Posts Tagged ‘drunk’

Howl of the Hyenas

June 9, 2012

Hyenas are canine-like animals that hunt in packs and are known as skilled hunters and opportunistic scavengers. They are widely considered to be vile creatures that feed on babies and will attack whatever weak prey they can find. Just recently I have discovered that the hyena species has evolved into a new form, a human one.

Anyone who has ever been down to Carlsbad is familiar with the term cougar. It is used for a woman over thirty-five who is interested in dating men who are at least seven years younger than them. There is nothing wrong with that, but young men beware. That older woman who just bought you a jager bomb and is now fondling your junk might not be the friendly cougar you pegged her for. Be wary, because she might a Human Female Hyena and the rest of her pack could be circling you from the shadows.

Much like their animal counterpart Human Female Hyenas are always on the lookout for an opportunity to scavenge a kill. By last call at a lot of bars scattered all across the country if a Human Female Hyena has yet to make a kill their desperation to receive some younger dick reaches a frightening level. They prowl the bar looking for the easiest prey. The drunker and lonelier looking the guy the higher the chance that they will be attacked.

From a distance or in a dimly lit establishment a lot of Human Female Hyenas look fairly attractive. It is likely that in their younger days before pregnancy, divorce, alcohol and random dick turned them into raging bitches that they were at least somewhat sexy. This is why so many young, drunk and horny men are easily lured back to the den of the Human Female Hyena, a vicious skankdom littered with cobwebs, KY and broken promises. Once the dim light of the bar goes out and the allure of the alcohol wears off the Human Female Hyenas true form is revealed. As the morning light seeps into the den most victims upon seeing what lies next to them flee as quickly as possible.

In the wild Hyenas are prone to cannibalistic tendencies and in some instances have been known to eat other Hyenas young. Human Female Hyenas aren’t quite that extreme but they will turn on the pack if they believe it will help them make a kill. I have witnessed two Human Female Hyenas square off in an attempt to seduce a male target. It normally will begin with a who can be the sluttiest dancer contest. If the potential victim buys these Human Female Hyenas enough shots the duel usually escalates to hand jobs in the men’s room. The end result is a Human Female Hyena fight that can only be broken up by the most elite of door guys. According to someone much younger than me videos of these Human Female Hyena fights are all the rage on YouTube.

In some scenarios Human Female Hyenas are married but do not allow their wedding vows to get in the way of prowling the town for some strange. Be aware that married Human Female Hyenas are the most aggressive and putrid version of their species. As they enter a room it becomes filled with the stench of untreated vaginal diseases and vodka red bulls. The jukebox is usually their first stop where they pump the machine full of songs their kids listen to and then scream as each new song begins to play. Dancing ensues and if no young men approach them they begin to grind on whatever random guy is in their near vicinity.

I have been observing a particular pack of married Human Female Hyenas and have been disturbed with my findings. They seem to be a more desperate version of their species making them all the more dangerous. I have witnessed one in an attempt at seduction tell one of my fellow researchers that she wanted to take him to the alleyway out back and “lick his face.” Clearly this Human Female Hyena was so removed from society that she had forgotten what would even pass for a proper come on.

Several nights later while observing the same Human Female Hyenas I was approached by what looked like the leader of the pack. She fell on her way in and blamed her shoes. Based on the state of the pack it was clear this was not the first bar they’d skanked with their presence that evening. The leader, who is usually the best looking but is always the craziest bitch of the bunch ordered an ice water in an attempt to maintain her sobriety long enough to complete a kill. As she drank it she watched the rest of her pack who had found a group of nerds they could easily prey upon.

“Look at those sluts. All those bitches over there are married,” she said as she stared at me. “Isn’t that disgusting?”

I nodded and looked at the pack. Two of them were already making out with guys. I looked back at the leader. She was staring at me. I tried to avoid eye contact as best as I could. I noticed she was wearing a wedding ring. She put her water down and took my hand into hers. She began to caress it.

“You hate my husband.”

She was staring intently into my eyes as she said this.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I said, you hate my husband.”

“Mam, I don’t believe I know your husband.”

She leaned in closer to me.

“I hate my husband more than you do.”

I pulled back feeling a trap being set. She continued to stare at me when suddenly the song on the jukebox changed. She screamed and ran over to her pack to go grind a helpless nerd. I was able to slip away into the shadows unharmed.

I was one of the lucky ones, but I fear that I am in the minority. This cross breed of hyenas and women are a cunning bunch and are not to be taken lightly. Beware of packs of half attractive older woman rubbing up on any young man available because if you’re not careful you might end up back in the den without protection, and a Human Female Hyena may just fuck you for life.

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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.

 

 

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.

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.


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