Archive for March, 2012

When Hipsters Attack!

March 31, 2012

Beware North County we are under attack. The invasion is underway. Hide your moustache wax, sweater vests, mustard colored skinny jeans and tall boys of PBR. The hipsters are coming. I recently traveled to the belly of the beast, North Park, aka Hipster Headquarters, to try to get a handle on this pretentious phenomenon before it is too late for us innocent folk to survive.

What I found was a community overrun with these hipsters. There are few normal humans left down there. The streets are littered with guys walking around with sunglasses in the rain with their hands tucked into gray sweater vests unaware that raindrops dangle from the curly ends of their well-manicured moustaches while their skinny jeans threaten to cut off all circulation in their lower body.

I believe these are all strategic wardrobe choices. They wear their shades at all hours of the day to hide the fact that they just cried because the coffee house was out of their favorite mocha tocha gelato vende cream drink. The curled moustache gives their hands something to do as they mindlessly talk about how cool they are. It seems obvious to me that hipsters are constantly cold even in the middle of August which explains why they always have on a sweater vest or scarf or wool hat. Lastly we have the skinny jeans. Honestly these made the least amount of sense to me at first. In my opinion the last thing I want to wear is a pair of pants that have to be painted on to me. Upon further thought it dawned on me that the reason these hipsters wear such constricting jeans is because it makes their junk look bigger. This must be because all the blood from their legs is forced up into their genital region as soon as the suffocating denim is applied and the result is that their balls swell to an alarming size.

Female hipsters may be more frightening. They dress exactly the same as the male hipsters so it can be hard to tell which is which. Often times one has to get within hearing distance of a hipster’s conversation to determine its gender. I followed one female hipster exclusively despite the direct detriment this act inflicted upon my brain. What I found is that she demanded constant attention and when people finally awarded her with it she had nothing important to say.

The one thing I found I had in common with hipsters was my love of alcohol. This made it easier to follow them as having a drink was necessary when coming in contact with them. They truly love their PBR, which is funny because North Park is full of great beer to choose from. Do the hipsters care? No. As long as their PBR’s are tall and cold they will have none of that other tasty stuff.

Now I know hipsters aren’t directly dangerous to our physical well-being. That’s not what I’m worried about. It is the mental state of us as a species that concerns me. I for one believe that a world filled with over-tattoed guys with one leg of their skinny jeans rolled up because they ride bicycles (I guess?) and arguing with other hipsters about what would be more retro “bro”, having an eyebrow or cock ring. To me it seems like if we let the hipsters take over we will be cursed to drink tall boys of PBR ourselves. I know these notions are disturbing but we must face our fear if we have any chance of preserving our sanity.

North County has already been infiltrated to some degree. Fortunately our hipsters are outnumbered so their influence over our lives is minimal. Beware I say though. They may scare now easily but if they return, and in greater numbers, we will have a full-fledged war on our hands. From now on let them know you don’t approve. Feel free to tell that dip shit who just walked into a bar at midnight with shades on that his future isn’t that bright. Or the next time you watch a guy take twenty minutes to put on his scarf and jacket in the middle of August let him know if he can spend that much time getting bundled up outside it isn’t that cold.

To any hipsters who happen to read this, don’t worry, it’s never too late. We can remove those shades from your head although it will take several weeks for your eyes to adjust back to natural light. We could just clip the curly corners off that skinny moustache of yours, but due to the large quantity of grease trapped between the hairs it is highly recommended to remove the entire thing. The sweater vest is simple, just take it off and donate it to a shelter so that someone who might actually have to stay warm for survival could use it. Taking off those skinny jeans is going to require the Jaws of Life but once you do your private parts will thank you.

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The Bad Bartender Chronicles II

March 24, 2012

A major problem with the bar industry today is that a lot of male bar owners/managers make hiring decisions based off approval by their dick instead of their brain. As a result, instead of ending up with a quality bartender they hire some super hot bimbo with boobs bigger than their heads who can barely pour an ice water. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of really good female bartenders, some of which are really hot. That’s not the point. This isn’t a beauty contest and the bottom line is if I wanted to stare at a hot chick who can’t keep my drink filled with booze because she is too busy flirting with her nineteen year old barback I would go to a strip club. When I am out drinking, I want my drinks strong and fast and it doesn’t matter if a gremlin is serving me as long as my glass stays full.

Usually, the idea behind hiring a hot female bartender who cares more about her makeup than the customers is based on the fact that most of the people frequenting a bar on a regular basis are men. It is then assumed that when drinking men must have a half dressed hottie serving them alcohol. In that sense men are seen as animals who constantly crave the sight of the opposite sex and when this craving is mixed with booze it gets worse. If that is the case then we as men are very simple creatures and are at best one step above a coyote with our snarling teeth and saliva covered chins.

There is some truth to the idea that all most men need to be satisfied with a bar is to have a glorified stripper with pouring privileges serving drinks slowly. I would estimate that seventy percent of men really are that simple. I know a lot of guys who frequent bars based strictly on what the bar staff looks like. What’s funny is that what all of these guys have in common is their belief that one day they will take that sexy bartender home with them.

That notion is foolish and quite frankly laughable. Hot female bartenders make a living off saps who swear they are one step away from getting laid. News flash jack ass all that flirting you and her just shared was monetarily motivated on her part and ten seconds after you walked away she started flirting with someone else.

This false confidence grows when men are fed booze and by the end of the night a good female bartender will have a bar full of men truly believing that they have a shot. Even after the door guy has cleared these drunken lechers out from the bar as they head home they do so with the confidence that next time they truly will get lucky with their favorite bartender. Although this sounds pretty pathetic it happens at bars all over the world and evidently as much as we as a species adapt and improve ourselves, drunken men believing hot girls half their age are down to bone is a mentality even evolution can’t overcome.

In our modern world which favors gender equality there are few jobs females are at a disadvantage of obtaining other than being president. Men on the other hand find hardships when trying to enter many a job field, especially so in the bar business. Despite the fact that this double standard has been set due in large to ogling men who care more about their spank bank than good service it is still unfair.

It is a fact that finding a job as a male bartender is exponentially more difficult than it is for a woman. I am the proof. When I moved out to California I had four years of bar tending experience along with a year of bar management experience and I couldn’t even get a job at Chili’s. One bar manager looked me dead in the eye and said that he didn’t think he’d ever seen a male apply for a position. I felt the urge to smack him across the face for even sliding me an application and then watching me fill it out before sharing this information with me. Luckily after some lean times a wise man took a chance on my overqualified ass as a busboy and the rest is bar history.

Once men get a leg in behind the bar they have to work twice as hard as a woman to earn a decent wage. I have seen a good looking girl get a hundred dollar tip from a creepy and greasy looking businessman even though it took her ten minutes to acknowledge him and another twenty to figure out how to open his Bud Light. Trust me; no one is ever going to tip me a hundred bucks just to stand there with a confused look on my face no matter how pretty my beard is that day.

I urge you the drunken masses to demand competence over big tits. Don’t stand for shitty service just because some bar owner thinks his office is the casting couch of a cheap porn website. Let’s take our bars back and move forward into a world where bartenders aren’t judged on their jugs but their ability. Let’s forgo fantasies of nymphomaniac female bartenders who will fuck you just for tipping well and move into a reality where every bartender around knows that there is no cranberry juice in a vodka tonic.

St. Patty’s Day 2012

March 16, 2012

St. Patrick’s Day is a celebration of Irish culture. To Americans that means let’s get wasted. Apparently in this country we believe getting shitfaced while being all decked out in green is a great way to celebrate Irish tradition. I am not saying that all Irish people are a bunch of drunks, but I believe that is what most Americans think. My theory is that Americans use Irish culture as an excuse to get wasted because we as a people are a bunch of drunks.

Amongst bar employees and regulars St. Patty’s Day is also known as Amateur Night. Everyone who never goes out drinking at a bar decides to come out that day. It is New Year’s Eve on crack and instead of people starting to get wasted at 8pm most people begin lining their livers with liquor around noon. It is Mardi Gras except the beads are replaced with funny green hats, shirts with dirty limericks and green skinny jeans. Guinness is consumed at an alarming rate and the shot of the day is the shillelagh which is normally dropped into a half pint of Guinness. The name of this is an Irish Car Bomb and it is yet another example of misguided Americans thinking that they are honoring the Irish.

The combination of amateurs chugging pints of Guinness topped with Jameson and Bailey’s means anything can happen. There will be vomit, and a lot of it. Beware and get ready to duck and cover the second you see a curdled shillelagh floating in the beard of a man who has just shot his fourth car bomb all the while that cottage pie he just scarfed down is quickly working its way to returning itself to this world. Our bar backs will be wearing rain slickers that day so any unwanted fluids flying at them will rinse off with a quick hosing.

When faced with a bar full of people who go out so little that they don’t understand the rules of the bar, as employees we have no rules. That means there is zero tolerance on everything. Since it is impossible to properly enforce a zero tolerance policy upon 500 drunken people I will be personally monitoring the crowd myself. I will be dressed as a leprechaun and in my hand I will hold a real shillelagh which is a wooden walking stick with a large knob at the top. My shillelagh will be encrusted in gold. If I observe anyone getting out of line I will be tapping them on the shoulder with my golden cane to inform them that they have to leave. That means anyone puking, fighting, calling me bro, string ordering, groping other guy’s girlfriends, pissing on the side of the porta potty,  and honestly anyone who rubs me or my staff the wrong way will be getting shoulder tapped by my golden shillelagh.

There is a repeated crime against humanity found on every St. Patty’s day. That is the ordering of a green beer. Beer isn’t green. It’s not supposed to be green. To make beer green you have to put green food coloring or some other liquid in there. There’s no better way to ruin a tasty beer other than sticking random green liquids into it. Not only is it nasty, it’s messy. Any bartender degraded and disrespected enough to be forced to do such a thing suffers both the public humiliation of such an asinine act, but will also be forced to scrub their hands, as well as other body parts depending on individual personal practices clean of the green for days to come.

My advice to bartenders all across the nation on this upcoming St. Patty’s Day is as follows: when that thirty-two year old man wearing a fake afro wig sprouting out from underneath a green top hat with his cheeks painted green, wearing hippie glasses, a green tee-shirt that says “Kiss me I’m Irish”, finished off with green skinny jeans and green converse, approaches your bar and orders a green beer slam a Heineken down, double charge him and as soon as he pays point him out to the leprechaun with the golden shillelagh and trust that swift bar justice will served.

Churchill’s Renaissance III Revisited

March 10, 2012

We survived Renaissance, barely, and once again Churchill’s Pub and Grille proved to have the best selection of craft beer and food served by the finest restaurant/bar staff in the world. That’s right, I said THE WORLD. Feel free to further expand our egos at the pub by showering us with over exaggerated compliments in regards to our exceptional skills. That being said I reiterate that some of us barely survived and that’s not even in regards to the staff. Sure we worked our asses off but you, the general drunken public, drank and ate your asses off and for that we love you.

The line to enter the pub allegedly started at 3:30 Saturday morning. We have since confirmed this to be true by consulting one of the many secret cameras we have hidden in and around the pub. By 6:30 it was already leaking out of our parking lot. When I walked up at ten it had grown to a thousand according to the crack head at the halfway house who repeatedly cursed at me to stay off his porch.

At 10:55 the staff shared one last moment of meditation followed up by a group hug. Then, the doors flung open and the madness began. People bum rushed the bar in a frenzied attempt at being the first to order Churchill’s Finest Hour. Waves and waves of customers slowly marched in and filled the entire bar, restaurant and patio. Ninety-Nine percent of the crowd was polite and patient as they realized that amongst the insanity the entire staff was doing everything in their power to keep people drunk, fat and happy. Those who were rude or impatient usually only got served once.

The vomit level was low much to the relief of our bar backs who were forced to bring their own puke buckets from home. The one glaring upheaval did unfortunately happen in the fire pit which was thankfully not on. Anyone who has ever caught a whiff of a flaming pool of vomit knows how horrible it can be and that it often leads to a ferocious cycle of group puking.

While most customers ordered efficiently so we could help them as quickly as possible there were those who decided that they were more important than all the other customers waiting for food and drink. That’s right string order boy, I am talking to you. At a quiet bar where it’s just you and your buddies making the bartender or server make multiple back to back trips for you is accepted, although still frowned upon. At a bar filled to max capacity with rabid beer aficionados foaming at the mouth to be served a drink this sort of behavior is unacceptable. If you can’t order all your drinks at once you are making others suffer. Even at my most busy and scatter brained I can handle up to eighty-one drinks in my mind at once, so please don ‘t be scared to try to overwhelm me. The quicker I move on from you the quicker I can help the cute girl in the corner, who if I keep serving in a speedy fashion may get drunk enough for you to get lucky.

Other than string orders the only other glaring ordering offense was found in those people not ready to be waited upon. As I pour beers I scan the bar and have a pecking order in mind of who I am going to serve first. It goes regulars first and then it switches to first come first serve. I generally plan out the next five people I am going to help even before I have approached any of them. If I ask you what you want and you look away to consult a friend or beer list then by the time you face the bar again all you will see is the back of my head. I will return, eventually, but that pecking order I just talked about, you’re now at the bottom.

The ultimate asshole award for the day goes to that idiot I personally had kicked out myself. While I doubt he lacks the ability to read I hope he gets a hold of this because I have a message for him.

“No, bro, I didn’t think you were drunk enough to be cut off, I just plain didn’t like you. Your constant groping and sexual harassment of every woman who walked up to bar coupled with your loud and obnoxious voice/laugh/personality/presence/face/existence was what did you in. Had I not been stuck behind the bar I would have grabbed that cell phone you were shit talking me on and shoved it so far up your ass your tongue would be text messaging every time you spoke.”

Despite these minor complaints Churchill’s Renaissance III, The Revenge of Ivan, proved to be the greatest day in the history of beer just as some brilliant writer predicted a week ago. What made it so great was the food, the beer and most importantly the people, both staff and clientele. For that I thank and applaud everyone involved in such a wonderful event. The next big pub event will be St. Patrick’s Day, which compared to the distinguished esteem of Churchill’s Renaissance will be a bro-infested slop fest filled with strewn jello shots and people’s wives being left for dead on bathroom floors. Can’t wait!

Churchill’s Renaissance

March 2, 2012

On the eve of the third Churchill’s Renaissance I encourage all to take a deep breath in preparation of what promises to be the greatest day in the history of beer in America. Believe me; I know what I’m talking about. I just finished reading a book that reported the history of beer in our fine country and besides the day when my beloved Yuengling expanded their operations down into Tampa I can’t recall a more important day in beer’s history. Our beer lineup is something sculpted from the bust of an ancient Roman warrior with many kills notched on his belt. The food will be irresistible and mouths will hungrily salivate so much people will have to spit before drinking their delicious beer so as not to water them down. There will be spittoons located in various places around the pub so please spit respectfully.

When I leave the pub tonight around 3:00 in the morning there will be overanxious campers setting up in the parking lot eager to gain the first spot in line. While I sleep this line will grow and grow and grow until it reaches down to Denny’s and back. People will be scarfing down breakfast burritos while they game plan the best way to get as many glasses of Churchill’s Finest Hour as possible. Others will work off a makeshift draft list secretly handed to them by a rogue employee and try to decide which ten tasters they should begin with. What they don’t know is that I am the rogue employee who handed them this list they are carefully studying and what they won’t realize until they make it through the pub’s doors is that it is a decoy. No, there will be no cask of Michelob Celebrate, there will be no nitro Bud Light Lime and unfortunately we just ran out of our last keg of 08 Labatt’s Blue.

Renaissance is a celebration of craft beer and food, but it is also a day where we get to celebrate the San Diego beer community. Churchill’s knows what you the general public wants and we strive to pour it down your throats. We plan to offer the best service available and know that our customers will treat us with respect and patience on such a special day. What that means is the following words will be banned from the pub that day: Bro. People using the forbidden word will be forced to drink warm PBR out of a dog bowl we plan on placing on the floor of the porta potty out front. We will allow one slip up per person but the moment your bro count exceeds one prepare for swift and harsh repercussions. We have made this rule not just for us, but for you as well since no one wants to see a forty year old man yelling bro and waving dollar bills in the air in an attempt to order a glass of white zinfandel.

The beers at Renaissance will be strong so be prepared to be drunk. The key will be to continually eat our phenomenal food throughout the day. There will be some over intoxicated people no matter how much food they consume. Please don’t judge them. This is a beer festival featuring many rare beers so to blame someone for indulging a little too much would be unfair. That is until they vomit. As soon as liquids stop entering their mouths and begin exiting them judgment is encouraged. Now this won’t happen often, but it will happen at least once. The key is to stay out of the line of fire. If you witness someone who is sweating, red in the face or shaking uncontrollably notify you nearest Churchill’s employee and we will escort this person out the door and down the street so they may vomit in a safe and isolated place. Failure to notify us may result in a lunch in your lap that wasn’t yours.

All and all Renaissance will be the most fun you’ve had since losing your virginity and I encourage all of you to join us at some point that day. While you may miss Younger or Finest hour there are 5o other incredible beers right behind them. To the dopes I passed the decoy menu off too do not expect an apology and prepare to be ridiculed when you attempt to order a taster of the bourbon barrel aged Stone Light Bro.


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