Oh you’re a bartender? Neat.

Okay Peeps, before anyone gets all up in arms with me for making you sign up for this blog oh those many years ago and then abruptly stop writing when shit got real around here let me just say this…suck it bitches, writing is hard sometimes, if you can do better I promise to sign up for your shit 😉

That being said, as we all know, a few years ago, rather than die of over consumption or go to prison for stabbing a mutherfucker, I had to leave my beloved Bossman and move on to different digs a bit closer to home. The good news about hanging your bottle opener in a different spot is that although there are probably still a few ass clowns, you don’t know them on an absolutely personal level.

By this I mean,
~ you haven’t seen them puke all over themselves
~ you haven’t been bled on when they started a fight
~ you haven’t held them while they cried over a broken heart
~ you haven’t yet noticed what an absolute small minded homophobic racist they are on the daily

It makes it a lot easier to be nice to people from the get if you don’t know what the truth serum of alcohol is going to bring out of the shadows.Usually by the time the ugliness rears it’s pretty head you already kind of have a soft spot for your people and are a little more forgiving of indiscretions. For example, I have a couple of favorite cute boys who come to visit most Friday nights. Last night was no exception. Now originally when they would call every Friday and ask who was working or how many people were there I was like, listen dumbass just get over here and see for yourself. I don’t know why they would call because no matter what I said they would always show up no matter what I told them regarding the crowd, but it was just something that they did. Oddly enough I now look forward to this call and smile to myself every time it comes.

So, my point is that my new digs have a lot less dumbassery happening on the daily. However, where alcohol is involved there is a propensity for said behavior. Last night there were some opportunities for such shenanigans. One of my bar patrons has been known to act like a complete tool when he has had one too many Coors Lights. Keep in mind he is a grown ass man. And by grown I mean, older than me. He has been known to start fights and let his mouth run like a scalded dog. Last night however, he was sweet as pie and his normally somewhat crabby wife was smiling to beat the band all night long.

We also had a visit from one of the regulars who is absolutely known to start a fight or two and yet he too was on his best behavior, it was a Christmas miracle y’all, it truly was. So, I am feeling great, working with one of my favorites, all the best and cutest good tipping boys are there, even the difficult ones are behaving like nobodies business what could possibly go wrong right? Well, if you have ever worked in a bar you know better than to ask that question. So this was the result of that business.

Dear Giant Boob Sparkly Tank Girl,

You have giant boobs, good for you, everyone likes boobs and I’m no different. However, there is no reason to buy your tops two sizes too small, your boobs will still look huge, trust me, and when it’s 21 degrees outside, throw on a jacket. You’re trying too hard and you don’t need to…you really don’t. Secondly and most important if you must order something that is so stupid (a fucking awesome or the like) and unnecessarily complicated, the last thing that should come out of your mouth is “I’m a bartender too…I used to work here.”

First of all, no bartender worth their salt is going to order that shit. It has 6 liquors and 3 juices in one shot and you only want one. Secondly, I’ve been doing this for thirty fucking years, if I tell you I can remember the ingredients, you continuing to write them down just makes you an idiot. Third and one of the most important items, don’t say “I know there are a lot of things so just a two to three second pour on each and a little more cranberry than the other juices.” Really bitch? Two to three second pours on the 9 items you fucking need in your one little shot. Listen you vacant little idiot, do not presume to tell me shit about bartending. EVER.

You would think that would have ended our little interaction as I informed my partner that if I had to deal with this GBST again I might lose my shit. Now my partner is a girl I have known since before she even turned 21. I loved her then, I love her still. There is a zen about her that I would like to harness like the power of the sun. Thankfully LemonZen was all about me not throat punching anyone and started helping GBST so I didn’t have to choke down my violence like one of those giant vitamins that no one likes. Crisis averted and the end of the night arrives. I give GBST her tab and she pays but after she leaves I realize I cannot locate her charge slip. I finally find it folded into a small square with this ever so sweet note.

“Bartender to bartender sorry about this but you know how it goes.”

This was where she added the $3 tip on her $52 tab totaling it out at $55. Really bitch? Really? So this conversation between me and LemonZen follows:

LZ: “Was she joking about this? Were you mean to her?”
dbd: “No, oddly enough for what a pain in the ass she was I was ridiculously nice to her. She said she used to work here trying to bond with me and I didn’t even laugh in her face or anything.”
LZ: O”hhhhhhhhh, I knew I recognized her, she’s the one that only made it two days.”
dbd: “Wow, that’s quite an accomplishment.”
LZ: “Yeah, I think she got caught screwing one of the customers in the parking lot.”
dbd: “Oh, is that a firing offense?”
LZ: “Well, it wasn’t in a car or anything…just right out there in the lot gettin her freak on, second day of work.”
dbd: “Wow, that’s bold. The story almost makes up for that shit tip. Almost.”

So that’s all I’ve got for today peeps. Lesson to be taken from this is don’t be that girl. No bartender cares if you’re a bartender, your actions will single you out as being one of the tribe trust me. Ordering stupid shit is not going to identify you as anything more than the pain in the ass that you truly are. Be better, drink better because in the end, giant boobs are much more fantastic when they aren’t attached to a dumbass.

With love and liquor,
divebardiva

Is It A Full Moon?

Well hello my fine drinkers and doers,

While I know it’s been a while, please save your venomous “What the fuck have you been doing?” for another day and let’s just get right on with the goodness shall we? I feel the need to state for you grammar and punctuation nazi’s out there that my beloved editor Vodka Toxic) is on a much deserved vacation in Spain and the surrounding areas, so this post shall be sans edit and probably rife with run on sentences, as that is the way the hamster rolls. Try not to be too hard on a bitch.

So, since it’s been a while and I may be a tad rusty we are going to use one of our tried and true methods…Dear So and So. Names, as always, will either be substituted with kick ass nicknames or HI-larious shame names that I assure you are much deserved. So, without further ado, here goes nothin.

Dear Wheezy Geezer,

In an already exhausting day, you sir, take the exhausting cake. As you stroll up to the bar on a massively busy Sunday you start calling foul and treachery without preamble.

Wheezy: “The guy that gave me this made sure to tell me not to get ripped off by you people, fifty three dollars is what is on this slip right here and I didn’t get it.”

dbd: Sir, I’m going to need you to start over. What is it that you are trying to do here? What would you like me to do for you?

I know what you’re thinking, that sounds awfully accommodating coming from the divebardiva but I assure you, that is exactly what transpired. I have mellowed in my years away from my crazy workplace for one, and secondly, this guy was an easy hundred and five and although I know CPR, I didn’t want to administer it.

Wheezy: I have this card here for $53 and I only got $50!!!

dbd: Sir, this is all automated. I couldn’t change the amount on your gift card if I wanted to. It was rung in for $50 when it was purchased.

Wheezy: (turning an alarming shade of red) The hell it was, I have the credit card slip right here. You people are trying to rip me off!!!

Now I should mention at this point, a few things that piss me off. One, being called a liar, two, being called a thief, and last but certainly not least, the term “you people”. The old me would have shamed this cranky old bastard in front of god and everybody, or just simply told him if he was going to act like a fucking six year old he could go sit in the corner until he remembered his manners. However, the new me just screamed that to myself in my head and explained things like this.

dbd: Sir, that $3 could have been another purchase made with the credit card. A beer at happy hour or whathaveyou. When people buy gift cards it is uncommon for them to not be in certain denominations, $10, $25, $50 and so forth and again, the cards are electronic, I have no way to change the amount even if I wanted to.

Wheezy: FINE! Tell the girl she can keep the change.

Wow, she can? Really? After she waited on your crabby ass and then dealt with your bad behavior before finally sending you to me, you think she should keep the $1.46 on your $53.54 tab? Well, let me just say that “you people” have been an absolute joy and make sure to come back real soon with your healthy disdain for “us people” who are busy trying to support our families and pay bills.

PS Please get that wheezing checked, I almost forced my inhaler on you.

Dear Clearly Insane Woman,

Sadly, same day as Wheezy, just adding further insult to injury but this chick was upping the game from crabby to crabby with more than a subtle hint of batshit crazy.

CIW: It says no where on this menu what the price of a burger is.

dbd: The prices should be right next to each item.

CIW: Well they are not.

Let me preface by saying since the moment I arrived on this busy Sunday, shit had been hitting the fan. The tap beers were hooked up to the wrong kegs, I kept running out of things, there were a massive amount of people at the bar, and too many people behind it at any given time. While one of these things is manageable all of them combined are a bit problematic for my mental well being and this crazy bitch was just adding to the mix.

dbd: (taking the menu) See here the prices are right here.

CIW: Not for a hamburger.

Her husband, clearly more exhausted by her than even I was piped up and asked for a tap beer. Of course, one of the broken taps. I offered him a substitute tap or his selection in the bottle. Clearly this guy couldn’t give two shits about the no price hamburger and knew that beer would be the answer to any problem that may come up. I gave him his Golden Light bottle and he ordered his food with no questions or query. I did the math on cheeseburger price minus cost of cheese and put in the order happy that I was now done conversing with Crazy. Much to my dismay however, I was not, in fact done.

CIW: He should really get a better price on that beer, you didn’t have what he wanted in the first place and that wasn’t his fault, that’s YOUR fault.

Her husband, again, clearly exhausted with her shenanigans, refused the discount saying it was no big deal and reminding her that it’s very busy in here and sometimes people run out of things. Again, stating something that reminds me in her case, common sense is in fact, not that common.

dbd: (to the husband) I have no problem giving you the tap price, thank you so much for understanding.

And I thought that was the end of it. But no. Of course it wasn’t. She had not been waiting more than 20 minutes for her food (with a packed bar and patio mind you) when she called me over again.

CIW: Excuse me, excuse me, is our food ready, we have been here a long time.

In my head, no lady, you have not, in fact, been here a long time, you haven’t even been here a freaking half hour. Maybe if you had a beer instead of the 17 glasses of water you’ve been ordering, it may kill whatever crawled up your ass and died recently. Or perhaps, have a decent conversation with your seemingly nice and normal husband sitting next to you instead of looking around for things to complain about.

dbd: (making 6 service drinks directly in front of her) I think that bell was your food. It should be up shortly.

CIW: Do you want me to go get it?

dbd: No, I do not. It will be out in one moment.

At this point, even though I saw someone bringing it out, I walked to the other end of the bar…as punching her in the fucking throat is frowned upon.

So that’s it folks. I am loving my new digs and I can’t promise a whole lot of posts because honestly, I am rarely upset or as in the old days, set upon by true insanity, but I do have a few oldie but goodie stories and some travel adventures to dish about over the summer months.

With love and liquor,

divebardiva

 

Dear PIMA …

Okay my fine feathered friends … here’s what is going on today in this hellish frozen wasteland I call home. First of all, let me say that the last joint where I used to hang my proverbial bottle opener was, at the very least, more subdued than my usual gigs. There was nary a moment where I felt the primal urge to stab a fella. And on the off chance that there was, it wasn’t that big of an urge.

That being said, no matter how far and wide one travels — no matter what kind of establishment one may find themselves working — there’s always one pain in my ass (PIMA) who needs to be reckoned with. The following is a small rant in regards to the aforementioned PIMA.

Dear PIMA:

Why in the fuck must you be such a pain in my ass? I realize that I no longer work at a place where I have the freedom to call you out on your stupidity. And for that I am truly sorry. I understand also that sometimes people want what they want, and it really shouldn’t be a big deal to give it to them. I have my libation quirks. I love a dirty vodka martini with exactly 3 olives, and I also sometimes prefer to drink my red wine out of a rocks glass.

I would not, however, ask for any of this specific shit if it was overly busy or if it didn’t seem an appropriate time for such shenanigans. But I guess that’s just me.

Now believe me when I say to you that I understand not everyone is as aware of the bartender/waitperson strife as I. However, there is a little something called common fucking sense. And you, “lady,” are clearly lacking in that department. Why must you order cold Patron to be chilled even further with exactly one cherry (god forbid you get 2 or 3)?

Okay, so lets talk for a minute about Patron. For a bar tequila, it’s fine. It truly is. Especially if you’re not an experienced tequila drinker. Chill that shit up, chase it with some pineapple juice, and you can’t taste a thing. Unfortunately folks, that is not what drinking tequila is all about.

Now don’t misunderstand me. I’m a beer and tequila girl from way back. I take mine warm with no wheels. If I’m drinking to catch a buzz then I’m drinking plain Cuervo at maybe $3 or $4 a shot. I drink subpar tequila warm with no salt or fruit because that shit should go down like a bucket of fishhooks. If tequila is too easy to drink, and you’re looking to catch a buzz, that shit can quickly turn ugly.

The ugliness is only compounded by the fact that you just paid an exorbitant amount of money. Let’s just say you and a pal are out for a night on the town. You down 5 shots of Patron each throughout the night with a conservative 3 beers. For the two of you that tab is close to a $100. And you are in a dive bar, my friend, not some fancy digs in the city. Me and my friend had the same amount of drinks for around $50.

Factor in that the tequila went down so smoothly that your friend had a couple extra shots and spent the ride home puking out the window. Me and my friend, however, did not have the extras because of the previously mentioned fish hook situation.

I should be clear that there are some amazing tequilas out there, expensive and for sipping. If you’re going to shoot that shit, please take the carefully brand conscious stick out of your ass and wise up.

Do us tequila smarties a favor and order a Jag bomb or some other such nonsense and leave tequila to the professionals. Until next time my sweets! With love and liquor, divebardiva

The Customer Bartender Paradigm

Okay peeps … this is what the hamster in the wheel is coming up with today. Listen, as most of you know, I am not bartending as much as I used to. Mostly due to school but also because after 25+ years I am more than a little exhausted, and my patience for idiots and general bar drama is waning like the October moon.

However, I find that although I don’t work in that craziness anymore, I still don’t have a huge tolerance for it at my local watering hole. I go to see the bartenders I love — at bars that I tolerate — to get back to my roots and get a little witty bartender banter. And usually a ration of shit from the regulars that hold a place in my heart.

Good or bad the person that I am is directly related to time spent watching people and learning what makes them tick. That’s probably because I spent a lot of time in my formative years in a bar.

After school, we waited for Pops to finish work in a tiny booth at the back of the bar. We were allowed to play the jukebox, shoot pool and have a Tombstone pizza while we waited. One thing that was emphasized was manners. Kids don’t run in the bar. Kids don’t yell in the bar. Kids don’t sit AT the bar. If we were shooting pool and someone who belonged in the bar (aka grown ups) wanted to play, we dropped our cues and went back to our booth. It’s called manners and they were non negotiable.

So, that being said, many of us grownups can sometimes be heard saying, “Kids these days have no manners.” What I’ve noticed recently is that it’s not just kids. Some grown-assed people are sorely lacking in the manners department. Here are a couple of things that piss me off.

1. Although it pisses me off when people order their drinks in reverse order (e.g., diet&captain), what really ticks me off is when a couple comes in and the dude is always in such a fucking hurry to get his drink ordered first. First of all, rudeness, I’m going to serve her first regardless of your readiness to shove her out of the way to get your order in because I have fucking manners. And PS: When you’re not getting laid later, think about what I said.
2. I sit at the bar for a reason. Many reasons, actually. I like to talk with random people. I like my drinks directly from the bartender. And it’s just a nicer, more social environment. I also understand that other people do not share my affinity for bar seating. That being said, if you sit at a table, keep your ass at your fucking table. Do not pick all your dirty shit and bring it up to the bar. You have a server, they will be over in two shakes of a lamb’s tail to pick up your crap. And seriously, enough with the dirty plates. I love a T-bone. Love the look of one, love the smell of one. However, the desiccated bone that you’ve been gnawing on for the last twenty minutes makes me want to vomit. I didn’t order food. And if I did, I would no sooner drop my dirty fucking plates on your table as I would help myself to bite of your baked potato and a sip of your cosmopolitan. You are a table full of 50-year-old women. And you should know better.
3. I quite often run into people who I knew in high school because I now reside very close to the town I grew up in. The other night (actually the same night as I dirty dish fiasco), I was sitting around after bingo, and this dude sidles up and asks if he can sit by me. Now, being as I was the only one sitting in that area of the bar, it seemed an odd question. That and the fact that he chose to sit two stools down after asking if he could sit by me seemed odd. Well, as odd often does, it quickly escalated to flat out fucking weird. As we are talking, we realize that we were actually in the same class. I remember him, but as being quite a bit taller. What could have been a pleasant conversation talking bout the good ole days, quickly became a “someone … anyone … please grab a fork and stab me in the neck to put me out of my misery” situation.

Lonely Loser: “Well, I understand why you didn’t know me. Back in high school you and all your friends were way too good for me.”

First of all I’m calling an audible bullshit on this one. I was friends with everyone in high school and so were most of my friends. I have never hung around with assholes.

Lonely Loser: “I have three grown children. I was in the Army for a while, but my life really hasn’t amounted to much.”

Okay seriously? Three grown and healthy children and your life hasn’t amounted to much? Not cool dude…not cool. And the Army is nothing to dismiss either. You signed up and did your part whatever it may have been. You should be proud of that shit!

Lonely Loser: “I can’t believe you even let me sit by you. You’re pretty and shouldn’t even want to talk to a guy like me.”

Dude. Stop that shit right now. I’m sitting next to you. We are having a conversation. Stop acting like you aren’t good enough. Honestly, if you spent more time having an actual conversation instead of putting yourself down and making me sound like an elitist asshole in the process, maybe you’d have better luck with the ladies. Oh, and as a side note: When you are the same size as me, six 22oz beers may be a bit more than you can handle. Jus Sayin.

Thank the good lord for one of my favorite bartenders. Turbo Chandelier witnessed the spectacle and asked the owner to let her drive me home. She yelled across the bar, “Hey, did you say you needed a ride?” Knowing that I did not, in fact, say any such thing, I just smiled at her and grabbed my purse. Thank god for bartenders with great hearing who have no problem seeing when the crazy may be hitting the fan. And is willing to help a gal out.

Well that’s it for today folks. Here’s hoping your day is going to be as fucking fantastic as mine. 🙂

With love and liquor,
divebardiva

Happy Hour and Other Complicated Math Problems

Okay peeps, I know it’s been a while but lets not dwell on the past and my apparent slack behavior. This blog is a helluva lot of work, and we needed a break. But we’re back! It’s on, bitches!

We’re here to discuss  some important issues because, once again, I am befuddled by the actions of the constantly clueless. Now, I fully understand that there are many who did not grow up in the type of bar atmosphere that I did. Sadly I feel that this may be due tocoddling your kids to the point they are entitled, whiny, lazy assholes. But I digress.

However, in this enlightened (yet often frightening) age of movies, television and rampant social media outlets there is just no way that you have not at least seen the movie Waiting — or, at the minimum, a list of shit on Facebook called “How To Piss Off Your Bartender.”

What’s that you say? You don’t give a frogs-water-tight-ass about your service professional? Well, guess what dumbass? These hard working professionals are handling the food that you eat and (in the bartenders case especially) are completely in charge of how much alcohol goes into your cocktails. Now you’re paying attention, aren’t you?

Much like a sneaky underhanded lawyer who pads their clients’ hours, bartenders have been known to pad tabs just like any other sneaky bastard in any other line of work. Now I wouldn’t pad a tab for the biggest asshole on the planet. But back in the day, I had a customer who always complained about a new glass — there was no reusing the last glass no matter how busy or what was happening. This guy always had to feel important by insisting you do something stupid and time consuming.

Any bartender worth their salt always wants the same drink glass. Less soap, less sanitizer and less of a chance to have the runs all day at work tomorrow. You can ignore my sage advice if you’d like. But if you were an asshole at the bar, and aren’t feeling up to par the next day, remember what I said.

Now again, even for the biggest asshole in the world (as a reference please see blog entry entitled Douchebaggery and Dumbassery), I wouldn’t add something to your tab that didn’t belong. Not because you don’t deserve it (because clearly you do), but because I take pride in my job. Just because you have chosen to live your life like a tool, I’m way above that.

Something I am not above, however, is making sure you get exactly what’s coming to you. You will not be getting one drop more than that absolute minimum amount of alcohol in your drink. And you will be paying for every one of those fuckers. Ignorance and bad behavior are perfectly valid reasons for slowing down your party caravan. And by slow, I am talking a cart with an oval shaped wooden wheel and an ox (singular) to pull that fucker. That party train, my clueless fellow, is gonna move slower than a bad James Cameron movie.

Okay, so now that we have gotten that little tidbit out of the way, on to the meat and bones of today’s lesson. As many of you know I have an old roommate we call “Irish.” When we’re together, I can be heard on more than one occasion stating the following, “You are the cutest boy EVER!” Now before you get all touchy feely about it, let me say that when I say this to “Irish” it could mean any one of three things.

1. Jesus you’re drunk.

2. How is it that you were not born a blonde.

3. You truly are the cutest boy EVER.

Truth be told, one and two happen quite often. Three occurs less frequently but it’s still a viable option.

So back to my cutest boy ever. The other day, I got a text from a clearly intoxicated Irish asking a question about bar math. He works in a different facet of the hospitality industry. And, since we haven’t lived together for 20+ years, sometimes he needs bar math help from a professional.

Here is the exact exchange including typos. Keep in mind that where he lives, it is commonplace for a bartender to buy their better customers a drink or two. This exchange involves the free drinks he received — not the ones he paid for. Otherwise, he would pay the cost for the drink plus tip.

Irish: Refresh my bar math. If  I’m charged 5$ for 3 5$ drinks. I pay what $ total.

Me: $15.

Irish: Okay, that’s what I tpought.

So, the fact that he worries enough to ask truly does make him the cutest boy EVER. However, his total should have been $15 on which he should, for all intents and purposes (please make a note of this phrase if you’ve been saying it wrong), tip $3. That’s $18. Giving her $15 makes you a rockstar — because the drinks were on the house — and still gets you out $3 on the cheap for what you should have actually paid.

This seems fairly straightforward. And to most in the bar business, or just regular rock star drinkers (who no matter how busy it is always get served first), it is just good business and drinking practice.  There are certain times where the math can be a bit complicated for the layman. The bar where I currently hang my bar towel, for example, has great food specials (2 for 1 $10 burgers) and a drink happy hour as well.

Now pay attention here, people:  I don’t own the fucking bar. I’m sorry, you didn’t hear me? I DO NOT OWN THE FUCKING BAR. Do not complain to me about being charged a quarter for extra dressing (that shit isn’t free ya know). And for fucks sake, instead of making sure you weren’t over charged, take a cold, hard look at what ya got for free.

Let’s just break it down rudimentary style, shall we? Here’s a  tab for you and a friend after an afternoon of 2 for 1’s and buy one burger, get the other free.

Bud Light $3.50 x 4=$14

Bacon Cheeseburger: $8.99

With tax you are looking at about $26…acceptable tip $5. However, you didn’t have 4 beers and one burger, did you? Ohhhhhhh no. You slurped down 8 beers and chowed on 2 burgers. The tab should have been $52 which makes your $5 tip a bit on the cheap side.

Just because you luck into a bargain doesn’t mean your bartender should get the shaft. I mean seriously, people, in Atlanta a tipped employees make $3.15 an hour. In New York,  the tax is so high that your shift pay is usually less than tax — so no paycheck for you. And in Minnesota, we make minimum wage. And the tips are considerably less than normal unless you work in the cities.

I am, by no means, complaining here. I’ve traveled around the world and across the nation on bar tips. (Thank you and hugs to all those who have contributed!) But I’ve also worked my ass of for every last dollar. I’ve smiled when I wanted to stab, had my ass grabbed so often I should have permanent marks, eaten most of my meals cold and over a garbage can, stood on my feet for longer in my lifetime than I have done anything else and listened to more problems than any human being should ever hear.

Being a server of any kind is tough. It’s a calling. Sometimes you have ones that make a clear and distinct impression on you. Those are the ones you hate to lose. If you know one of these servers, I implore you, do right by them. Make their night once and a while. They deserve it. And trust me when I say that when your beloved bartender leaves your favorite watering hole, you’ll feel it. Deep in the gut like oncoming diarrhea.  I know I’ve mourned the loss of more than one. But that, my friends, is a story for next week.

With love and liquor,

divebardiva

Vertically Challenged and Mentally Vacant

Okay, my fantastic people: This is what is spinning in the wheel this fine, albeit fucking freezing afternoon.

People who try to shock someone like me with the word cunt are always sadly disappointed.

This is the situation … I do not give two shits about being called a cunt. In fact, I’d use the word myself much more often if people weren’t so horrified when they hear it. One of the reasons I love England as much as I do is that they fling that fucker around without impunity.

It’s just a word, people. And everyone just needs to get the hell over it. We’re big boys and girls. We don’t need to pull a Charlotte in Sex in the City and describe someone as a  “C U Next Tuesday.” I think we can call it like it is.

Now most of the girls I know have a shit ton of commonsense, and they don’t freak out over a little four-letter word. Of course, most of these girls are in the biz so they’ve seen and heard it all. Their skin is a lot thicker than the average chica. In fact, my girls will even occasionally use the term themselves to describe someone displaying cunt-like behavior. However, this term is used sparingly and only in the most appropriate of occasions.

Then there are those douchebags who throw the term around the same way teenagers pepper their conversations with “like.” It’s their feeble and unintelligent way to try to prove their masculinity in a pitiful attempt to demean women. It’s pathetic and — in my case — it’s just not effective.

Here’s a great example for you fine folks. I call it, “The Unfortunate Munchkin Who Needed Courage, a Heart AND a Brain.”

Mr. Munchkin: I need you to get the Boss right now.

dbd: Yeah, this is when Bossman sleeps. And there is no way in hell I am going upstairs to wake him up.

Mr. Munchkin: Listen, I have issues, and I want you to wake him up right fucking now.

dbd: Oh, I can tell you have issues. Now why don’t you just tell me what your problem is. I’ll try to take care of it.

Mr. Munchkin: I’m not telling you my fucking problem.  So go wake up Bossman, or I will get the sheriff down here and close this fucking bar down.

So as you can see, I am between a rock and a hard place here … or as I like to call it, “between an assmonkey and his possibly valid threat.” But all of a sudden, it dawned on me. If I wake up Bossman for this assclown, he will most likely stab the idiot or — at the very least — boot his ass out. In a last-ditch effort to avoid bloodshed, I thought I’d give Napoleon one last chance.

dbd: You know what, buddy? I will go get Bossman. I will bring up your petty grievance, and the fact that although I am in charge, you couldn’t tell me what your fucking problem is. I will wake him out of a dead sleep so he can come down from his home and deal with your idiotic issue. And when I do, my friend, you deal with the fucking consequences.

Mr. Lollipop Guild suddently got a sick look on his face. I left him at the bar and headed up to wake the boss. But when I came back down, the Lilliputian had vanished. My waitresses told me he left, screaming the whole way out that I was a cunt. I called up to Bossman and told him it was a false alarm. He immediately went back into hibernation mode.

The moral? If you don’t have the mental acuity to realize what you’re getting yourself into, have your mini brain tell your mini self to shut the fuck up. Second moral and the purpose for this tale is … if you don’t have the balls to call me a cunt to my face then you, little man, are the cunt in question.

And finally, if you really want to impress me, try to come up with something a little more creative and original. Something like cum-burping-gutter-slut. I heard a friend use that once, and it made me laugh.

I’ll be back slinging drinks at the bar in a couple days.  So if any of you are so inclined to visit, I will C U Next Tuesday.

With love and liquor,

the divebardiva

General Rambling … Just Cause I’m Pissed

Okay people, my good friend El Ninyo scolded me like a child the last time she was in the bar and was able to pull me out of my Bar Trash funk. You see, I have had a lot of people recently who have seriously shaken my faith in humanity. Now don’t get me wrong: It was not a huge amount of faith to begin with. So the fact that people could actually eradicate it is really saying something.

However, El Ninyo was having none of it. Her reasoning … Bar Trash made her laugh and that I should get the hell over it and start writin! (I’m pretty sure “bitch” followed but not positive so I shall leave it out.)

As it has been so long since I have written anything of substance I figured the best course of action was a random “Dear Table of 18” rant. So my fine peeps, you may want to hang on to something, I have a feeling it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. 🙂

Dear Table of 18,

When you came in, I realized that I would rather kill myself than wait on you. Luckily for me, I was managing that night. I asked one of my girls if she was ready for the shenanigans that was headed her way, and she happily agreed to wait on your dumb asses.

The following is a list of your mistakes:

1. You come in on a Friday during happy hour with a table of 18 wanting to sit on the patio but not bothering to call first.

2. When your food comes out lickety split, you immediately voice that your food is cold and you will be requiring a discount.

3. I inform you that I can either remake your food or take it away and remove it from your tab but there will be no discount.

4. You then tell me that you have waited two hours for your food, and you are hungry.

5. I inform you that you arrived a half hour after my shift started and that I have only been here for an hour and thirty minutes.

6. Then the bitch factor jumps up a few notches. Unbeknownst to you, however, I am rarely rivaled in ALL things bitch!

7. The end of this tale is lovely, insomuch as although I comped two meals, you people are never allowed to return.

8. You, pretty little idiot girl, wanted a discount but ate your food anyway. And when I was so sick of the sound of your voice, I  offered you a comp but insisted you never return or take your leftovers. And what did you do? You fucking cried! Seriously bitch, are you crying about what an unbelievable asshole you are? This is your move? Stupidity runs rampant because if your food was cold and horrible enough to discount then why on earth would you take the leftovers dumbass?

9. And you, unattractive and pissed off. You can yell all you want. But the simple fact is I am right and you are wrong. You are an idiot and a pain in the ass. You go places to try and get free shit and are a scourge on employees and bar owners alike. Oh and P.S. If you are going to call me a bitch and throw a pen at my face, don’t discount my cat-like reflexes and keep in mind that I have been known to stab a bitch.

10. After your fantastic departure, I was congratulated by other tables and apologized to by people in your own party. Apparently your family is also painfully aware of your asshole status.

So that’s it for today, peeps. I am back on the horse and the stories are flowing out of me like beer through a funnel. Stay tuned for Port Paradise and New Orleans shenanigans!

With love and liquor,

divebardiva

Douchebaggery & Dumbassery: A Lethal Combination

Happy Friday, bitches! Today I am going to regale you with a story of a douche so heinous that you will have to ask yourself, “Why is he still breathing?”

Well, let me tell you, by the time shit really started to hit the proverbial fan everyone was hammered. So they weren’t paying too much attention, or they had tuned the little fella out entirely.

Not having the benefit of numerous beers and several shots — and having to drive home eventually — getting wasted and simply ignoring the guy wasn’t an option for me. And I’ve learned it’s best to avoid striking a customer if at all possible (especially if he looks like a bleeder and might be bitch enough to call the PO-lice).

Also, bein a bitch myself with a lot of pent-up rage, I get worried that once that bell is rung…shit could get ugly.

Let me say first and foremost that I know what my job entails. I’ve had more hands on my ass in my 25 years of bartending than any person should have to endure. I’ve had people say vulgar and horrible things to me. I’ve been threatened, slapped, kicked, punched and had shot glasses chucked at my head.

Most of the time I take things with a grain of salt. I understand that a certain amount of dumbassery and douchebaggery accompany serving copious amounts of alcohol to people who already have a little “asshole” in ’em.

However, there are also days when I am pushed to my limit, and I let an assclown get to me. The following was just such a night:

Dear Sunday Night Douche,

I don’t know if daddy didn’t hug you enough? Mommy hugged you too much? Maybe your parents never smacked the crap out of you when you were rude and disrespectful to others.

Perhaps you are a latent homosexual and can’t come to grips with it so you lash out at those around you. (Come to think of it … I have seen you dancing shirtless with your arms over your head more than once.) Maybe it’s simply that you are just dumber than a bag of hammers.

I have neither the time or the inclination to Dr. Phil your ass so I have made a concise list of things NOT to do the next time you are in a bar. Especially mine.

1. I know you feel the best way to make friends is to buy them. It’s not. 

2. We all have asshole moments when we drink. That thing you probably shouldn’t have said or done. When your entire weekend is nothing but those moments…you may wanna work on that a little.

3. When sitting with a group, give others a chance to talk. Don’t talk over everyone and never listen. It’s annoying. And although occasionally amusing in your stupidity, you’re not half as interesting as you think you are.

4. Do NOT say to waitresses and bartenders, “I don’t care if I have a tab with a certain person. I wanna order from whoever I want. Can’t I just tip all you bitches, and you can shut the fuck up?” No ass monkey…you may not.

5. Stop telling everyone how many “chicks” you “bag” and how big your dick is. No one believes you. 

6. Every time someone takes out a trash bag don’t say, “Hey that’s my condom.” It was slightly humorous the first time you said it. But the six subsequent times … not so much.

7. Stop telling everyone how good-looking you are and then asking them to agree with you.

8. Stop treating everyone (especially the staff) like they only exist to placate you and your shitty behavior.

9. Yes, you have a nice car. But it’s not a fucking Ferrari so shut up already.

10. Stop touching people who have asked you several times not to.

And because all of the very best things go to 11…

11. The best way for me NEVER to wait on you again is to buy shots and beers for people for 10 hours. And then pick up the “lesbian tab” because they walked on it all the while telling me over and over it’s no big deal cause you’re soooooo rich. And then what do you do?

YOU STIFF ME ON $425.00 stating that I am a thieving whore and I added stuff to your tab.

Guess what, dumbass? Not only did I not pad your tab, but I bought you a few and tolerated your disgusting ass for 10+ hours. I also high-fived you when you insisted I do so — when I really wanted to shove my fist down your throat because you were so vulgar I wanted to stab my own ears with an ice pick just to tune you out.

And last but not least: Being too much of a coward to say it to my face and waiting until I had my back turned before insulting me.

So that’s it people. My rant for the week. In addition to teleportation, I will also be working on a way to spread the Bar Trash love far and wide. Hit a bitch up if you have any fantastic ideas.

With love and liquor,

divebardiva

Ask Your Bartender…

Okay people, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with a seismic shift in the earths polarization or what but I do know this…life has been pretty shitty for a lot of people I know and love and no bed of roses on this end either.

So for today I had some Q & A items from the lovely Vodka Toxic and I thought I would jot some things down to distract us all from the hand basket from hell this week has been. Even if it’s just for a few minutes. So here we go people, on to the questions.

Q: What is the best drink to order if you want to look like the coolest cat in the place?

A: This question has so many answers. I have been at bars in Texas where a cowboy will stroll in and order a Lone Star or Shiner and he’s so damn cute I have to pick my jaw up off the floor. We had a drink called a West Hollywood in NYC and the two boys that ordered those always looked pretty damn cool to me. Any girl who can drink a shot of Beam and a longneck always has my respect and that holds true with tequila too.

Basically my rule is (most of the time of course) I don’t mind making you what you want but I have no respect for those who have no idea what goes in what they are drinking. You should always know the ingredients of something you are ordering. I have a friend who cannot drink vodka. No way, no how. I myself cannot drink Jager or Jack. The former because I black out and get very mean, (and no I am not referring to Saturday night busy mean) a kind of mean that no one ever wants to see. And the latter was an alcohol poisoning incident at 17. Still can’t even smell the stuff.

Q: The cops seem to be called to your bar a lot. What is the best advice for not being taken to the slammer once the cops arrive?

A: Okay, anyone who knows me also realizes that we would have many homicides a weekend if I did not have the occasional beer and or safety meeting. I have tried the whole sobriety at work thing to no avail. And by tried of course I mean that one time I had a kidney infection and couldn’t drink for 10 days and when I had the flu a little while ago and had to for go shots for a few days. The moral of this little jaunt is that for the most part, if I’m at work, I’m drinking.

This being said, it is a tad problematic if the cops are called and you have to deal with them for any length of time. In all honesty, the less I see of the police in any situation the better. There are three situations in which the police are usually called.

1. If there is a fight and someone is bleeding. As far as I am concerned idiots can pound the crap out of each other in a testosterone and alcohol induced frenzy as long as they don’t get knocked out, bleed like a suck pig or break a bone. And also that all of their shenanigans stay outdoors.

2. Attention whores. I have unfortunately seen this a number of times. A girl comes in with her husband or boyfriend and for whatever reason she isn’t getting enough attention. Her man could be an ass…she could be a pain in one. In the end though the one that comes to mind is a girl asking a random hottie to dance to make her man jealous. A fight ensues. I diffuse the fight. However, attention whore isn’t satisfied with the peaceful resolution, incites another fight and then phones up the police herself.

3. Destruction of property. If you don’t have respect for the bar…the bar doesn’t have any respect for you. Off to jail you go dumbass.

Q: What are the worst mixing combinations? What are the ones patrons order that will always have them praying to the porcelain gods?

A: Ah yes, the dreaded vomitorium. Now for some unknown reason, people like to try and get their friends to throw up on birthdays and other special occasions. I personally wouldn’t be friends with someone if they ordered me a Cement Mixer (Baileys and lime juice) or a 3 Wisemen (Johnny, Jack and Jim Beam). These are all drinks for amateurs. The chances of you throwing up after drinking either of these things is probably quite high. However if you find yourself drinking one…you’re probably an idiot and might deserve it.

Q: I would like to create a cocktail called Iguana Wanda and I would like it to contain pineapple juice and have a kiwi garnish, what else would you put in it?

A: Okay I have decided to send out two new summer cocktails because with life being as it is for so many…we fucking need it. And because things are a dumpster fire raging out of control, the drinks of the day are my disaster drinks…yep you guessed it, VODKA!

The first will be my new morning beverage the Iguana Wanda. This will be similar to a Mimosa or Bellini. So buckle up kids cause here is how that shit goes:

5 ot 6oz of Italian Prosecco (a sparkling wine from Italy available everywhere) I personally love Lunetta Prosecco and it is resonably priced.

2oz pureed kiwi fruit

Splash of pineapple juice

Float Grey Goose Pear Vodka

Garnish with a kiwi slice.

You may be asking yourself “Why the vodka float?” Because baby, everything goes better with vodka.

Drink number two is a new spin on an old favorite. I remember when living in the south that the Mint Julep always sounded so lovely and festive. However, because I can not drink bourbon festive or no, it is not in my best interest. I have recently found a recipe for the famed Mint Julep made with none other than….wait for it…YES VODKA! Here is how that shit is gettin done:

3oz Grey Goose or your favorite vodka

1tbsp Elderflower liqueur (Check at your Lunds and Byerlys type wine and liquor stores)

3oz freshly juiced cucumber

1.5oz freshly squeezed lemon juice

2tsp simple syrup (glorified sugar water…any place will have it or make your own)

2oz ginger beer

Garnish with fresh mint leaves.

Combine everything but ginger beer to a highball filled with ice, top with gb and garnish!

So after this shit storm of a week I think that either or BOTH of the cocktails are in order. And to all my lovely peeps who are hurting out there…just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

All my love and liquor,

divebardiva

The Dive Bar Drama of Thing 1 and Thing 2

Okay peeps, here is what the hell is goin on around here today. After three fun filled days of the flu, and then off to work for the weekend, I thought I’d better get a post out before a house falls on me or some other such shenanigans occur.

Today we have a story about Thing 1 and Thing 2. You would think that in the course of the weekend that one of these things would be the guy who pissed himself AND vomited up what amounted to a large fur ball at the bar. But alas … he didn’t even make the cut.

So to begin my tale I need to introduce a few characters. You may be familiar with them from previous posts. One of the customers I love (and sometimes love to hate) is called Beast. He used to be with Blondie whom I also love. But in the end, it was not to be. And now he is now firmly attached to the fiesty and adorable Honey Badger. I call her this because she is cute as a button — but corner her, and she’ll end your ass.

Sidenote: Blondie, if you are still a loyal follower, I would love to see you and catch up over drinks if you find yourself in any of the neighborhoods where I am known to be found. 🙂

So on to the guts of my tale. I love Beast for a few reasons … one is that he loves good food like I do. For any of you who know me on a personal level, ya know a bitch likes to eat. Second, he tips like a rockstar! And last but not least, although he does have a tendency to “mix it up a little,” he almost always has the good manners to do it outside and not at the bar.

So this weekend something I like to call Cirque de Douche happened to be rolling through town. While I was out making a phone call, Rocket was manning the bar and keeping the mayhem at a minimum. And while I was out, a gentleman called to ask what kind of entertainment we might have for the evening. Rocket informed him that we had a DJ. From there, it went a little like this:

Cirque de Douche (CdD): Hey, what’s goin on up there tonight?

Rocket: We have a DJ.

CdD: What the fuck…no karaoke? It’s my Dad’s 80th, and he wants to sing some damn songs.

Rocket (breathing, breathing): Well, I’m sure you could ask the DJ if he can sing something.

CdD: Well, give me your sober bus number cause I need a ride. Oh, and are you the bartender? Tell me what you look like cause I’m gonna come up there and ask you out.

Rocket then proceeds to tell me the story and runs from behind the bar like her ass was on fire, leaving me a sitting duck. So as I am known to do, I put this dumbass in the back of my mind to concentrate on other things — mainly just not throwing up or passing out behind the bar.

In my flu-induced state previously in the week, I had not been able to keep anything but ginger ale down. Not to mention the fact that my body was probably going into shock insomuch as I had not had any alcohol for three days. No food and no booze means this diva’s ability to concentrate is at an all time low.

However, true to his word, the dumbass appears with his 80-year-old Pop in tow. Now even as I type this, I’m laughing to myself as this pair of gents was quite the site. Pops is wearing a baseball hat with the infamous “mud flap” girls on either side and a very large pot leaf in the center. It may very well have been the coolest hat I have ever seen.

In any case, I’m looking around for whomever it was that we misjudged on the phone … meaning this awesome old dude’s son. With a dad like that, the guy has to be cool. Right? Wrong. Misjudge we did not. Standing behind this fine gentleman was such an enormous douche that he should have his own wing in the Douche Museum.

Sporting a Bluetooth telephone earpiece in a bar is just idiotic. Sporting one in a bar at midnight with the D. playing at the highest decibel possible just makes you look like a poser. And to be quite honest … a fucking ra-tard! Take that shit off your head, you moron. You are not important or interesting, and no one wants to talk to you in person, let alone ring you up on your Bluetooth device of pretentiousness and douchery.

So anyhow, Assclown decides that he’s going to start rubbing up on folks. And by folks, I clearly mean girls. And by girls, I clearly mean Honey Badger. Well, what little sense that the brain-sucking Bluetooth hadn’t taken care of was being highly taxed by Assclown’s level of drunkenness. And he was unaware of how close he was to losing a limb.

I sauntered over wondering what the hub bub was about, and it became instantly clear. Now, knowing as I do how fast Beast can go from zero to lethal (directly indicated by the guy sitting next to him with a broken beak because the previous night he didn’t understand the words “Stop touching my girlfriend” and was head butted into a general state of understanding) I ran right over to try and calm the storm.

divebardiva: Hey!

CdD: Heeyyyyy….

(God this guy is an idiot)

dbd: You need to step away from that girl right now or I will drag your ass out the door!

I then turned to Beast to assure him that I had this covered, and he in return assured me that he was still sitting down so all was well for now.

CdD: Hey pretty lady, why are you so mad at me? I didn’t do anything.

dbd: I’m gonna tell ya again and then you are gone. Step away from that girl, step away from the bar and go hang out somewhere else or I will flat out drag your ass out of this bar for the night … if not forever!

CdD: Okay, okayyyyyyy.

Well, crisis averted and no bloodshed. A win-win in my book. I think I heard tale of some issues on the bus and perhaps one or more people wanting to kick his ass by night’s end … but neither Beast nor I had to do the kickin so I was fine with that.

The next tale is short but sweet and it goes like this…

There once was a girl standing for drinks at the bar. She was fourth in line. After I went to the third person in line she whispered to her friend…

Bitchy Asshole: Maybe she’s waiting on all the ugly people first because she’s jealous of me.

Bitchy Asshole’s Friend: Yeah, we’ve been waiting like 10 minutes.

dbd: Hey girls. What can I get you?

Both Assholes: We want a shot but we don’t know what.

dbd: Okay, I’ll be back with ya when you figure it out.

Bitchy Asshole: I can’t believe she just walked away and went to wait on that fat girl instead of us.

At this particular point, I had had enough. And these bitches deserved a lot more than what they received, I can tell you that.

dbd: Listen, ladies … and I am using that term very loosely. When I looked over at you, I thought to myself, “Let me go see what those two pretty girls want.” And then I heard the bullshit coming out of your mouth. When I looked again, all I saw were two repulsive ignorant assholes. If you think you are better than anyone else because you are lucky enough to be physically attractive, well then you’re even dumber than you appear. I am also at this point exercising my right to refuse to serve you. So if you’d like something, go sit at a table and wait. But know this, if you are in any way disparaging to the waitstaff, you will find yourself exiting stage left and a hell of a lot faster than you came in.

So that is it for today folks! I hope you enjoyed a little peek into the hell that I call a weekend. May all your drinks be cold, all your bar staff be sexy, smart, funny and fast … and may you never run out of cash while you still feel like drinkin.

With lots of love and liquor,

divebardiva