Archive for the ‘Viva La Douche’ Category

Douchebaggery & Dumbassery: A Lethal Combination

Posted: June 8, 2012 by divebardiva in Viva La Douche

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. 

2We 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,


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,


Yeah Buddy, and I’m Wonder Woman

Posted: October 4, 2011 by divebardiva in Daily Ramblings, Viva La Douche

Okay people, here’s the situation: One of my main bar rules to my customers is “Don’t Overestimate Your Importance.” I really cannot stress this one enough.

Most of my peeps know what the hell time it is and can easily read the signs when I’ve had enough of the general public. Gotta love ’em for that. However, not only are there people out there who do not see the signs, they are so self-absorbed they have no fucking idea that signs even exist.

I have one such customer in my repertoire. and I am none too impressed with his shenanigans on an absolute regular basis. In fact, every time I see him I have an overwhelming urge to stab him repeatedly in the neck with a pencil. Normally I feel sorry for someone so pathetic in nature. But this guy cannot even muster any such feelings in me no matter how hard he may try.

First of all he is a total shit starter which irritates me to no end. Secondly, the fact that I could snap his old, somewhat feeble ass like a twig makes his tough-guy facade all the more ridiculous. As if that were not enough he likes to spout off constantly about how he used to be in one famous government agency or another. One day it’s retired Navy Seal … the next it’s former DEA. Now I’m all about makin up a good story. But jesus man, pick something that is at least somewhat plausible.

Another thing about this dude is that he always has to be in someone else’s business for absolutely no reason. In addition to that, I do not care for anyone who talks down to me or who can be overheard telling their girlfriend, “Why don’t you just shut your fucking mouth.” I don’t get into the middle of domestic situations unless there is physical violence but I also think that a domestic dispute should be just that, at your fucking domicile.

If you’re going to act like a tool you to people who — for whatever dumbass reason — actually care for you, then I have no respect for you. And if you’re going to try to sass me, and think for one second I’m going to put up with your bullshit, you’re dumber than you look my friend.

And that is saying something.

Now lastly — and possibly the most important — is this. During your shit storm of bullshit where you are over estimating your importance on such a grandiose level that I am almost in tears, you fucked up and got one of my patented verbal smack-downs.

This is how that shit when down:

Señor Delusional: Hey, I need you to come over here. I have to tell you something.

divebardiva: Yeah, what do ya need?

SD: No, really. I need you to come over here.

dbd: Dude, I don’t have time for this shit. What do you want?

SD: Come closer.

dbd: I’m as close as I’m gettin.

SD: I’m not gonna hurt you. You don’t have to be scared of me.

dbd: First of all, no way in hell I would EVER be afraid of you. Second, either speak your mind or leave me alone.

SD: Well, I used to be with (insert government agency here … CIA, FBI, whatever) …

dbd: Okay dude, whatever it is that you wanna say is none of my fucking concern. Why don’t you just call up one of your old work buddies on the Bat Phone over there and chat away. I’ve got beer to stock.


In NYC, I had an old vet who came in every day and asked for bullets. Every day, I told him no and gave him a Pabst Blue Ribbon. I love old people…truthfully, I adore anyone older than me. But this guy … not a fucking redeeming quality to be found. And I’ve looked.

So that’s my rant for today, people. I’m hoping to make a little day trip to Sneaky Pete’s in Minneapolis next week for a little day drinking blog post on the go. Stay tuned and anyone in the vicinity who would like to join, I think it will be Tuesday and we shall take the train.

With love and liquor,


Q: What’s the proper response when a guy buys you a drink from across the bar? Do you have to actually talk to him?

That’s the question someone submitted right before the divebardiva came down to Florida to visit me. And wouldn’t you know it? That exact situation happened to us. Here’s how it went down …

I picked up Ms. Diva at the airport. And after a quick stop at the house to drop off her suitcase and grab a bite to eat, we were on our way to a local dive bar. We were looking forward to spending a couple hours catching up in person over a few cocktails. YIPEE!

We got to the bar, sat down and ordered two beers. Our bartender was a lovely girl — I’ll call her Linda — with an angel Hello Kitty tattoo on one elbow and a devil Hello Kitty tattoo on the other. The diva and I were talking a mile a minute, sucking down our beers and enjoying every single second of being together again.

We were about halfway done with our first adult beverage when Linda sat another round in front of us. “These are from the guy across the bar,” she said. I looked over and saw a guy wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt and tie. (Ick. Fellas, not a good look. Trust me on this one.)

I smiled and mouthed, “thank you.” The diva raised her glass in a “cheers” gesture and that was that. At least that’s what were hoping.

But alas, twas not to be.

It wasn’t long before the guy got up from his stool and started making his way over to us. He was looking at us with a Rico Suave I-eat-girls-raw-like-sushi grin.

I could tell the divebardiva and I were thinking the same thing … “Shit, I really don’t want to talk to this random.” But we were in awesome moods — the diva was on vacation, after all — so we both sighed and gave the guy a half-smile.

“Thanks for the drinks,” we said.

“No problem,” he replied. “Next round is on me, too.”

“Umm, okay. But the next one is on us,” the diva said. (She’s always felt weird accepting drinks from strange guys. Now me, on the other hand … I don’t have that issue. If you buy ’em, I’ll drink ’em.)

He slid onto the bar stool next to the diva and extended his hand. “I’m Alexander.” He was slurring his words slightly. It sounded more like. “I’m Alecshhhander.” He’d obviously been at the bar for a while.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I work at our other location on the beach,” he continued. “I’m the manager.” (We found out later that he was actually the kitchen manager.)

We made some small talk. We were trying our best to look disinterested. But he wasn’t taking the hint. A few minutes later, the diva wandered off. As soon as she left, he asked. “Hey, can I get her number?”

Excuse me?!!? Dude, we’ve only been talking to you for like five minutes! But I answered, “Sorry … I don’t give out my friends’ phone numbers.”

“What about you?”  he asked. “Can I have yours?”

Douche! First he waits until the diva leaves before asking for her number. And then when I refuse, he asks for mine. What girl wants to be second best? Who will this pathetic technique actually work on? Not in this lifetime, pal.

“Sorry. I’m taken,” I replied.

“So am I,” he said, and flashed his wedding ring. Just then the diva walked back up.

“I’m married but I’m unhappy,” he continued. “My wife waited to tell me until after we got married that she’s bipolar. I think she should have told me before. Don’t you?”

“Well yeah. I guess so,” the diva said.

“How long have you been married?” I asked.

“Five years,” he said. “She cheats on me all the time. She treats me really badly.”

“Have you ever cheated on her?” I asked.

“Never,” he said.

Homey was obviously looking for sympathy. The diva started to tell him that it was nice to meet him but that we were in the middle of a conversation.

“No! Let’s do some shots,” he said. To which point he started screaming to the bartender (who was helping another patron). “Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda!”

“Dude, stop. You’re being an ass,” the diva said.

“It’s okay. I’m the manager at our other location.” He smiled, trying to be charming.

“Yeah, you told us that already,” I said.

He looked at the diva. “I love your hat.” Then he reached for it.

“Don’t touch it,” the diva said. I could tell she was near her boiling point.

“Awww come on,” he said, reaching over.

“I said don’t touch it.”

“Hey, let’s do some shots,” he said. “Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda!”

At this point, both Linda and the divebardiva looked like they wanted to kill him. Linda brought over the shots.

“Here’s to us,” he said as he looked at the diva.

“I’m going to hurt him,” the diva whispered.

“Hey,” he said. “I love your hat.” Then he reached for it. The alcohol had obviously affected his short-term memory.

“DUDE, I SAID DON’T TOUCH IT!” the diva said.

The divebardiva and I huddled together to decide how to best get rid of the guy. We then looked back over and Alecshhhander was taking a little siesta on the bar. Out like a light.

Suddenly, he popped his head up. “Let’s do shots,” he said. “Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda! Linda!”

“We don’t want any shots!” The diva said. “Seriously, you need to go.”

The divebardiva gave me THE look and headed to the restroom.

“She’s right,” I said. “It’s time for you to leave.”

“But why? I’m a nice guy,” he said. “I’m a hard worker. I’m a good dad.”

“You have children?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, a son.”

“With your wife?” I asked

“No. I was never married to his mom.”

“So how old is your son?” I asked.

“Two years old,” he responded.

WTF?!!!!? Drunk douche was obviously having trouble with his math — and keeping his stories straight. Let’s recap:

  • He’s been married for five years to his wife.
  • He has never cheated on his wife (although he appears DTF either of us).
  • He has a 2-year-old son.
  • The son is not his wife’s.

Um … I may not be the sharpest bulb in the chandelier but someone gots some ‘splainin to do!

The diva returned and promptly, in no uncertain terms, told the guy to get lost. He shuffled off, drunk and dejected.

So now back to our question. What do you do when a guy buys you a drink from across the bar? Do you have to talk to him?

The answer is a resounding NO. Unless, of course, the buyer ranks way up there on the do-me-meter. We didn’t follow our own advice and ended up wasting valuable Vodka-Diva time on a total loser.

We sure as shit won’t make that mistake again.

Never stay thirsty, my friends!
Vodka Toxic

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Okay people, this is what’s going down today. First and foremost, I apologize for my lack of posts this past week. However my Homorita was in town — and clearly destroying my liver in a swift and precise fashion took precedence.

I did something I very rarely do and took a Saturday night off to celebrate his arrival (and make more time for said liver destruction). I was back on the horse last night and realized that more than one thing had gone terribly awry in my absence.

First of all, my sis was working her maiden voyage of waitressing on a Saturday night. As things have a tendency to do in the dive bar business: Why should one thing go wrong when three would be so much more entertaining? For whatever reason, the computer did not want to recognize her. Her checks wouldn’t ring up, her tabs would disappear and no drink orders could be sent to the bartender and had to be called out.

There were also not one, but three — yes, you heard right — three bar fights. Now, my one wish in this world is never to have my Bossman in an agitated state. Things can spiral out of control rather quickly. Also, as I have mentioned previously, he may look mean but inside he is delicate and I don’t need people fucking with his Chi on the weekends I am not around.

Clearly, however, none of this was going to be the case. I have to say that Fridays and Saturdays are completely different crowds. Fridays are not my favorite shift. In fact, I’ve been told that no one is a fan of Fridays simply because of the twilight zone of people that come with it.

This brings us to the title of our little story…Bitch From Hell. I’m going to give you the run down of a conversation I had shortly after arriving on Sunday.

Bitch From Hell (BFH): I need to speak to the owner.

dbd: He isn’t in right now.

BFH: You better not be lying to me. I called earlier, and he wasn’t in then either.

dbd: Yes, that is fairly commonplace.

BFH: Well, I was charged three times on my credit card last night.

dbd: Oh yes, I see your name and number here. It has all your information. We were having some issues with the compu…

BFH: Listen, you probably weren’t even there last night so quit lying to me. That girl was trying to rip me off. You better have the owner call me now, or I will get all of these charges taken off my card.

dbd: I’m sorry, but clearly you have confused me with someone you can scold like a teenager. I was not in fact working but was called three times at home due to problems with our touchscreen system. Nothing will be going through your bank that you did not sign for and that we do not have a slip for. If your signature is wrong, you can dispute this with your bank. However, nothing will be done about that at 7 pm on a Sunday because clearly the banks are not open. Calling your waitress a thief and me a liar really aren’t helping you get this problem resolved either.

BFH: Just have the owner call me.

dbd: Will do. Have a wonderful evening.

Okay, I am pretty sure that you can see what the problem is here. Bitch From Hell is freaking out. Since she has clearly never had a customer-service job with that attitude, she needs someone to incur her wrath. Most of you who know me realize that I am really not going to allow that to happen.

The Bossman came down shortly thereafter and we looked at the CC batch out from Saturday. Sure enough, she was only charged once for the tab in question. And as a PS on this, why the fuck are you calling your bank on a Sunday night to constantly check your balance? Get a life, ya crabby bitch. And let me just say that I sincerely hope whatever crawled up your ASS dies in short order.

So that’s it for today people. Once I piece together more of the scandal from the weekend I will entertain you yet again with my shining wit and probably a lot of swearing.

With Love and Liquor,


Server X is one of our most loyal contributors, and we love her for it! She recently wrote a post entitled, “When Douche Runs in the Family” — a story of a mother and son who terrorized this poor server. Here’s the follow-up. Keep ’em coming, Server X!

Every year, our fantastic bar has a golf tournament. It typically starts in the morning, goes till noonish and is followed by dinner at the bar and many-a-drink. This year’s turnout wasn’t so great due to the not-so-lovely weather that we had Saturday morning.

Unfortunately, the crappy weather didn’t deter one particular person from showing up. It figures because — as we all know — douchebags are like the postman. They show up in rain or shine, sleet or snow.

Yes, it was the douchebag from my previous post, “When Douche Runs in the Family.” For some reason, this jerk decided to try his luck at the game of golf. BUT this time, instead of his gem of a mother, he brought his son. Now the son is similar to pops in many ways:

  • They look very similar
  • They have matching douche arm tattoos (and that’s saying a lot because I’m a sucker for tattoos)
  • They lack common sense
  • They’re cheap
  • They both think their shit doesn’t stink

But anyhoo, to start this tale. let me tell you about Papa Douche. This year, we had BBQ ribs, fried chicken, corn, potatoes, etc. for our golfers. Dinner started at 2pm, which is typical for the tournament. Since the golfing ends at noon, participants have a little time to get to the bar and tally up their scorecards before the festivities begin.

This, however, was not soon enough for Papa Douche.

He arrived at the bar at 1:40 pm and proceeded to throw a hissy fit because the buffet wasn’t open for business. While he was waiting, our lead cook was prepping the food. Papa Douche asks, “What kind of ribs are these, pork or beef?

Cook replies, “I believe they are pork.”

Pops says, “Well, how sure are you that they’re pork?”

Cook responds, “Sorry, I’m 100 percent sure they are pork.”

Pop then says, “I don’t give a flying fuck whether they’re pork or beef.”

Cook walks away. Obviously Papa Douche was just looking for something to bitch about.

After this, Pops was just plain creepy. He walked past my tiki bar several times doing the “guy nod,” like I should be thrilled he’s acknowledging me.

So now onto the pride of the family: Junior Douche. I’m sitting in my tiki bar already having a difficult time with the crowd. I had the cheap 21-year-olds and the MASTER complainer who tries to get everything for free. (I like to think there’s one of those at every bar. It keeps me sane thinking I’m not the only one having to deal with someone like that.)

So in walks the son. First of all, Junior Douche comes in with a gift certificate and buys some drinks for his golf buddies. Unfortunately, our tiki bar is still old school — with a really old till where we have to scratch off the total of the gift certificate and give them one with the remaining balance. So I can’t take a tip out of the gift certificate. Consequently, I get stiffed on a $30 tab.

Junior visits my bar several times to purchase a single beer. Each time, I have to scratch and rewrite the total. When I ask him if he wants to start a tab to make both our lives easier, he declines and gives an answer that confuses me. “I’m gonna be here awhile.”

So wouldn’t a tab be easier?

After that discussion, he spots his friend across the bar and starts shouting “What’s up, you fucking dick?” I personally find that obnoxious, and apparently most of my customers did too since they all left. So I tell him he needs to keep it down … and remind him it’s still early and there are families sitting around eating dinner.

Junior then grabs my hand to apologize. But instead he says, “Ewww, gross. Why are your hands so callused?”

“You realize I open beer bottles for a living, right?” I answer.

After that, I kept my distance from Junior Douche. I hate being touched by strangers! But he calls me over. I’m hoping it’s to apologize but, of course, this doesn’t happen. Instead, he pokes the tattoo on my neck — hard — and screams, “Power Up!” He then starts screeching the Super Mario song in my ear.

You can probably guess what my tattoo is. And at this point, my neck is turning red from where the jackass poked me.

By now, I’m not hiding my dislike for him AT ALL.  But the Energizer Douche just keeps on going. He actually tries to hit on me. And not smoothly. It went a little like this:

Junior Douche: You’re pretty hot. You should come to my house and serve me beer. Naked. I want to rub my face in your boobies.

This was followed by several lewd gestures.

I made it clear that was NEVER going to happen, and that he was no longer welcome at my bar. He goes to our other bar and immediately gets into a fight because he’s dancing with another man’s wife. So the lovely divebardiva had to break up a fight early in her shift. (Sorry, diva!) This also lead to the cops getting called and all that jazz.

So overall that night, between Papa and Junior Douche, they managed to:

  • Not tip a single dime
  • Complain about FREE food
  • Verbally harass more than one staff member
  • Insult me
  • Empty out my bar by offending all my customers
  • Assault me
  • Hit on me/creep me out
  • Start a fight

Oh — and the cherry on the douchebaggery sundae? You made the sober bus driver go in circles looking for your house because you were too drunk to give directions. And you didn’t tip him either. ASS!

For the sake of the rest of the town, I really hope Junior has an accident that causes him to be infertile. The line of douches must end with him!

Moral of this story: The douche apple really doesn’t fall far from the douche tree.

Thanks to 5 Dog Fabulous, the divebardiva’s equally sexy and sassy sister, for this great contribution!

Dear Captain Awesome,

The reason for this letter is to tell you of the horrible “mistake-a-douche” faux pas I made on 80′s night and to apologize profusely for the case of mistaken identity.

First off, let’s review why you are Captain Awesome. It was Super Heroes and Villains Night, and you walked in with no costume. Now, the divebardiva was not pleased and sent your ass home to get a costume.  

You returned with a tube-sock mask, a pillowcase cape, and the words Captain Awesome written on your shirt. Bravo, my friend, Bravo. As “Awesome” as you were, that was not the best part of the night.

I forgot to give you the 2-for-1 deal on shots, and you were so nice about the mistake. You knew it was only my second shift, so you smiled your beautiful smile and said, “No worries sweetheart. We all make mistakes.” I fixed your tab and bought you a drink.

 Thanks for being the complete opposite of a douche — which is, you guessed it, “Awesome.”

Now on to my horrible mistaken identity faux pas. So 80′s night was in full swing, and I was slinging drinks with all my might. I saw a blonde guy walk up to the bar, and I thought it was you. I lit up and grabbed both his hands.

5 dog fabulous: Oh my gosh, Captain Awesome! It’s so great to see you, my friend.

Mistake-a-Douche: What the fuck are you talking about?

5DF: Super Heroes and Villains Night? Your tube-sock mask and pillowcase cape?

M-a-D: I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, lady. Can I just get a fucking drink?

divebardiva: Hey 5 dog, trust me, that’s NOT Captain Awesome.

5DF: Okay, never mind. What can I get you to drink?

M-a-D proceeds to order by saying, “Gimmie.” He then leaves me exact change. Now we are now entering serious douchedome.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. He continued to be rude and extremely drunk all night. So drunk that at the end of the night (2:45), he left his wallet and credit card sitting on top of the bar with a note under it. The note read, “No one here likes you.”

Seriously dude, are you a 12-year-old girl??? There should have also been boxes on it marked, “Yes,” “No” or “Maybe.”

That was the last straw. I proceeded to track his ass down. We had cleared out the bar so I made my way through the sea of people on the patio. “Not him, Not him, Not him … I know! The sober bus!” I made a beeline for the sober bus and, sure enough, there he was.

I have not cussed anyone out that bad in years. It was so intense that the other passengers were cheering me on.

I gave him back his wallet and read him the riot act for the note he left me (which he copped to). He just looked at me and said, “Fuck You.” Then the driver said, “Dude, get the fuck off the bus. You’re walking home.”

SWEET!! There is justice in this world!

The only injustice is that I mistook this Major Douche for you, Captain Awesome. And for that, I can only offer my deepest apology and hope you can forgive this horrible oversight.

With Warmest Regards,
5 Dog Fabulous

Okay people, here’s what the hamster is runnin in the wheel today: Yesterday, I stopped by to see one of my favorite bartenders in the world…Fun Bunny. She seemed a bit out of sorts and — as we bartenders have a tendency to do — she stopped by to take my order and give me the 4-1-1 on the day’s events. It seems that during lunch that fine afternoon, she received her first complaint in three — count ’em — three years.

The beginning and end of it all was that four tables sat down all at once. Although Fun Bunny got to the tables in record time, one customer still was not happy with his preconceived notion on how long he should have to wait.

Now, I certainly understand that sometimes all you have for lunch is an hour. And if you don’t order quickly, getting back to the office on time may be difficult. However, if you are a grown-ass man, you should be aware that if you go to a restaurant between noon and 1 p.m., you may have to wait a few minutes. It’s the busiest hour of the afternoon, and that’s when the majority of people eat. It even has a name — it’s called the lunch rush, asswipe.

Now, for a little background on Fun Bunny. She is, in a word, AMAZING! We met when myself and the Drunken Whores were out for a nice “ladies’ lunch.” I seriously don’t know why we continue to call it that since nary a one of us is ladylike and we rarely eat … but I digress. Back to Fun Bunny — we were discussing a book I’m writing, and she seemed quite interested and started up a dialogue of smart talk and good humor.

I was instantly in love. She is pretty and smiles almost constantly. She remembers what I drink and eat. She is always on top of my low-beer situation like a duck on a junebug. And did I mention she’s smart and funny? Those of you in the know realize that I am damn choosy about my bartenders — sometimes almost annoyingly so. Suffice it to say, Fun Bunny fuckin rocks! End of story.

So, I get it that Corporate Jackass had a Bic pen up his butt because he got passed over for yet another promotion. Or even more likely, he isn’t getting any at home because his wife has no desire to boink his fat ass. But seriously dude, don’t take it out on Fun Bunny. And you stomping over to the manager and announcing her tip will be reflected in how long you had to wait just makes you look like a whiny bitch. It’s also a huge red flag that you’re a stingy tipper to begin with.

Sadly this was not all Fun Bunny had to deal with on this particular day. I found it annoying that one of the waitresses kept making excuses to go behind the bar, and she was constantly asking Fun Bunny’s tables if they needed anything. I can always tell the difference between “I’m being helpful” and “I’m trying to make it look like you can’t handle your shit.” Case in point — When Fun Bunny was in the kitchen getting a food order for a table, Miss Know It All rushed over and took an order from a table in Fun Bunny’s station. She then announced to the manager that Fun Bunny was overwhelmed.

Listen Ms. Know It All, my Fun Bunny is a professional far above and beyond what you will ever be. She doesn’t get overwhelmed — and certainly not with three tables and two dudes at the bar. You’re being an unhelpful, table-stealing bitch. And honestly, if you want to be a bartender then learn how to bartend and stop walking behind the bar for no reason. And instead of stealing Fun Bunny’s tables while she’s in the kitchen running food (on top of making all the waitress’ drinks), how about actually being helpful and taking the food out — instead of being a back-stabbing bitch?

So, at the end of the day, here’s the moral of this story: If you work with a hard-working, experienced bartender who everyone loves, back stabbing her ass really isn’t going to get you anywhere. In fact, it just makes you look as if you aren’t very bright — which I have a sneaky suspicion you aren’t.

As a bartender, I have to say that having a kick-ass waitress whose a team player and goes above and beyond is indispensable. People who act like they know everything at the ripe old age of 20 are just annoying and probably aren’t gonna last that long.

When I was training back in the day, I respected the more-tenured bartenders. I learned so much — and not just if you drink vodka&coke no one can smell it on you. I learned how to deal with difficult drunks, count the register after downing multiple shots and many other important items. So perhaps you should stop back stabbing the people who could teach you a thing or two. Or just keep bein an ass…it’s up to you.

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Douche and Douchier

Posted: June 29, 2011 by divebardiva in Daily Ramblings, Viva La Douche

Okay people, here’s what the fuck is on my mind today. First of all, let me say what a wonderful weekend I had working with my sis (5 Dog Fabulous) and all of my other peeps…Server X and Bossman, 62% and the Ginger Ninja.

It was a lovely experience and, as usual, fun was had by all. Well, fun may have not been had by a couple of dumbasses but isn’t that the way things always go?

I have a couple examples of some shenanigans that were just too much for me to deal with this weekend. Even in my Bat Girl outfit, my superhero powers could only do so much to steel my resolve in dealing with dummies. I’m going to run ya’ll down a short list of the offenders of the weekend and hope ya laugh till ya pee yourself a little.

Offender #1: Unless you’re a hater or just a mean bastard in general, I have a tendency to get along with even serial killer types. Bikers, bankers, mobsters, moneymen, and anybody else that comes down the pike — I can usually draw a bead on ya and figure your ass out in a matter of moments.

Sometimes you’re compensating for what you think you are lacking. I am there to convince you that you are lacking nothing … and therefore your dickish behavior is unnecessary. I have to say that most times, I can be successful in my endeavor.

However, if you’re going to come in every weekend and start new shit with new people, we are gonna hafta 86 your ass. I do not, this weekend, give you many points for smarts. You decided to sucker punch The Saint. I love him, and his unnaturally beautiful wife who is one of the better servers that I know in this world.

I don’t know if I’ve previously mentioned this: But when I have to come out from behind the bar to chastise your ass like a 5 year old…I am not gonna be happy about it. When one of my Shiny Bitches has sand in his pants cause you are being an ASS, then I’m not happy about that either. I love my Shiny Bitches.

When I have to walk you to the sober van and hold your hand so you don’t start anymore bullshit — all the while you telling me that this isn’t your fault — I’m not gonna lie…kinda irritated. I can’t stand people who don’t take responsibility for their actions.

All ya gotta do is say, “Hey, I was a dick…Sorry.” But no, you have to act like none of this was your fault and you have no idea whatsoever how any of it happened. You are a grown-ass man. Clearly you don’t know how to act like one…but ya are Blanche ya are!

Offender #2: Just when I thought I’ve seen as much dumbass as there is on the market, someone has to come in and shock the living shit outta me. Why you ask? I don’t fucking know is always gonna be my answer.

This guy was actually quite funny, and it really was hard to hate him as much as my bitterness knew I should. He just kept looking and smiling like an idiot. (I kinda thought there might be something wrong with him.) But alas, just when you think people are just silly and not quite the douchebags they seem to be, surprise surprise, the douche flag is unfurled.

So clueless orders 6 Jag Bombs from my sis who is fabulously outfitted in a Super Girl outfit including red mylar cape. I have to say right now that these were the best outfits on the planet and anyone who missed it…I have pity.

Sidenote: If you ever need the best costumes on the planet, The Theatrical Costume Shop in St. Cloud is the place to go. They are amazing and will totally hook you up with whatever your little heart desires. I even got the cutest foam clown nose for a dollar. Not many things cost a dollar these days — even the strip clubs give out two’s so the dancers can double their pleasure. Go there, ask for Misty, you won’t regret it.

So anyhow, dude orders his shots and 5 Dog makes them and all of a sudden something shiny catches his attention. He turns around and hands some passing chick one of the shots. She takes it, drinks it and wanders off as shiny things have a tendency to do.

Well, he goes to pay and — get this — accuses sis of drinking one of his shots. She’s being nice but I know a snap factor is on the horizon. So I jump in Bat-Girl style to see what’s up. Alas, he is too stupid for me, and I am instantly exhausted. I tap out to 5 Dog, and she takes over explaining in ridiculous detail how this transaction was supposed to work.

After a good five minutes of wasted time, I decide that enough is enough and that this dumbass is done for the day. I ask him if he wants the shots or not. He calls 5 Dog a thief.

(Dude, you gave away the stupid shot! Did you forget to take your meds?)

I ask again if he wants the shots as I have already run his credit card, and he has in fact paid for them. He calls me a bitch. I tell him that I’m very aware of my bitch status and that when I awake everyday I can choose whether I want to be a bitch or not. He unfortunately is stuck with dumbass forever … and therefore, I am revoking his right to shots.

Another table of fabulous people enjoyed the hell out of them.

With love and alllllll the liquor I can ingest,

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Thank you, Server X for this post! We love you … and your Bar Trash contributions!

Okay, so I know I’m fairly new to the bar show — and I’m slightly naive about things. But one thing that I just cannot shake lately is how people treat servers. When did they become pieces of meat? How are any of these scenarios considered appropriate in the slightest?

#1: DO NOT make the mistake of thinking our assets are on the menu.

I was working in our fabulous bar one Friday evening with one of my favorite waitresses … for this post we’ll call her Kim. So Kim and I are having a grand ole time at work.

  • The evening is going ridiculously smooth.
  • We have a great crowd.
  • We’re making money.

How can things go wrong? Well I will tell ya: All you need to do is throw one douche in the mix, and it messes up everything.

About halfway though the evening, I look over at Kim and see that she is clearly uncomfortable.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“There’s this guy who WILL NOT leave me alone,” she replies. And for sweet, sweet Kim to raise her voice is definitely an alarm. But any whoo, she points him out, and I tell her that I’ll keep an eye on him and let him know he needs to behave.

Next, I see her delivering drinks to the guy’s table. He attempts an ass-grab avalanche and a boob-grab. So I walk over and (not so kindly) let the ass clown know that he needs to leave Kim alone.

His response to this was, “I didn’t do anything wrong.” He then followed up that comment by turning to Kim and yelling at her that she “tattled” on him.

So I look the ass clown in the eye and say, “No, she said nothing to me. It was your not-so-subtle sexual assault that drew me over here. So keep your fucking hands off my waitress or get the fuck out.”

Needless to say, he didn’t take kindly to this and proceeded to throw a fit which eventually led to him getting cut off and booted out.

#2. DO NOT pretend to be a gynecologist.

So I work with some babes, barely 18, who are extremely shy and new to the business. I was working with adorable jail bait C. Now C comes up to me looking as though she did something wrong. My initial reaction was, “Shit. I don’t want to see her get fired. She has potential.”

Turns out, the night before, one of our regulars — who I personally think is an oxygen thief —  got a whole handful of C. And in the words of the DiveBarDiva, “It woulda made her gynecologist jealous.”

C felt bad and didn’t think it was appropriate to file a complaint with our boss because she didn’t know if she had to accept that sort of behavior as a waitress. And this is why she came to me.

I tell her, “Under no circumstance is sexual assault okay. This will be dealt with … and next time DO NOT be afraid to tell your bartender. They will always have your back.”

So what do you know, 15 minutes later that regular strolls in like clock work. It was quite difficult for me to maintain my calm, but I did amazingly well. I walk up to him and calmly say, “If you cannot keep your hands to yourself then we just don’t need your business.”

He replies, “What are you talking about?”

I say, “Well you grabbed C’s ass last night, and it made her feel very uncomfortable. I just can’t stand for that.”

He proceeds to laugh hysterically and say, “Oh yeah. Okay. Whatever.” DOUCHE!

#3. DO NOT confuse us with pole dancers.

Finally, I’m working in our fantastic Tiki bar, and I have a group of 12 guys from a bachelor party. They’re all having fun and not being douches at all. But then a young guy comes out and asks me to turn up the radio. This involves me climbing up on a chair.

Immediately after I turn up the radio, he says (like a 13-year-old boy), “I just wanted to see your butt.” Really?!

So a couple minutes later, this same young guy realizes that there’s a bachelor party and wants to buy drinks for the whole group and put it on his credit card. Now this is the Tiki bar’s one and only downfall: It doesn’t have a credit card terminal.

So I tell him, “I’m sorry, dear. I can’t accept cards out here. It’s a cash only bar.”

His response? “Then you’ll just have to fucking strip for our drink money.”

I immediately respond with, “Sweets, first of all I’m neither a whore or a stripper. And second of all, remember who has the power to cut you off and kick your ass out.”

Trying to dissolve the tension, one of the sober bachelor party members turns to the guy and says very calm and kindly, “Dude, she’s a lady. You have to treat her with some respect. Now I know you’re young but…”

Before the nice guy could finish his sentence, the young guy blurts out, “You calling me a fucking youngin? You call me a youngin one more time, and I’m gonna kick your ass. Shorty fucking shorty.”

This was followed by a push and a hit from “youngin.” This ends up in a 7-man brawl which I disperse quickly. And one can only guess what happened next. That’s right! He got cut off and kicked out.

Now I know I called this behavior sexual assault … and that’s exactly what it is. No one wants to be groped while they’re doing their job. Waitresses and bartenders are just like everyone else in every other profession — they’re just trying to pay their bills.

The main difference is that they’re dealing with drunks whose common sense goes out the window when they’ve had one too many Chuck Norris’s. You don’t walk up to someone on the street and grab their ass, because that leads to an arrest … so why do people do that to servers?

I can guarantee that 95% of the time, if you think that a sever is flirting with you, they’re not. They’re being nice because IT IS THEIR JOB. So, just a note for all you douches out there who think it’s okay to sexual assault whomever you please:

I will find you and beat you down.

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