Posts Tagged ‘vodka’

That’s A Record

March 29, 2013

I recently received a letter from a certain four letter website that legally I am not allowed to name in this blog. I assumed it was another restraining order against me which would put my grand total up to seventeen. Upon opening it I was shocked to find out that it had nothing to do with legal rights at all. Instead it was a letter congratulating me on breaking the website’s all time record for most one star reviews in a six hour period.

At first I was highly offended and began to draw up a plan for revenge against each person who dared to say I was bad at my job. Sanity settled in shortly thereafter as I realized that the average IQ of people who write negative reviews on that slanderous four letter website is lower than that of a bag of dirt.

I received three prizes for my record setting performance. One was a free lifetime subscription to the four letter site I shall not name legally. Unfortunately since I would never set foot on such an asinine website I elected to donate that portion of my prize to the charity of my choice, “The Old Broken Down Stripper Home” located in Las Vegas, NV.

My second prize was a plaque with each review written in the blood of the human of my choice. Third was an audio version of each review read aloud by none other the President of the United States, Barack Obama. I know what you’re thinking how on earth could that be possible? Four negative reviews in 360 minutes, this guy must be the biggest schmuck in the world?

Anyone ignorant enough to say such a thing about such a fine author has obviously never experienced a Sunday Wing Night at the fine restaurant I work at. From 4pm to 10 pm I witness human beings who act like a pack of zombies who have stumbled across an elementary school at recess. Wing sauce and ranch dressing is splayed across the walls like blood from a gruesome murder scene.

Not everyone who comes through the door on a wing night is an animal. Only about thirty-four percent are. Of course that thirty-four percent is enough to drive a normally calm and quiet lad to the brink of murderous rage. They are entitled, rude, and disrespectful and swear that people who work at restaurants are complete morons.  What they don’t realize is that they are actually morons and if their own parents saw how they acted in public on wing night they would most likely commit suicide.

These four particular morons whose ridiculous personal attacks on me on social media will soon be displayed in one of their blood (guess which one) happened to all agree that I am unfit to perform my job. While obviously I dispute this ridiculous claim I will allow you, the general drunken public, to decide for yourselves.

The following is a timeline obtained from the Encinitas Police Department who were tailing me for an unrelated disturbance. These notes are from the afternoon of Sunday, March 10 2013 from the hours of 4pm (when wing night begins) and 10 pm (when wing night ends). The officer on duty gladly offered up his retelling of my interaction with all four of the swine who felt the need to shit talk me in a public forum:

4:01 PM: The restaurant manager approaches a young punk by the first fire pit. Apparently the punk has ordered a plate of wings and without eating even one asked for a to-go box. The restaurant manager explains that due to the ridiculously cheap price for wings that the special applies to dine-in customers only.

The young punk throws a fit claiming he ordered them with the intention of eating them there but he had suddenly and mysteriously lost his appetite. The restaurant manager laughs in his face, grabs him a box and tells him next week this won’t be allowed.

5:57 PM: The restaurant manager approaches a couple sat at a table by the front window. The girl who has just turned twenty-one claims there is no vodka in her vodka cranberry. The manager explains all his bartenders pour at least a shot and a half in all their mixed drinks. She argues. He offers her a free shot. She declines.

The restaurant manager brings her a free shot anyways. She begins to cry. The couple gets up to leave and despite consuming food and their drinks have done so without paying. In the middle of an extremely busy restaurant the restaurant manager has to chase the couple down in the parking lot to get payment all the while being belligerently belittled by this hysterically crying skank.

7:10 PM: The restaurant manager approaches a table of twenty-two year old stoners who are so high they can barely even complete a sentence. There are five empty plates of wings in front of the four of them. They claim that they only ordered four plates of wings yet are being charged for five. The restaurant manager points out that they ate all the wings.

The stoners refuse to pay for the wings they claim they didn’t order. There is a standoff. The restaurant manager begins to reach for his stainless steel bottle opener referred to by most as Excalibur, which it is assumed he plans to use to beat these dickbags about the head with. He thinks better of it and begrudgingly takes the wings off the bill. As they leave he informs them that he knows they ordered all five plates and that they were never welcome back.

9:35 PM: The restaurant manager approaches a table of college kids. He has been waved over by a twenty-three old blonde girl dressed like a whore. She doesn’t like her beer she ordered and wants to exchange it for something different. The restaurant manager points to the beer menu where it clearly states there are no refunds on beer and that he can get her something else but that she will be charged for both. She gasps. He asks if she would like another drink. She shakes her head no disgustedly and dismissively waves him off.

Twenty four minutes later the same future common street walker who didn’t like her beer approaches the restaurant manager as he is helping to break down the host stand. She tells him that he was rude and the way he treated her had ruined her night. She was embarrassed by their interaction and didn’t think he was equipped to handle a customer service position. She recommended he let the rest of the staff handle customers since he was such an asshole and that she would never be back. The restaurant manager gladly thanked her for that last fact.

I would like to personally thank Officer Jon Domino of the Encinitas PD for donating his notes so I could show you, the general drunken public, the kind of butt fuckery my staff and I have to deal with on a weekly basis. What I found shocking upon reflecting on my interactions with the angry reviewers who put my name in the record books was that any one of them knew how to read or write. It just goes to show what kind of low class element this wreck less four letter website that I legally can’t name empowers to be dicks.

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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!

Great Balls of Ranch

May 5, 2012

I am going to create a shot that consists of Fireball whiskey and ranch dressing. I’m thinking about naming it the Great Balls of Ranch shot but am open to name suggestions. I know this recipe of salad dressing and cinnamon flavored whiskey sounds nasty, but believe me that it is exactly what the general drunken public wants. I know this due to the fact that every time I am waiting tables everyone is always asking for ranch even if their meal doesn’t traditionally call for it. Coincidentally whenever I am behind the bar and the topic of shots are brought up everyone immediately brings up Fireball.

I moved to Southern California several years ago and it didn’t take me long to realize that people out here will put ranch dressing on just about anything. Back east ranch was mostly just reserved for salads, but out here ranch seems to be a more popular condiment than ketchup. It seems like no matter what I serve there is always a constant need for ranch to accompany every dish.

At times I wonder if most people like the taste of ranch more than the food they are eating it with. When you douse something in ranch it is nearly impossible to taste anything other than the dressing itself. That then begs the question if people prefer ranch over the food they are dipping in it why don’t we cut out the middle man? Let’s start serving ranch in a bowl with small sides of food. You can toss the food in the bowl of ranch and then get your dressing fix by the spoonful.

Anyone who works at a restaurant knows how awkward it can be if you forget someone’s side of ranch when you drop off their food.  It will be the first thing they look for. When they discover it isn’t there the rest of the table will go quiet. They will try not to make eye contact with the person or with you. The person who was expecting the ranch will address you with a very serious tone of voice as they ask if they could get the ranch they ordered. They then will stare at you with an unwavering look that makes you feel like their life may depend on your answer. It’s as if the very thought that maybe there is no side of ranch because there is no ranch is enough to drive someone to the brink of a serious mental breakdown. Once you return with their side of ranch cooler heads always prevail and then everyone else at the table decides that they would like some ranch as well.

Fireball is a Cinnamon flavored whiskey that was created by our evil neighbors to the North, the Canadians. If that alone doesn’t make it lame then just repeat the words cinnamon flavored whiskey. Whiskey is not meant to be flavored. It is supposed to taste like whiskey. That’s why they call it that. People who drink whiskey do so because they like its natural flavor. If you want to add different flavors to something then grab a bottle of vodka.

I get that you don’t want to drink whiskey. That is a personal choice that has no affect on me. However, the second you start to try to justify to me that Fireball is real whiskey you begin to invade my personal space by insulting my intelligence. Nothing you can say will make it alright to drink Fireball so let’s stop there. If you order a shot of Fireball you might as well be shooting a blonde headed slut or a white gummy bear or a pussy fart or a Washington apple or some other mixed shot meant to taste like anything but alcohol.

This is why I have come up with The Great Balls of Ranch Shot (name subject to change) to please the portion of the general drunken public that would rather bathe themselves in ranch than normal bath water and who believe that whiskey isn’t good enough on it’s own. I am combining the two seemingly most popular items at bars and restaurants and plan on selling them for ten bucks a shot. I will make a killing. No one can resist the mixture of  the two things most people prefer to put in theirs mouths. So order another round of Great Balls of Ranch and be on the lookout for, “The Ranchsickle” (patent pending), the next best thing in dessert that will be out just in time for summer.


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