Posts Tagged ‘douche bag’

I’m No Thief

December 16, 2012

A man in his late thirties approaches my bar in the midst of a busy Friday Happy Hour. He is wearing a skin tight white tee shirt that matches his sparkly white belt that matches his 42 inch wide white watch which matches his white I Phone. Every bone in my body went on immediate douche bag alert, but being the patient man I am I fought the urge to ignore this schmuck while ridiculing him to my regulars sitting close by, and actually decided to serve him.

He orders a dirty vodka martini. After crafting a delicious cocktail for this cockbag I inform him that during Happy Hour his drink costs just four dollars and fifty cents. He gives me a five and I give him his two quarters back which he proceeds to leave on the bar for my tip. While not the desired tip of a dollar it was a tip none the less so my douche bag threat level lowered from a red to an orange (for clarification of color levels for douche bag threat levels please see George W. Bush).

Some time passes before he comes back up to the bar. He orders a dirty vodka martini again which I gladly make. I knew it had to be getting close to seven which is what time Happy Hour is over so I punched his drink into the computer and it rang up as six dollars signifying that it was actually past seven and that any Happy Hour discounts were no longer available.

I returned to captain cock knocker and placed his dirty vodka martini in front of him. He tossed five dollars on the bar. I collected his money and counted it before informing him that Happy Hour was now over and that his dirty vodka martini was actually six dollars. He gasped and gave me a disgusted look.

“Well now I have to use my credit card.”

“That’s fine sir we have no minimum on credit cards,” I replied as I placed his money back on the bar in front of him.

He let his money sit on the bar without pulling out his wallet. I looked around the bar and saw at least three customers ready to order drinks who were waiting on me to finish with this fucktard.

“What time is Happy Hour over?” he asked still not pulling out his wallet.

“7 pm sir,” I replied.

He looked at his giant white watch that was bigger than my flat screen at home.

“That’s bullshit man. Its 7:02 and I ordered at 7.”

“Happy Hour is over at 7 pm sir.”

My douche bag threat level flared back up to a red.

“Really dude?” he said.

“Really what?”

“I ordered at 7 bro.”

“As I have stated before Happy Hour is over at 7 sir.”

“Really dude?”

I scanned the bar. There were now six people waiting to order as I interacted with this asshole.

“Really what sir?”

“You’re going to do this over a dollar dude?”

Astonished at the irony of that statement I could do nothing other than just stare at him. He got the point, eventually and in between a “whatever bro” and not leaving a tip he signed his tab and carried his dirty martini away.

This sort of interaction happens all the time. It’s as if because I serve alcohol which at times makes people do shady things people just naturally assume that my intentions are always shady. Like the girl who had just turned twenty-one a couple of days earlier who wanted to complain about her two dollar and fifty cent vodka cranberry not being strong enough.

She sent her boyfriend up first who sheepishly said that his girlfriend thought her drink was weak. He was quick to say that his whiskey coke was perfect. It was clear that all he wanted was to get laid which with a grumpy and sober girlfriend wasn’t going to happen. I offered to make him a double for five dollars. He quickly accepted.

Twenty minutes passed before he returned this time with his girl on his shoulder. I finished helping another customer before approaching them.

“What can I get for you folks?”

“Uh yeah, I would like a vodka cranberry except this time could you put some vodka in it,” she said.

I was shocked; she didn’t want more vodka she truly believed that I was pouring her straight cranberry juice.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Well my first couple of drinks didn’t have any vodka in them. Last time my boyfriend came up and someone else poured him a drink that was perfect.”

I looked around. I was the only bartender there.

“Actually that was me and it was a double,” I said

“Oh, then like that.”

“You want a double then?”

“No I want a single with vodka in it like the last one you poured.”

“So you want me to pour you a double but charge you for a single.”

The boyfriend leaned in at this point.

“If you hook us up we’ll hook you up bro (shady),” he said.

“A single it is,” I said.

I walked to my well. Normally I pour about a shot and a half per mixed drink but this girl had lost that privilege. I pulled out a shot glass measured the vodka to the line and filled the glass with cranberry. I slid it to her charged her two dollars and fifty cents and she walked away without leaving a tip all because she believed that I wasn’t just short pouring her but that I wasn’t pouring any vodka in her glass at all.

Believe me when I say I have not made a living off charging people for drinks that don’t have any alcohol in them. Not putting any liquor in your drink doesn’t benefit me. Doing so would be shady and would be the equivalent of being a thief.

A thief walks into a bar hovers amongst the crowd and then snatches someone else’s property right off the bar top. Then when said thief is caught red handed and confronted about the theft they look you dead in the eye and lie saying they have never stolen anything in their life. I am not a thief, I am a bartender and a guy who thinks I’m out to rip him off for a dollar or a girl who thinks I am shady enough not to pour a product I am charging for, well, they are just morons.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND BUY MY BOOK LOVE LIFE FOR CHRISTMAS BY CLICKING ON THE LOVE LIFE LINK UP AND TO THE RIGHT FROM HERE!

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Jason C., Chicago, IL. GULPU

May 26, 2012

I don’t like to toss the words frosty and bitch around lightly, but sometimes there is no other way to describe certain females. There are just some women who make it a point to be a royal pain in the ass. There are men like that too except we call them a douche bag or asshole or dickbag. The term frosty bitch, however, is one I like to reserve for the fairer sex.

It was college night and we were slammed. I was by myself behind the bar and maintaining pretty well despite the constant stream of server tickets spewing out of my ticket printer. I pulled three tickets and on my way to making those drinks took an order from a couple at the right end of the bar. After placing six drinks in the server window I proceeded to mix the couples drinks. I served them with a smile and moved onto a group of three guys to the left of them.

They all ordered beers and on my way to the draft tower I snagged two more server tickets from the printer. As I was pouring the beers I scanned the bar. Three more server tickets had just printed out. The couple I had just served was good, the guys next to them were the ones I was serving, there was another couple to the left of them who were good and to the left of them was one guy who had just walked up and was patiently waiting with his money in hand.

I put the server’s drinks in the window and then served the three guys their beers. I gave the solo guy the head nod and then proceeded to cash out my current order. As I did that up walks a girl who I could tell from the slam of the front door had literally just walked in. She stood next to the guy I was going to help next and tried to catch my attention by bending over the bar showing her cleavage. I avoided nipple and eye contact and kept moving.

I dropped off the three guys change. Four more server tickets printed out. I approached the guy who had been patiently waiting. Before he could even begin to order this frosty bitch started waving her hand in the air.

“Excuse me I was here first.”

I ignored her and maintained eye contact with the guy. He began to order when again she waved a hand in the air.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I was like here way before him. “

I looked at her. She was in her early thirties but based on her makeup and skankified outfit it was clear she was hoping to pass for twenty-two. Her blatant attempt of looking younger was failing miserably.

“Excuse me Mam, but no you weren’t here first. I will be with you as soon as I help the customers who have been waiting longer.”

“Whatever. A gentleman would help the woman first.”

She then glanced at the guy I was originally trying to help with a crooked smile that smacked of a sickly attempt at seducing him. Instead of being interested in this forward flirt on her part he looked scared and confused. He motioned for me to help her first.

She ordered a lemon drop martini. I chilled her glass and then went about pouring the four server tickets. I placed the drinks in the server window and then began to mix her drink. The guy I had tried to help had walked away.

I put her drink in front of her and told her it would be eight dollars. She gasped in disgust.

“Really? It took long enough. I feel like that’s way too much money.”

She begrudgingly pulled her wallet out of her purse and slid a ten dollar bill across the bar. I gave her the change which she quickly snatched and put away. I saw that the guy I had tried to help before hadn’t left but had simply moved to the other side of the bar.

I went to go help him again when out of the corner of my eye I saw her reach for my fruit caddy. I was able to intervene before she stuck her grubby little hands all over my freshly cut fruit. I politely informed her that her touching my fruit was against health code and made it clear that if she wanted more fruit all she had to do was ask.

“Wow, rude. All I wanted was another lemon,” she said.

I handed her another lemon. The guy ordered a beer. The ticket printer pumped out two more server tickets. They were both beers. I poured them and then as I went to put them in the window I saw this frosty bitch with half her hand buried in the server’s fruit caddy.

I watched as she grabbed a couple of cherries and dropped them in her drink. She then stuck her dirty skank hand back in the caddy. I put the drinks down and slammed the lid of the caddy down on her. She screamed at such a high pitch it sounded like a cat was being tortured. She pulled her hand back and it was full of cherries and lemons.

“I told you not to do that once already. If you do it again I will have to ask you to leave,” I said.

She let out a defiant cackle and then threw the fruit in her hand at me. Before the fruit hit the floor I snatched her drink and threw it away. I then came around the bar and escorted her out. She kicked and screamed and cursed and skanked but her words fell upon deaf ears.

When I returned I was finally able to help the guy who had been waiting so patiently. Once he got his drink he and everyone else that had come in contact with that frosty bitch breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her leaving.


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