Archive for the ‘Common Sense … Not So Common’ Category

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

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It has come to my attention that I have been a slack ass in entertaining my fine friends and subscribers with what amounts to an alcohol induced bitchfest…and for this grave injustice I most humbly apologize.

So, this is what the fuck is goin on today peeps…

Okay so I am working on Saturday as is the usual in my little corner of the world. For whatever reason, in the last six years every job that I have ever been hired for has always been a Saturday night. I don’t know why but that is how that bar dice have rolled and I am not one to thumb my nose at the mighty dice. Now as I really only work a couple of days a week and have also been bartending longer than any human should be allowed, I have a tendency to do it up on a Saturday.

Now anyone who knows me or has worked with me knows that one of two things can happen on Saturday nights with either happy results or catastrophic. Saturdays are weird in that they can be busy for dinner and then absolutely die from 9-11. Boredom has it’s drawbacks and one of those would be excessive drinking. Around 11 when people start cramming through the door you may find yourself shit hammered and unprepared for the onslaught that is about to descend upon you like locusts at the apocalypse.

Luckily for me I have worked this shift for quite some time and am well familiar with the potential horrors that await me on any particular Saturday at my particular dive. Now as I said before things can go the wrong way. If the bar is busy but the waitresses are not they may have difficulty understanding why you are pissed when they stand around texting waiting for you to grab something they could easily get themselves. On the same token I have seen bartenders chatting, eating and texting while the drink printer is running like it’s trying to spit out a copy of the Wall Street Journal.

Oddly enough, if everyone is getting their ass handed to them, my peeps have a tendency to work together in a combined effort to keep the bastard locusts at bay. Unfortunately those perfect days of great work and stellar money are very few and far between…however when they arrive – like a perfect dirty Stoli martini- they are like a hug from Jesus. But I digress as the main purpose of this tale is to once again examine how there are some people who have so little common sense they should be banned from eating and drinking out until they either take a class on not being an assclown OR subscribe to the blog and pay attention.

So in the hopes that people who have no common sense will magically be routed to our blog and sign up…I shall just write a little letter to table #3 and hope against all hope that it will get to the people who so desperately need to read it.

Dear Table #3,

We here at our little lake front dive appreciate your business. Although we haven’t seen your particular table of four that we can recall…we are glad you decided that we were the place for you on this particular Saturday night. However, the end of your visit arrives and I notice your waitress asking you if you need anything not once, not twice but thrice. Each time she stops at your table you politely wave her off assuring her that you are in fact, fine.

Now this waitress is one of my faves that I have not quite thought up a code name for as of yet. Now I say this, because to be one of my favorites you need to have an understanding of the somewhat insane person that I am and also that if you are costing me money by forcing me to deal with your customers and not my own, my insanity knows no bounds. Knowing this and me while also working in concert to make everyone happy is a skill that few possess…so the ones that pull that shit off are just plain rockstars in my book. And who doesn’t love a fuckin rockstar?

So, the moment that Rocket goes to pick up a tray of food for her table of 8 in the other room (and she now has a code name) the table comes to the bar.

Bitchy Lady: I need to pay my bill, we need to leave now.

dbd: She is in the back bringing out a large tray of food she will be with you in just a moment.

Bitchy Lady: Listen, I need to leave now…I can’t wait all night.

dbd: Oh I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t realize you were in that much of a hurry when I saw you wave her off when she checked on you, not once, not twice but thrice in the last thirty minutes.

B.L. Well we were fine then…now we are in a hurry.

Rocket was back in a flash and brought the sour pusses their check while they all stood there with a slightly put off and deeply constipated look on their faces. Once again I had to ask myself…why the fuck should poor planning on your part constitute an emergency on mine. I shared my thoughts with Rocket and she concurred.

Were we afraid that telling them how it is would affect Rockets tip? No my friends, cause any server worth their salt knows that much like the Wall Street douche who brags constantly about what a big tip he is going to leave you, anybody who is that bitchy after beers and a great dinner is just miserable and wants nothing more than to spread that misery on you like cream cheese on a bagel.Not to be dissuaded, Rocket and I had a fabulous evening. One that included minimal bullshit and descent tips (not to mention a more than decent buzz) by nights end. We refused table #3’s bitterness bagel and with smiles on our faces and money in our pockets, returned to serve another day.

Well, that is it for today my friends. I hope this foray back into the demented mind of yours truly put a smile on your face and some smartass in your heart.

With love and liquor,

divebardiva

Okay people, I know that a general lack of common sense shouldn’t shock a person like me. Yet, whenever situations happen like the ones that occurred this weekend, I’m once again taken by complete surprise.

My little dive is the best place in the whole wide word — especially during the summer months. It has a tiki bar next to a lake and an awesome patio with a huge waterfall. Here in the great white north, summer is a fleeting experience and winter is just waaaaaay too fucking long. We like to enjoy our summers to the fullest extent.

The thing about my little slice of workplace heaven is that it started out as a small hangout for the Bossman and a couple of regulars. Year after year, it’s gotten bigger and bigger as more people spread the good word — particularly during the summer months when everyone wants to be drinking outside.

But here’s the thing: Our kitchen is the same size every day of the year. I would call it cozy. Everyone else calls it small. And it doesn’t magically double  in size during the summer.

Despite its size, the kitchen is set up for maximum efficiency. But when the population of the bar explodes on any given warm-weather day, there are going to be some time issues. The thing that kills me — and something that me and the staff discuss on a regular basis — is how people handle this particular problem.

Here are examples of the difficult situations we sometimes encounter with the bigger crowds — and the resulting irritating behaviors from a select few customers:

1. We tell you when you sit down that the wait for food is one hour: You say, “No problem.” But after 20 minutes, you start bitching about the wait. I’m sorry. In my world, an hour is 60 minutes. Where was the fucking miscommunication, ya moron?

2. We make a mistake with your order: We apologize and explain the busy kitchen situation. We correct the order, comp the item AND buy you a cocktail for your troubles. You then take it out on your waitress by leaving her a cheap-ass, measly 10 percent.

But here’s the bipolar kicker: You write “thank you for the very good service” on the check. If you’re aware that the mistake wasn’t her fault, why screw her over? She neither owns the place or cooks the food. We more than made up for the mix-up, so you leaving a shoddy tip just proves you’re an ass.

3. We don’t have an empty table. You tell me (over and over) that you come here all the time in an effort to get a free drink/appetizer/whatever to make up for the 10-minute wait. Or to convince me that you should be able to bypass the line of folks ahead of you.

Okay, last year was my first summer. So back then I wouldn’t have known if you were a regular or not. But guess what, dumbass, I know ALL our loyal customers. And besides, if you came here all the time, you’d know that our patio is busy on warm days so there may be a short wait.

Let’s not take out our misguided frustrations on the wonderful people who are busting their asses in the heat. In fact, let’s not take it out on anyone, shall we? Just suck it up, have another cocktail and look on the bright side:

  • The weather is gorgeous.
  • You’re outside
  • You have a cold drink in your hand.

And while you’re relaxing and enjoying the day, we’re working. Keep that in mind and try to be a little bit more appreciative and understanding. That way, we can all enjoy the summer.

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Okay people, since we have already had a post called “Angst Ridden Jerk Offs,” we had to think of a new and fun title for today’s post. I have to say that I am constantly amazed by the general stupidity of people. I know, I work in a bar and it seems like I wouldn’t be surprised by the stupidity of folks.

And yet…I am.

So last night we had a fabulous party at my dive and although I worked a twelve hour shift, I was still chip as a munk and ready to get some shit done. Of course when I arrived on the scene at 3 pm, I wasn’t really prepared for the fact that I may have to kick people out right off the fucking bat.

We have this waitress that I call Snow White. I call her this because she looks like she fell out of a Disney movie. As soon as I arrive on the scene, Snow White is upset because her table is being mean to her. Apparently, the entire table was kicked out last night in a 30-person melee out on the patio. Insults were hurled followed by punches — and people got their asses kicked.

That is what happened, that is what always happens.

Now, the particular dumb-asses in this scenario are no strangers to me as I have waited on these douchebags goin on 7 years now. In fact, I’ve kicked them out of as many bars as I have worked in. Now normally this wouldn’t be a big deal. However, after years of this douchebaggery, I’m kinda fed up. In fact, I just didn’t give a fuck anymore and was ready to judo chop someone in the throat and call it a day.

First off, they all come up to me and try to relive the old days. Guess what dumbass, the old days with you sucked and reliving them is something akin to a root canal with no anesthesia. Or anal with no lube. I don’t want to do it today or any other day. And another thing, you constantly telling me that whatever you had has cleared up and you are now ready to do it. As Romeo and Juliet as you think that may be, it’s just bein an ass clown.

Now let’s address the situation of your brother who has been doing so many roids since the last time I saw him, he has aged a good 20 years. No, I will not “do him” — nor would I with someone else’s lady parts. Let me also mention that if you just keep walking around the bar flexing your saggy-assed muscles because you think it’s hot, let me clear this up for ya…it’s not!

This is a marathon, people, not a sprint. I drank all day yesterday, not that it’s that much of an accomplishment, but I was able to keep my fucking shit together and not get kicked out of the bar by 7p.m. This is not brain surgery…this is common fucking sense and you my man, are clearly lacking.

Moral of today’s story my friends: If you are prone to douchebag to begin with…steroids and alcohol are not the party mix required to change that shit up.

Okay people, here it is…you all know how much I love working at my current dive bar locale. I work with some amazing peeps, kitchen and waitstaff alike. However, this has not always been the case.

Now I am not talking about the unbelievably cute gay boy who asked me how to make a scotch and soda. That just comes with being so hot that the smaller things in life are just confusing. These are just a few cases of dumbass that are so ridiculous even I can’t make that shit up.

So, let us look at some of the real winners shall we?

1. This is your waitress. This is your waitress on drugs.

A waitress who was so cracked out that after she ordered 18 drinks, and I put them all in order on her tray, she picked one up and inadvertently set it by the phone when it rang. Said waitress then proceeded to argue with me for 8 minutes that I had not made the J&B and soda.

I found the drink, gave her the “you-are-an-idiot look” and turned to wait on someone else. Three seconds elapsed before I heard a loud crash. Every drink I had just prepared was lying broken on the floor as crackalackadingdong could not manage to hold the tray.

Now, I get it that everyone has a bad night. But sometimes dumbass takes the lead in a person’s life and there is no going back. There is no fucking cure for dumbass…period and end of discussion.

So girlfriend wants me to remake all of the drinks. And, of course, I have to do so because it’s for a table.

However, there is something that needs to be said. I cannot abide a waitress (or waiter) who loses me money. I always try to put my waitstaff first and foremost, to which anyone who has ever worked with me will attest. However, if I’m constantly having to babysit you or your tables, I’m losing money — and in turn patience with you.

In the end, waitress made a fatal mistake. After I remade the drinks and brought them to the table myself, she thought it was about time to give me a piece of her mind — which was so lacking, it was like having a duel with an unarmed man.

This is how it played out.

High & Stupid: You know, you don’t have to make me feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.

Me: You clearly do NOT know what you are doing.

H&S: You just think that because I told on your boyfriend for drinking, and he got fired.

Me: No, I think that because it’s true. You getting someone fired for drinking by ratting them out while you’re as high as a kite just makes you an asshole, a hypocrite and a bitch…not an incompetent waitress.

H&S: Well, what can I do about that now?

Me: Go into the back…find a couple of Valium or something to calm your crackhead ass down, and then return to your tables without chewing your lips off or generally just tweaking out. Do ya think you can manage that?

H&S: Yes.

Me: Okay, I’ll cover your tables till then.

Seriously people, if you cannot handle your drugs, then save them for a night when you’ll be at home. I personally cannot smoke when I work. I make Tanqueray and Tonics, and no one has ordered them. I cannot do my job; therefore, I pass on the grass whilst working. It’s not rocket science people…it’s really not.

2. Calling in sick woulda been sufficient.

Ah … the constantly-trying-to-go-home waitress. Every shift you have comes after a weekend night, and you need to get someone to cover because you’re too hungover to make it into work.

My dear old dad always told me, “Kid, if you are gonna be worth your salt, ya show up for every shift. I don’t care if you have to throw up a couple of times once you get there…if you’re a professional, you show up.”

Here is how a little bit of that worked out.

Clueless & Annoying: I think I have a fever.

Me (touching her head): Nope you don’t.

C&A: My head is really hurting. I think there might be something wrong with me.

Me: Well, that kinda goes without saying at this point, but you look fine.

C&A (after spending 15 minutes texting and smoking a cigarette out back): I’m really not feeling well.

She stands at the waitress station, and when I turn back from getting her a beer, she has apparently fainted. Yes, you heard me correctly: She feigned fainting.

C&A: Wow, I don’t know what happened. Maybe I should go home…

Me: You are worthless. Go home…it would be better to have no waitress, than you. While you’re there maybe you should think about trying to find a job that suits you better. One where showing up and working really isn’t that important.

Again, it may sound harsh, but show up for your shit and work. You want people to stop acting like being a server doesn’t demand respect or involve skills? Then take some fucking pride in what you do, and command the respect you deserve.

Now there are a few other types that I would like to point out are no good for a business either and they are as follows.

  • The shit starter (causes problems with staff and customers on a regular basis)
  • The thief (constantly calls beers and drinks, pretending you forgot to make them, or that they will ring them in later)
  • The cheapskate (doesn’t tip out the bartender or the kitchen peeps and bussers)
  • The whiner (no tips are ever good enough, her life sucks wah wah wah)
  • The flirt (no other tables matter if there is a hot person in your section)
So that’s it peeps. It isn’t rocket science but it does take some skill, a little finesse and some fucking commonsense. If you feel as if you might be lacking in any or all of these qualities, serving cocktails just might not be for you.

Thanks Vino911 for yet another hilarious post! You are the shit!

There are times when sitting on the other side of the bar, instead of slinging drinks behind it, provides more entertainment than you planned for. This is the story of one of those nights.

Early one morning my BFF called, whom we will refer to as B, and told me she needed to go out. What you must understand is that B, having partied a wee bit too much in college, had laid off the alcohol for over a year. At this point, her tolerance was about two beers — and that’s being optimistic.

We made plans to go out that night. She planned to drink, I planned to babysit.

The bar we chose was a favorite for many reasons. It’s local, it’s cheap and the term “dive bar” doesn’t even begin to describe it. This is a bar where even the cockroaches are ashamed to frequent.

But if you’re having one of those days, and you just don’t have the heart to climb out of bed but you really need a beer, you can go here in your pajamas and they won’t judge. In fact, I bet they wouldn’t even notice.

But I digress…..

The bar was located in a basement, only accessible from a dark alley, and it had a ramp to get to the door. Not the smartest move, especially in a Minnesota winter.

On our way to the door, we had to step over not one, but two drunks who tried to fight the ice on the ramp and lost, thus taking a quick nap before fighting the good fight again. B says, as she steps over the snoring bodies, “This place seems exciting.”

We get inside, take a seat at the bar, and she orders a beer. I look around, as we girls tend to do, to seek out our entertainment for the evening. Seems it’s my lucky night: A large man with an uncanny resemblance to Mr. T is already sliding down the stools to take a place at my side.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

“Absolutely!” I reply.

He flips out a couple cardboard chips from his pocket and, with a big smile, waves the bartender over. “Get the lady what ever she would like,” he says. “I’m buying”

Clearly my choices are limited being that his method of payment is free beer chips (probably won earlier that night at a hot-dog eating contest or something similar). But a free drink is a free drink, and I’m not picky.

The door to the bar opens and in walks Mr. Cool. This is a guy that every warm-blooded girl had a crush on in high school. The good-looking jock. Unfortunately, Mr. Cool is also the guy who — 5 years later — is still standing on the basketball court at the public park every afternoon with a shit-eating grin because everyone has neglected to tell him that high school is over, and he should probably get a job.

He immediately walks over to us. I turn around and look him in the eye. “Not happening. I got over it in the 8th grade.” Mr. Cool with some glossy eyes and a wobbling nod says, “I appreciate your honesty.”

I checked on B who was on her second beer by now and then brought my attention back to Mr. T.

“So, what do you do?” he asks.

“Doctor,” I say.

“What kind?”

“Surgeon.”

“Wow, do you do anything special?” he asks leaning forward, very interested.

“Brain stuff,” I reply.

“Oh my god, that’s awesome,” he says. “You’re a brain surgeon?”

“Yep.”

“You have fake nails. Isn’t that a problem in your line of work?’

“Oh no, they’re required. Helps when I really need to dig in there and get the job done.”

He leans over and takes my hand, “To think of all the lives you’ve saved with these hands.”

I put my head down and nod.  I’m trying so hard not to laugh but a little sniffle/snort escapes me.

Unfortunately, Mr. T thinks I have suddenly become emotional over his life-saving statement. He pats my back and yells at the bartender while flipping another chip on the bar “Get her another beer! Can’t you see she’s suffering?”

While sipping my second — and then third — beer, still trying to discover the depths of Mr. T’s stupidity, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s B.

“He asked me out,” she says.

“Who?” I ask (but I already knew the answer). “Mr. Cool?”

“Yes, he wants me to go into the bathroom with him.”

“Uh…on a date?”

“I guess so.”

I look at the bar in front of her. Not only is she on her third beer, but there are some empty shot glasses still waiting to be cleared. I blame those tiny empty glasses for her inability to realize the urinal is an unacceptable third wheel for a first date.

“Tell him no,” I say. She nods and turns back around to break the news.

Feeling a bit tipsy myself, I lean around her and give him the “I’m watching you” finger-to-eye hand gesture. He Just looked confused, and I poked myself in the eye in the process, so it obviously wasn’t a win-win situation. However, I still considered it fair warning.

I resumed my conversation with Mr. T, answering all his questions with what I had learned from watching E.R. and basically just making shit up. I get another tap on my shoulder; its B again, this time with all her hair combed forward covering her face.

She tells me, in a trembling voice, “I can’t see. I’ve lost my vision.”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

She nods, obviously starting to panic. “Help me!”

I brushed her hair back away from her face. “Uh…Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you!”

I then got a high five from Mr. T. “Way to go, Doc!”

I leaned around B, held up two fingers and looked at Mr. Cool. “That, my friend, is strike two.”

I told B that I was going to order one more for each of us, and then it was time to head out. I needed just a few more minutes to come up with a plan for us to leave without our new friends. I waved Mr. Cool over.

“Listen, B changed her mind about the bathroom thing. She’s all over it. The thing is, can I come too? It sounds awesome.” I could barely get the whole sentence out without vomiting but I did it.

He enthusiastically agreed that we could meet in the bathroom. I instructed him to go in first and count to ten.

Having never actually seen this work in real life, I was a bit skeptical. But he was walking toward the bathroom, no doubt getting his popsicle sticks and masking tape ready to help with the “whiskey” problem I was sure he was afflicted with. I called our ride, grabbed B and headed for the door.

When we got there, the icy ramp loomed large before us. “I don’t think I can do it,” B said.

“Yes we can!” I told her. We scaled that ramp like it was Mount Everest and did a victory dance at the top.

Once again: Good friends, flat beer and stupid people made our night one to be remembered.

Okay people, first let me apologize about my lack of personal posts. As we say in the South…I may have “dropped my basket” for a little bit. I am doing my level best to rally. But sometimes, when the shit hits the fan, there is nothing to do but stand there and wait for it to stop blowin.

So, as is the norm in my sleepy little neck of the woods, there were some instances over the holiday weekend that need to be addressed in this, my happy little forum.

First, I have to say that the positive aspects of having this little outlet to vent my issues with people’s constant stupidity and bad manners is beneficial in more ways than one. It saves the clueless from harm — and generally keeps me in a good enough mood to go to work and smile throughout the night no matter what comes my way.

I think that today’s post will be formatted as letters to the weekends offenders…

Dear Dumbass,

I have been waiting on you for 6 years at various bars around town. You’ve been repeatedly pissing me off, and thankfully, you have finally done something so stupid that I no longer have to wait on your annoying ass.

What was the wind of fortune that blew through my life, you might ask? It was your monumental stupidity.

Now, for oh these many years, I’ve had to put up with your shit. Let’s take a walk down memory lane, shall we.

  • Remember the times I’ve had to speak to you about not making crude comments and rubbing up against the female customers? You’re a grown man. You shouldn’t be acting like a hormonal 15-year-old.
  • Then there were the nights I had to leave the bar to prevent someone from kicking the shit out of you.
  • And what about the occasion when I had to escort you from the premises myself because you cannot hold your booze and constantly have to be babysat?
  • Add to that your annoying habit of making me keep up with your barrage of credit cards that you spread out on the bar (in what I am thinking is a sad attempt to impress people with your financial prowess).

Good times.

One would think that with the above list of violations that there’s absolutely no way you could you top the douche-baggery that you’ve continuously displayed for the past 6 years. But once again, I am surprised at your valiant efforts to top even the worst behavior.

This weekend, you added dumbass thief to your list of offenses. Allow me to give you a  bit of advice. (After all, I am a bartender. It’s kinda what I do.) Now listen closely, and try to learn something.

If you are trying to steal a bunch of stuff from the back, don’t try and explain yourself by saying that the bartender gave it to you to put away. Especially when that bartender is me — and I have an almost unnatural dislike of you.

The two happy points that have resulted from your ridiculous stupidity…the Bossman hates a thief as much as I do and had no problem agreeing with my plan to 86 you for life. Oh, ya know what? There’s only one happy point. I think I was so excited I got carried away for a minute. 

But just that one really makes it all worthwhile. 🙂

Now on to our next offender …

As I always say: Common sense, no so common. But pissing off your bartender within moments of meeting them is never going to bode well for your drinking experience.

Now that being said, I have days where I am not as cordial as I am known to be. I also have days where my tolerance is at a 2 rather than an 8 where it usually hovers.

This day wasn’t either of those situations. I had a wonderful day which wrapped up a less-than-stellar week. So when I arrived at work, I was feeling like a million bucks and more than ready for my Sunday Funday.

And then…I met her.

Dear Drunk and Bitchy,

Coming up to the bar to ask for pulltabs by saying “Hey, can you give me some fucking winners instead of crap the other bartender gave me?” was the first of many mistakes you made this afternoon.

When I explained to you that it’s called gambling for a reason and that you would have to look at the boxes and decide which one to play, you proceeded to get indignant and told me, “How the hell am I supposed to know which one is better?”

Now at this point, I’m already getting a little irritated with you. But I’ve had a wonderful day and am not about to let you pee in my cornflakes of happiness. So a little kindergarten math is what I decided to go with.

“Listen, why don’t you go and look at the boxes because there are only 5 winners left in each box.” At this point, you would think that you would have trotted your ass over to the boxes to discover that although there were 5 winners in each, one box had twice as many tickets in it.

Alas, you were not bright enough to take my advice. Instead you decided that being an even bigger bitch was an appropriate response. (I’m gonna have to beg to differ on this one, sister. Basically all you’re doing is proving to everyone around you that you cannot hold your booze, and you’re clearly trying to compete for the coveted title of Bitch of the Year.)

“Well, if you don’t wanna sell me any fucking pulltabs, I’ll just go outside.” So I gave you back your $20 and sent you on your way. Seriously, don’t threaten me with a good time. And you leaving = good time.

But alas, you could not stay gone. You came back in to bitch once again about pulltabs, bought a few, which were not winners, and then tried to repurchase with change.

That’s when I informed you that we don’t take change for pulltabs — giving you one more chance to act like a fucking human being. Once again, you disappointed me.

Instead of asking if I could exchange your coins for bills, you screamed at me and said, “You can fucking take change. Don’t lie to me.”

So, I went ahead and did it without punching you in the face. (Hey, I was having a good day.) And then, thanks to karma, you once again didn’t win.

You then said something about how I gave you a bunch of losers, and I had to make the decision whether or not I should snap on your rude ass. I gritted my teeth and decided to take the high road.

But then you went too far: You waited for me to turn around and then called me a bitch.

I dislike having to tell a customer that if they don’t have the balls to call me a bitch to my face, then they should probably keep it to themselves.

I dislike having to chastise you for telling the rest of my lovely customers what a bitch I am. You know, the ones that brought me flowers and dinner.

But what I dislike most about you, surly woman, is that the lovely people you were with had to apologize for your deplorable behavior.

And on a particularly catty sidenote…Why wear a sundress with no bra but put on support hose? Pick a lane, honey.

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Thank you, 5 dog fabulous, for this great contribution! We love dumbass stories!

I would like to take this moment to mock the dumbass who asked me a question last week.

Me: “What can I get ya?”

DA: “I need a bottle of Capt.” (off sale liquor)

Me: “Ok, here it is. That will be $17.85.”

DA: “Hey, what’s a drink that will make someone puke?”

Me: “Excuse me, what?”

DA: “My friend has never puked from drinking what can I make for him that will make him puke.”

Me: “Do you want this Captain or what?”

DA: “Yeah, but I want to know what will make him puke.”

Me: “Listen, we need to complete this transaction first. DO YOU WANT THIS CAPTAIN OR WHAT?”

DA: “Yes, here’s my money”

Me: “As far as your friend goes, if he really wants to puke, tell him to stick his fingers down his throat!”

There are some questions you should never ask your bartender!! That was one of them…… Dumbass.

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Well, a problem with one alcohol in particular: Disaronno.

For those who may not be familiar, Disaronno is a member of the sickly-sweet amaretto family. I think it’s a vile liquor. [Sidenote: Vile Liquor is an AWESOME band name. ]

But that’s not the reason I hate it so much. It’s those damn commercials.

A while back, Disaronno had that stupid spot where the woman orders a Disaronno on the rocks. (Don’t know how to make that particular cocktail? No worries. We’re gonna tackle that one next.)

When the skanky bartender tries to take the customer’s empty glass, she stops him, takes out a piece of ice and performs some sort of weird, soft-porn, ice-cube fellatio. Much to the delight of the male bar patrons and the previously-mentioned skanky bartender — who looks an awful lot like one of those pervs on “To Catch a Predator.”

Ick factor? Through the roof.

But just when I thought the commercials couldn’t get any more moronic, Disaronno comes up with – not one – but a series of painfully stupid spots …

Male bartender walks to the bar. So far, so good. Thank you, Disaronno executive asses for at least upgrading the male talent. This guy is yummy.

He looks coyly into the camera and says something to the tune of, “Today, I will show you how to make a Disaronno and Ginger Ale.” I’m sorry … what? Are you kidding me? My 8-year-old niece could figure out what’s in a Disaronno and Ginger Ale.

“First, you take a glass and fill it with ice. Now you have Disaronno on the rocks.”

Seriously, WTF??? Please don’t tell me there’s some jackass idiot in Topeka, Kansas sitting at home thinking, “Wow, I would LOVE a Disaronno on the rocks. If only I could figure out how to make one.”

But I digress. Back to the condescending-yet-oh-so-delectable bartender …

“Now add Ginger Ale. And there you have it. Disaronno and Ginger Ale. “ Another sultry look into the camera, product shot and END SCENE.

Thank you, Captain Obvious and Major Stupidity. You’ve solved one of the world’s great mysteries: How to make a DUHsaronno and Ginger Ale.

Now, just in case there are some ass clowns out there who can’t figure out that to make a cocktail comprised of Disaronno and a mixer, YOU NEED DISARONNO AND A FUCKING MIXER, they have more short-bus advertising tutorials for you – featuring mythical libations like the Disaronno and Cranberry. Oooh. Ahhh.

Now, to the Disaronno admirers out there, I will admit that there is one exception to my amaretto-is-shit stance.

Actually, it’s funny cuz the divebardiva and I were just talking about this last night. The fact that there are some cocktails you can only drink under very specific circumstances. Corona Light, for example. I love it. The divebardiva loathes it … unless she’s in sunny Florida near the beach. And then that girl will suck it down like nobody’s business.

My amaretto exception is the Snake Bite. A drink we inhaled during college football games. Here’s the recipe:

Snake Bite

  • 1 part Amaretto
  • 2 parts Sprite
  • Lime Juice

Fill a pitcher with ice and the above ingredients. Drink a shot for every point your team scores, and chase it with a cold beer.

But even in the extremely rare instances I drink Snake Bites (more for nostalgia than anything), I would never use Disaronno. Unless it was served to me by that hot-ass bartender. And then I’d only pretend to drink it.

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Okay people, this is the deal: I used to work and live in NYC as most of you know. I also spent quite a few years in ATL once upon a time. In these states they really don’t have two-for-ones, and ladies’ night is comprised of either a bunch of college girls who can’t afford anything but ramen or really bitchy girls who pay $400 for shoes and then can’t afford alcohol or, clearly, tipping.

[Sidenote…if you can’t walk in hot shoes, please don’t buy them, you look like a fucking moron. Heidi Klum can pull off that weird supermodel horse walk. You, honey, are no Heidi Klum, trust me on this. And PS…lose the attitude, we serve $1.75 PBR in the can so either go somewhere snotty and act like a snot, or get your shit together.]

So anyway, the two-for-one mystery didn’t really rear its head until I moved back to the Great White North. Now again I have to mention that common sense, really not that common.

  • No, you may not order three rounds because two-for-ones end in three minutes.
  • No, you may not pay for three and then get drink chips for the rest. When you go to a restaurant and it’s buy one dinner and get the second half price, do you ask them if you can return tomorrow for your half price meal? I don’t know, maybe you do and you are just a freakin moron. If so, your cause is lost.

So then we have ladies’ night. Yes, you can have certain things free from 9-11. Long Island Teas and expensive shots are not going to be among them. In addition, walking up to the bar and yelling, “What can I get for free?” really isn’t putting you on the list of people I am going to be paying a lot of attention to tonight.

Just so you know, the next time you walk up here and are so fucking rude with nary a please or thank you, the thing you will definitely be receiving for free, is my foot up your ass.

And last but not least, the lesbian come-back. No folks, I am not referring to any of my gay pals, I am referring to a strange phenomenon I like to call the lesbian come-back. This is when an obnoxious guy comes and either tries to dance with you and your girlfriends, or repeatedly asks you out after asking all your friends and ignoring your very polite “no thank you.” At the point that you finally get through to him, or think you do anyway, he pulls out this lovely little gem.

Tool: “So, what are ya a lesbian or something?”

Yes, because my friend it certainly couldn’t possibly be you and your tool-like behavior this evening. I clearly must be gay to be turning down an ass clown such as yourself to dance with my beautiful friends. Well, either gay or have a shit ton of self-respect and common sense.

However, unattractive toolbox, if it makes you feel better…I am as gay as Ellen Degeneres.

Ass.

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