Posts Tagged ‘drink’

The Bad Bartender Chronicles III

May 12, 2012

With modern technology cell phones have come a long way. Devices that used to be dedicated to just phone conversations have evolved into mini computers that allow people to avoid human contact with other people for weeks at a time. These hi-tech phones also allow people to ignore each other in a blatant manner under the guise of being busy on one’s phone. This has especially become rampant in the bar business where it seems bartenders feel like they need to constantly have their cell phone within arm’s reach.

I understand there are special circumstances. People have kids and sick loved ones and gambling problems and in the event of an emergency may need to leave the bar to take a call. However, nowadays people normally want their phone around in case they think of something witty to post on twitter or want to leave a comment on facebook every time they think of a new way to pour a cactus cooler or because they are engrossed in a new app they just downloaded that tells them what kind of panties a girl is wearing as she walks by.

There is nothing more frustrating than walking into a bar with a strong thirst for a pint and upon sitting down seeing a bartender with his back to the bar. Upon further inspection, you see that he is standing in front of the register and briefly you forgive him for breaking this golden rule of bartending. After almost a minute it becomes evident that there is no transaction being processed through the register. You peer down the bar and see that there are five people waiting all with empty glasses. The music is loud but even over it you can hear the bartender give out a chuckle. You move down a few stools for a better view and see that the bartender is too busy on his phone texting to even know that you want a drink. If you ever witness this leave whatever establishment you are at immediately.

The internet in the palm of one’s hand can be very distracting. Some people feel as if armed with this power of information they are able to answer any question or issue thrown their way. Bars have long been a place of great debate. The key to winning most debates are facts and what used to be found in dictionaries, sports almanacs and classic issues of playboy can now be found in modern day cell phones.

Of course there is always the guy who believes his fancy phone can find any piece of information no matter how obscure or asinine the fact faster than anyone else, anywhere. He wears his phone on his hip ready for any software duel. As always there is a regular game for the challenge. They draw their phones and race to find out what 1980’s movie featured the Paul Simon song that just finished playing on the jukebox.  I watch from my side of the bar as the bartender leans both elbows on the bar top as he furiously types his way through countless pages of 1980’s movie trivia. Once my glass of whiskey goes without for five minutes or more my patience wears out and I leave, never return to such a place.

A cell phone’s original purpose, once again, was to be a mobile device people could have phone conversations on. Even that most simple function of a cell phone shouldn’t be used when one is working behind the bar. Only two results can come from this, either people are going to be rudely ignored or receive shitty and absent-minded service.

For example take the girl who will continue to serve people while chatting away on the phone. You’ve seen her before. She prances around the bar mis-pouring drinks because she is only half listening to orders while the other half of her half a brain is listening to whoever is on the other side of her cell phone. It’s even worse when after fucking up she apologizes, covers the mouthpiece of the phone and mouths the words “my boss” to you. For some reason she thinks this makes it okay. If this statement is actually true then it makes me wonder why the fuck am I spending money at a bar owned by someone dumb enough to condone such behavior in their business.

The other girl will just stare at you while she talks on her phone. It is apparent whatever conversation she is holding is far more important than getting me drunk, making herself and the bar money or most simply doing her fucking job. Whether she is laughing or feigning sadness to whoever is rambling in her ear, her lack of common sense is never lost on me. Then, when I try to engage her in a last ditch effort to get my drink on, she sticks a bony smoke stained finger with a hot pink painted nail in my face signaling for me to hold on. You are supposed to put phones on hold, not people. As soon as that finger finds its way somewhere near my face I fight the urge to snap it and simply just leave.

To all the bartenders out there who are going to read this and say, “Hey bro, what’s the big deal?” I say you are in a business where making a lot of money is directly related to the happiness of the people you are serving. Talking to your boss because he or she believes they are more important than their customers means the bar they own won’t be in business much longer. Texting your friend that you can’t wait to get off work so you can get drunk is not going to put money in your tip bucket. Twittering every five minutes to keep your four followers informed on exactly what you are doing at all times is only going to leave you with an empty bar. Most importantly, to all be warned that the next time I see a bartender using their cell phone behind the bar I am going to snatch it and stuff it in a very dark place. I encourage you, the general drunken public, to do the same.

 

 

Advertisements

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.

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.

You’re Cut Off!

February 19, 2012

I take pride in serving alcohol in a responsible manner and over the years have had to cut off a lot of people. Its funny how once people reach the point of being cut-off they all share common personality traits. There are five stages a drunk goes through when they reach the point of being cut-off. Not every drunk achieves all five stages, but I guarantee most of them will and those that don’t will possess at least one of them.

Stage one is denial.

“I’m not drunk bro.”

“Are you serious? This is only my ninth drink.”

“No I haven’t been drinking elsewhere.That Coors Light can I threw in your ashtray was trash I found on my way in.”

They will argue in favor of their sobriety despite slurred speech and unstable legs that leave them swaying. What’s amazing is that they try so hard to act sober they forget that we are. I am the one who served you those three Long Island’s so I know you’re shitfaced.

Stage two is justification.

“My girlfriend just cheated on me.”

“It’s my bachelor party/birthday/new baby.”

“I’m not driving.”

The driving justification is by far the most commonly used. I applaud the responsibility you are taking in not driving drunk, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you pass out in a pool of your own vomit while you wait for a cab ride home. The bottom line is I am not going to risk my livelihood because the person you voted for on American Idol got voted off nor would I because your long lost mother just overdosed on pain killers. It doesn’t matter why, all that matters is you’re cut-off.

Stage three is a mix of bribery, financial posturing and threat of legal action.

“I will pay you seventy-five dollars for a shot of Jager.”

“Do you know who I am? I could buy and sell this place in a heartbeat.”

“I’m calling my lawyer and am going to sue the fuck out of this place.”

It’s funny how when people get really drunk they become extremely wealthy and have a team of lawyers on the ready to financially rape anyone who does their super client wrong. It’s even funnier when that person is a twenty-two year old pretty boy with skinny jeans and an open chest shirt that just ten minutes earlier could barely scrounge together four bucks for a beer of the month. The bottom line is it doesn’t matter how much money you have spent in the past, how much money you were going to spend in the present or how much money you might spend in the future. A good bar sees past money and puts more faith in their reputation than the bottom line.

Stage four is the stage of verbal threats of physical harm.

This stage is most popular with the guys. Once you tell a man he can’t drink for some reason he equates that to you questioning his manhood. In retaliation to their liquid castration they believe fighting is the only answer.  A fight is usually evaded and even if it occurs I will take a sober pair of fists over a drunken pair, especially when there are multiple employees and regulars ready to defend the honor of the bar.

When women engage in this stage it can get downright vulgar. An angry intoxicated woman is one of the most dangerous creatures known to man. Get ready for the curse words to flow and believe it or not expect some physical threat to be involved. They might not threaten that they will fight you, but their “crazy” boyfriends will crush your spine with their pinkie. They will tell you how small your penis is and on occasion accuse you of being a racist, as one blonde hair, blue eyed Italian did, clearly not knowing that my last name is Avella.

Stage five is a total emotional breakdown.

This is my least favorite stage. I would much rather get punched in the face then have to deal with some weeping guy who just wanted to fight me five minutes ago drunkenly sob into my shoulder. There is generally a reference to their justification stage before Niagara Falls officially opens up on their face. This stage can last all night and the level of babysitting involved is nauseating, but necessary. If they slip back to stage four because you are being a dick about them crying then beware of the wounded tear soaked bro now with double public castrations to overcome.

With over a 1000 cut offs on my stat sheet I wouldn’t say I’m an expert, but believe me I am. As an expert and dedicated social researcher I promise to bring more reports from the front lines of human douchebaggery and the absence of sense amongst the over intoxicated masses.


%d bloggers like this: