily chirping on one of the branches.

Lysander wants to kill them. Yep. Murder. I pet Lysander quickly. She turns, sweet as ever, and meows something cute.

“You’re a fucking killer, Lysander. A goddamn murderer,” I say.

Nature’s instincts. Thousands of years of genetic programming. My cat, although sickly sweet, wants to tear the living flesh off these chirping little birds. Then I think about if she was bigger than me she’d kill me too, play with my body and bring my lifeless corpse to someone she respects.

And you Nature lovers want to protect the environment? It took thousands of years to finally conquer Nature with roads, mini-malls and community colleges, and now you want to go back to ‘organic’ life?

Nature would kill you (especially you) if you returned to it.

Shit, when I’m at the grocery store and am asked if I want paper or plastic, I demand plastic.

Keep Nature on her fucking toes.         

This week I received a pained letter. Thank God there are bartenders. We’re not just here to make out with your girlfriend after you storm out of the bar after a fight.        

            The letter reads:

ok, so i have a question for the Bartender Who Knows:

have you been noticing slews of break-ups recently? it seems everyday a friend, acquaintance, or even complete strangers have been telling me their break-up stories - and i'm not talking breaking up with the guy you've been knocking boots with for 2 weeks, i'm talking long term, heavy duty relationships. is this a change in the cosmos? didn't someone somewhere once say that life and other things cycle every 7 or 8 years? you might say it's the weather - spring fever and all - but i think it's something more...internal, if that makes sense. What is happening in our universe, Bartender? How long will this state of flux last?

                            Sincerely,

                            Waiting for the Flux Capacitor to Stabilize

            Dear ‘Waiting For The Flux Capacitor to Stabilize”,

           

Marty McFly would be worried too.

            I totally agree something is drastically wrong in the universe. But I generally feel that way when I don’t have sex and am hungover. And I read way too much Freud and Nietzche.

For fun. So it’s probably just me.

What you’re saying is true. I’ve been seeing it all over the place. Couples fighting on the streets, divorces from long term married folk, break ups galore. I even have an old friend, him and his girl a goddamn institution like Catholicism, are now trying to ‘work things out’, which in relationship speak means they are going to break up in 3 weeks.

Two major factors are working against relationships in the cosmos as we speak, and you were partially right about one of them.

1.

SPRING TIME IS STUPID

Yep.

Right when the squirrels in the park start trying to fuck each other I know something is going on. I mean, walk outside. After a grey and long Winter, now these blooming flowers on the trees are everywhere! You know what those flowers on the trees are?

Flowers are reproductive organs.      

So every time you’re out there walking around on a fine Spring day ogling the new found flowers on the trees, you basic looking at Nature’s version of dick/pussy you fucking perv. When they say ‘sex is in the air’, literally, it’s in the air, like on the trees above you when you walk around.

Now with all of this pornography floating about, you look over at your stale mate (no pun intended) and realize: “What the hell am I doing with this person?” All the fights. All the arguments. You’ve tried every version of sex under the sun. You met their parents. You know everything there is about them. They can no longer surprise you.

Combine that with all the other people feeling the same way, all giving a seductive side glance your way, how in the hell can us humans (and we are animals, let us not forget) resist? We can’t be blamed.

Just like Lysander wants to tear the flesh off the pretty birds, we simply were not built for monogamy. And when finally you realize (and everyone does in the end) that staying together because of arbitrary reasons like ‘not wanting to die alone’ simply does not give dominance over thousands of years of preternatural genetics.

And give me the ‘we’re higher than animals’ speech and I’ll tell you to go film yourself fucking next time and you tell me exactly what you see.

2.

2012 WILL KILL US ALL

            It is the end of the world. I assure you. Just like Y2K. You were there in the 90’s. You know what I’m talking about.

            The President was lying to you about a blowjob. There were some secret wars going on ‘over there’. The end of a Millennium was upon us. People knew it had to do something with this thing called the Inter-web. The Christians were clambering (as they always do). Radiohead got really, really weird. You’re sitting around finding hidden meanings in Tool lyrics. The Ouija Board told you the end was nigh. Kurt was dead. David Bowie actually started to suck. Emo got invented. The 90’s, all full of doom and gloom, proved it was all over.

Who wants to stay together when you know the world is coming to an end? Another prophecy of the Mayan calendar is to get rid of your failing relationship. It could be the end of all existence! Do you really want to spend it sitting next to your partner watching Netflix together in silence? Let’s say there is a God: Now the planets explode and collide or whatever supposed to happen this fair December and you’re at the pearly gates and God looks down at you and says: “Really? Season Three of Ancient Aliens? This is how you spent your last days?”

Shameful.

So people are cosmically freaking out. Because just like Y2K, it will destroy the world as we know it. And frankly, we’d rather be lost in some Roman Orgy somewhere than having to sit in a cubicle on another drab Wednesday morning only to look forward to predictable mutual head and 7 minute sex when you get home.

It’s not like the first time, or the first year for that matter.

And it never will be again.

But don’t let it get you down, I’m sure it will all be over in December. Time to visit your local sex shop, get freaky, and buy that bunny outfit you’ve been thinking about!

Till next time!

REALLY PEOPLE? WHAT DOES THIS REMIND YOU OF?

YES, MY CAT LYSANDER WANTS TO TEAR THESE BIRDS TO SHREDS!

THE MAYANS KNEW YOUR RELATIONSHIPS SUCKS!