23 April 2012

10 More Bartending Rants

Just so everyone knows... these rants are the result of years of tending bar. Once again, none of these are about any one person. 

Number One
"Here's the money for the beer. Or for you, which ever..." 
Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. 

Seriously? 

Would you do that at Walmart, or the gas station, or anywhere else for that matter? 

Could you imagine telling a sales clerk, "Here's the 20.00 for the shirt I'm buying, unless you just want to keep the money for yourself... which would be, you know, illegal as fuck, not to mention immoral."

Sure, the beer is only $2.00.
Where I come from though, stealing is still fucking stealing, whether it's two dollars, two hundred or two thousand.
If I had any respect for you when you came in the bar?
I don't have any now.
Jack-off.

Number Two
"...and she wants a shot of (insert name of whatever shot she absolutely does not want here). Don't listen to her she wants it, just get her one. No really, she'll take it, just give it to her..."
Please don't make me sell you a shot of water that she can pretend is alcohol just to shut you up.

Number Three
When I ask you what you would like to drink, don't ever say, "A shot of [blank] and your phone number."
 It's not smooth. 
It's not going to work.
You look like a fucking douche bag. 
Stop it.

Number Four
"Can I take my drink with me?"
Um. 
No. 
Especially not now, since I know you are going to.
People sneak drinks out, we all know this. 
We can't let you waltz out the damn door while you're sipping it. 
It's against the law. 
If I catch you doing it, and you attempt to sneak it out another door? It makes me want to hit you with anything that I happen to have handy. 

Number Five
"How much is Jager? Oh. Well, how much is Jose? Goldschlager? Stoli? All the other liquors I can think of to do a shot of?"

Holy shit man.

 I don't have the time or the patience to list the price of every fucking liquor in the building. 
If you want a $2.00 shot? Ask me what we have for $2.00.

Number Six
"You charge for pop/juice/bottled water?"
Um.
Well.
Yeah.
Since there is no magical free-pop/juice/bottled water-bearing fairy, someone has to pay for it.
Which means we have to charge you for it.
That's how business works. 
If we buy shit to give away, we probably won't be doing it for very long.

Number Seven
Ladies?
Before you dance up on a band member, or try to sing into his microphone, or begin some prepubescent game of steal-the-hat-from-the-guitar-player, or attempt to fondle any part of any member of the band?

You should maybe consider the fact that the band might have a long list of loved ones at the bar to watch them perform.

 It embarrasses me to watch you and know that the guy's mother is sitting at the front table, or that his wife/kids/girlfriend/ are there to watch him perform. 
Or that it's the first gig his extended family could all make it out to and that it is quite possibly his grandmother, grandfather, two aunts, his uncle and thirteen cousins sitting at the table.

Maybe also consider that the entire bar is watching the band, while you are trying to grab the singer's balls.

I'm not telling you not to have a good time, just maybe think about what you're doing. 
Ask the guy if his family is there, or if he's single, or at least consider whether what you are about to do could be prosecuted as sexual assault.

I guess I could say the same thing about the men and women performers, except I can't recall seeing a man make such a complete ass out himself with a female performer in front of the entire bar.

Wait. 
That's a lie.

I've seen men try to sing with the band.
 I've never seen men try to dance on members of the band like they were fucking stripper poles.
Not in any of the bars I've worked in, or drank in. 
So I'm guessing that it's a drunk girl thing.

Number Eight
You are wearing a skirt, for fuck's sake, wear underwear.
Probably someone, somewhere, wants to see your shit.
I don't.
Enough said.

Number Nine
"The other bartender know's what I'm drinking..." 

Super.

The other bartender is filling an order for 36 shots of 12 different liquors... so how about you tell me what the fuck you want instead of making me interrupt what she is doing?

If you don't know?

 I mean, if you really don't know what you are drinking?

I am going to sign you up for some Stranger-danger class or something.

In case no one has ever told you, I'm going to tell you now;
If someone says to you, "Here, drink this. Don't worry about what it is, you'll like it..."
You should probably not fucking drink it.

You should probably start yelling that the guy is not your daddy and run to the nearest grown up for help. 
Unless...
You are one of those, "can you make me something fruity" people, in which case, you fucking suck.
Stop it.

Number Ten
THE FUCKING CHEWING GUM AGAIN.
Are you under the impression that we throw the ashtrays away every night and get new ones in the morning?
Does it simply not occur to you that if you put anything, anywhere in the bar, someone is going to be cleaning it up? 
I realize you pay for your service... but maybe consider the fact that picking your gum out of the ashtrays is a pain in ass and also that IT'S FUCKING GROSS. 
I'm not asking you to mix your own drinks or get your own food. 
I'm simply asking for a little... NOT PICKING YOUR FUCKING GUM OUT THE ASHTRAY AT THE END OF THE NIGHT...kind of courtesy.



19 April 2012

I am going to have to rename this blog Krissy's Bitchy Bartending

One must assume, from the last four posts on this blog, that I hate my job, or that I am an incredibly bitchy bartender.

Neither is true. I love my job and I am only bitchy on occasion.

I guess I could write all the good things about my job, but that isn't nearly as much fun for me... or my readers.

So, to keep you entertained and also to keep my brain from exploding, here are just a few more examples of  jack-off/dick headed/stupid bar bitch behaviors that drive me insane as a bartender.

Do not park your motorcycle in front of the door and rev your fucking engine. I'm sure that someone, somewhere thinks you look like a hard core biker and that you must be super fucking awesome. No one in the bar thinks so because we are choking on the exhaust fumes, and I am probably saying that you are a jack-off out loud, which is something I reserve for extremely rare occasions.

"What do you mean a six pack is..." X amount of dollars? "They are only $6 at the liquor store."
Super.
You aren't at a liquor store, now are you?
You can pay the extra 2 dollars for a six pack at 3am or you can wait until the liquor store opens.

"You can't call last call yet... it's only 2:58." Which is weird, since I just did.

"Well, there goes your tip, and I was gonna give you $5"...Well, woo-fucking-hoo. If I am irritated enough to be rude to you, I really don't care about your tip.

No, I am not making your drinks weaker... You can no longer taste the alcohol because you are fucking drunk. But in an effort to keep you happy, I will splash some vodka on the top.

If I keep forgetting to get you the shots you ordered it's because you are drunk and I am trying to slow you down without cutting you off.

I know that there is going to be cocaine in a bar. At least have the fucking respect to be discreet about it, Asshole.

Don't. Sell. Drugs. 
At least not in my bar to my customers. I could give a fuck about the drugs people do and where they do them, but when you come into my bar and sell my customers Xanax, only one of two things can happen. Either they are going to pass out on my bar, at which point I am obligated to check their pulse every few minutes, or they are going to become raging fucking assholes when they mix it with liquor. And I am going to have to deal with it.
So don't do it.
Fuck stick.

"I'll take your garbage out for a free beer..." Or not, since the boss is paying me to take the garbage out. I doubt he wants to pay you with beer to do my job.

I sincerely doubt that you didn't notice your tampon landed on the floor instead of in the garbage. Pick it up, you nasty fucking bitch.

How would you like to clean up my vomit? If you miss the john - grab a fucking paper towel and clean it up. If you miss the bathroom altogether, I will hand you a mop.
 No shit. 

Stop telling me that you are drunk. I am not supposed to serve drunk people. *This one? I do it all the time. Every time I get drunk, in fact.*

If I spill your drink, I will give you another one. If you spill your own drink, why in the hell would you ask if you have to pay for another one?

I pour the shot glass to the rim because the bar is dark and I am as blind as a fucking bat. I don't do it on purpose to make you spill it on yourself.
Usually.

There are ashtrays all over the damn bar. Why is so fucking hard for you to use one instead of throwing your butts on the floor?

"Put it on so and so's tab." No, not unless so and so is here to agree that it's on his tab.

"Oh my god that's my ex-boyfriend..." covers face with hand.
Right, because I am totally believing that you didn't know he was here.
Stalker.

Odd.
 I am feeling all kinds of well adjusted since I began all this venting and ranting.



18 April 2012

Other things that drive me absolutely bat shit crazy behind the bar....

By request, for Lea Anne.

You are thirsty. 
Parched.
 Absolutely going to fucking die if you do not get a beer right the hell now. You call me all the way down from the other end of the bar with an intensity usually reserved for arterial bleeds, and then? 
You don't know what you want to drink. 
You suck.
Stop it.

If you come in and stand at the bar, I'm going to ask you what you want to drink. Maybe twice. If you don't answer me, I am going to walk away. I have other people to serve. Don't give me dirty looks like I am neglecting you ten seconds later.

Similarly, I get your drink as quickly as I can. Do not take your sweet ass time pulling the money out of your pocket while you look around the bar. If you do? I will return the favor and take my sweet ass time getting your next drink.

"Hey!"
 Don't fucking do that. 
Call me Miss, call me bar keep, call me nurse, call me asshole, call me any - motherfucking - thing but hey. 
In a crowded bar, if you scream out "hey!" I don't know what the you want. I don't know if you need a beer or if  you just saw your old friend, or someone took your beer, or if the guy behind you just squeezed your nuts.
Knock it the hell off.

"What do you mean you don't have [insert name of obscure beer that only three people in the whole world have ever heard of]?" 
Of course we don't have it. No one fucking has it. You are entirely too cool to drink normal beer, we get it. There is no need for you to list six or eight other obscure micro brewed beers before settling on a Budweiser.

"What kind of beer/shots do you have?" 
We have beer and fucking shots. 
Are you really going to make me list every brand of beer in the cooler? Why don't you ask me if we have something you want? If you don't know see the first item on this list.

"I want a shot but I don't know what I want." 
Why are you telling me this? 
I took a shit this morning.
 The relevance is similar. 
I am not going to suggest anything because I don't know what you like to drink. 

Never, ever, ever tell me to surprise you with a shot. It is annoying as hell and I am going to go out of my way to make you drink something you really, really don't want to.

"Can you make me something fruity?" and then, "Oh no, I hate pineapple juice/orange juice." and also, "Ugh. I hate vodka..."
You fucking suck.
Knock it the hell off.

Don't stare blankly at me when I ask if you would like another beer while you struggle with your inner turmoil over the issue.
It's a fucking beer.
I didn't ask you to marry me for God's sake.

I'm busy. Don't hold onto your money when I try to grab it. It isn't even a little bit cute.

You insist you're buying, he insists he's buying. You go back and forth for five minutes while I am standing there waiting for someone to pay for the fucking beer. 
Stop it.
 It's annoying and awkward for me.

I understand you want to be left alone once in a while. If you tell me that you're not there when the phone rings, I will lie for you.
I will not do it everyday.
 At some point, I'm gonna have to suggest that you lie to your own wife.

Some people make it very clear that they do not want people to buy them beer. Don't insist on buying them a beer. It's awkward for me and it makes me want to hit you with something.

Similarly, don't be the guy that tells me you don't want anyone to buy you a beer. Make my life easier and just take the free beer. 

17 April 2012

Dear Everyone Else; Bartending Rants and Truths

These are just some truths about my job that some of you may or may not know...

Dear Bar Owners,
I understand that you cannot trust me right away. Honest bartenders are few and far between and worth their weight in gold.

I understand the fact that you are placing your livelihood in my hands when you leave me to tend the bar. But give me some goddamn credit in the intelligence department for fuck's sake.
Even the most idiotic criminal is not going to steal $100 from the register and leave it on the books to be discovered. I have seen the most creative ways to rob a bar blind, none of them were that fucking simple.

If my drawer is short - it is not because I am ringing up drinks and not putting money in the register.
How fucking retarded do you think I am?
 It's more likely because I have over rang something or given someone the wrong change... in other words, an honest fucking mistake that I don't mind mind paying you for.

Worse that being short in the register? The bar tender that is consistently over in the drawer, because chances are they are putting the money in the drawer and not ringing in the sale with the intention of removing the money later.

Do not bar people and then turn around and let them back into the bar. The few dollars that you make off of them is not worth the bullshit they cause that we have to put up with when people realize they can essentially get away with fucking murder in your bar with no repercussions.

Do not tell me to serve someone that I have already cut off unless you are prepared to come in and cover my shift. Again, the money is not worth the bullshit they cause that I have to deal with. 

Do not listen to the shit people say about your bartenders. Rumors spread through bars like wild fires. They are almost always based on speculation and warped beyond reason. 
Use your fucking common sense.

Dear Regular Customers

Laws are laws. 
Do not ask for favors,.
I don't care how many nights a week you drink in the bar. I don't care how well I known you, if your new girlfriend comes in with a birth certificate, car registration and an affidavit signed by Jesus, I am still not going to serve her if she does not have a photo ID.

Similarly, in Indiana, carry out is illegal on Sundays. Don't ask me to slip you a six out the back.

Don't tell me that so and so let you do what ever the fuck it is you want me to let you do. 
I don't care. 
I am not so and so. 
Not only are you asking me to put the bar at risk of a fine, you are asking me to jeopardize my license.

I sell beer and guns. These are not incredibly marketable skills, and if you are asking me to jeopardize my license and therefore my livelihood, don't be surprised when I ask you if you are prepared to feed my children and pay my bills for the foreseeable future.

I am not trying to be a bitch or ruin your night, I just have kids to feed.

Also, stay the fuck out from behind my bar.

Dear Everyone Else,

Don't.

 Fucking. 

Touch.

 Me.

Just because I serve you beers does not grant you license to grab my ass, unless you would like me to squeeze your balls.
Hard.
You too, Ladies. Just because you don't have a dick doesn't mean it is okay to slap my ass. 
Ever.

No, you can not tuck a tip into my cleavage.
 Go to a strip club.
 Shit head..

Stop asking me to confirm or deny rumors about the bar or the bartenders. I just work here, I don't own the fucking place. Plus? Chances are whatever you have heard is bullshit.

Stop telling me what you think the owners should do with the place, or how they can make more money. Again, I just work here. I can't do anything about it and I probably don't care.

Yes, I will give you a hug when you leave. 
Unless I won't. 
Which probably means you give me the creeps.

I have just worked a 10 hour shift, I have to get up in three hours and get my kids to school, I don't get to go back to bed. Don't make me stay any later than I have to.

I appreciate that you are concerned for my safety, however, if I don't ask you to stay because I am uncomfortable, don't feel like you have to. I am a big girl and I can handle it. If I can't? I shouldn't be a bartender.

My liability ends when I offer to get you a cab ride home. I am not arguing about your driving your drunk ass home because I have to. I am arguing because I care what happens to you and to everyone else on the road when you leave. 
Trust my judgment.

I don't think you are an asshole if you get in a fight. 
I think you are an asshole if you get in a fight inside my bar. 
Take it outside. 
Otherwise my customers get uncomfortable and leave, shit get broken and I have to clean up blood. 
Go outside and kill each other if you want to. Just don't make your stupid shit my problem.

I would rather serve you past the point of inebriation than cut you off and risk you deciding to drive to another bar and continue drinking.

Do not talk down about other people at the bar. Chances are you have been that fucked up and obnoxious at some point in time and I will be obligated to remind you of it.

YOU ARE NOT FUCKING WHISPERING! Sometimes I tell you to shut the fuck up because I am trying to save your life, not to be rude.

I'm human. I make mistakes. If I fuck your tab up, tell me calmly and rationally and I will either fix it or explain it to you. Don't be a dick about it.

Do not ask me to pour you a drink and make it a good one. Pay for a fucking double if you want one. It may seem harmless to you, but over pouring can sink a small business FAST. 

Don't tell me which other bars you frequent are hiring.
 Loyalty is important to me. 
Similarly, don't talk shit about other bars or bartenders to me or to my customers. Call me silly, but I would like to see everyone succeed. Competition is competition but there is no reason to be an asshole about it.

That's all for today. Jeez I am feeling all refreshed just venting all this crap.


16 April 2012

Dear Random Drunk Broken Girls: More Bartending Rants

Well I can't call out all the dick headed behavior of past male bar patrons without saying a little something about the ladies. I have a lot of fun at my job, and I do not want to seem like I hate women. The vast majority are fantastic and a lot of them tip better than the guys do. It's always the bad examples that stick out in my head though.

As I said in the last entry? 
If you can identify with any of these examples? 
You're a dumbass. 
Stop it.

Point One:
 I do not want anything to do with your husband/boyfriend/lover/guy you picked up at the last bar or what ever the fuck you want to call him. I go out of my way to take your order first, serve you your drink first and make more eye contact with you so that I don't seem rude. I make a conscious effort to not be over friendly or come across as flirting with the guy you are with. I am not going to be outright fucking rude to the poor bastard just to make you feel better.

If he comes into the bar on a regular basis and I know him and am friendly with him when he comes in alone, I am not going to be a dick to him because you are there with him. Giving me dirty looks, rolling your eyes and just being a fucking bitch in general is not going to change my demeanor. Plus? I suggest you develop some self-esteem or start drinking at a gay bar or something. Feel free to piss on the guy's leg if you really want to mark your territory, just wait until after he pays for the beer.

Point Two:
Don't tell me what a slut or a bitch another girl in the bar is; it only makes me think less of you.
I do not judge people as a rule.
 I don't care how many men I see you come in with or go out with or make out with in the corner. 
I can not tell you how much of a fuck I do not give if you are blowing or banging anyone or everyone in the parking lot. 
Who and what you do is your own damn business and I don't really care much one way or another...
but don't fuck in the bathroom .
 Someone has to clean it at the end of the night.
Go the fuck home.

While I am on that subject... what the Hell do girls do in the bathroom? It is always ten times nastier than the men's room.

Point Three:
STOP PUTTING YOUR MOTHERFUCKING CHEWED UP GUM IN THE ASHTRAY!! 
I want to kill you every single time I have to pick it out.

Point Four:
You're hot. 
Or you think you're hot. 
It doesn't even matter. 
You come in with $100 highlights and $60 fake nails and stand around waiting for someone to buy you a drink. Then you bitch because you just can't seem to find a "good man".
Are you fucking kidding?
Stop it. 
Really.
Buy your own beer.
You are a horrible representation of women. Of humanity, really.

Point Five:
I'm not fucking stupid. I know that YOU know exactly what you are doing when you're doing it. Don't act innocent and scared when your ex-boyfriend beats the shit out of your current date, or the other way around.
 You did it. 
We both know it. 
Sell that bullshit to someone else.

Similarly, you aren't that god damn precious, Princess. 
Some poor bastard stands in the corner looking all nervous and smiling whenever you so much as look in his direction. You whisper to me that he is stalking you and then take the shots he wants to buy for you. 
Games piss me off. 
Using other people pisses me off and I hope you end up living in a trailer with eight kids, four dogs and a useless fucking  husband.

Unless he really is a stalker...in which case I will be happy to dial 911 for you. 
Or ball bat the guy.
Whichever.

Point Six:
Games. 
Fucking stop it.
If you want to sit next to the guy and drink and flirt? Don't be surprised when he makes a pass at you. I saw it coming hours ago and so did you. 


If he grabs your ass? 
Smack the shit out of him. 
If he tries to kiss you? 
Tell him no and walk the fuck away.
Do not begin yelling and motherfucking the guy like he just tried to chloroform you and drag you out to the parking lot.
Do not attempt to entice a fucking riot in the bar. 
 I am going to be on his side unless he is truly out of line.
Playing the victim when you are not also pisses me the fuck off.
Grow up.

Point Seven:
If you tell me you are a bartender somewhere local and drink in my bar for the evening, I will make it a point to come see you at your bar. I don't even really know why. It's some sort of Sisterhood of Bartenders or some shit.

If you tell me that you used to be a bartender sometime, somewhere, I really don't care. You still get the same treatment as everyone else. There is no secret Sisterhood of Bartenders Past.

Similarly, why are you telling me that you are trying to get a job at this bar? I can't help you, I just work here.

Point Eight:
I care a great deal about many of my regular customers. I have known a lot of those guys for years... 
So yes, I know which guys are available, which ones are married, who has a good job, making good money with BCBS insurance and which ones are unemployed and broke.
 No.
 I won't tell you.
You gold-digging fake ass bitch.

Point Nine:
I don't mind when you get fucked up and I end up holding onto your keys. And purse. And phone. And coat. 
Shit happens.
I don't mind paying for your cab or giving you a ride home at the end of the night.

Don't expect it every time you come out though. I am a bartender, and while I do care if you get home safely, I am not a babysitter and you are a very big girl now.
Act like it.

Point Ten:
God knows I understand being broke. 
I don't look down on anyone, male or female, for asking a friend to buy them a beer. If you want to sit there and cry your eyes out because your husband left you or your boyfriend turned out to be gay, go ahead. 
I'll probably buy you a beer myself.
But if you come into the bar on my shift and ask my regular customers to buy you drinks every fucking night and bawl about the same damn story or the same worthless piece of shit?
I'm going to cut you off and send you home and refuse to serve you the next time you come in. 
Your drama runs my tipping customers off and I'm doing you a favor by forcing you to sober up and find a fucking job.

 If your life keeps breaking in the same place, and everyone keeps fucking you over? It's probably not the rest of the world. I would bet money on it being you and you're gonna have to look a little deeper than the bottom of that glass, Sweetheart.

Dear Random Jack-offs: Bartending Rants

I never set out to become a bartender. I took the job because I was young and broke and had a baby to feed. I discovered quickly that I loved it. I love the pace of it, the interaction with people. I am one of the few fortunate people that can genuinely say that I love my job. 

Usually.

I've been thinking about my job lately, and about the patrons at various bars. I have bartended shit holes and night clubs. I have run my ass off in hooker boots and also worked in my pajamas on one boss-is-desperate occasion. I love people. I really do. I refuse to see less than the best in everyone I meet... Until they actually show me their worse parts.

Since I have been all inspired to release my frustrations by Seth's blog, which can be read here,here are a few of my observations, and also some advise, in case you can identify with any of the situations detailed below. 
If you can?
 Stop it. 
Stop it right the fuck now.

Point One:
Do not assume that since I am a bartender I am also a drug user. It pisses me the fuck off. I do not assume that since you are in the bar alone you are looking to cheat on your wife. If I wasn't a high-energy, outgoing person by nature, I would have never been a bartender in the first place.

Along those same lines, do not offer me drugs as a tip. I am here to feed my kids. I can not feed my kids cocaine, you fuck stick. Also, if you are that fucking stupid as to offer me pills, coke or weed as a tip? Do not expect me to let you in on the fact that the other guy at the bar is a cop. 

Point Two:
There is nothing wrong with being a stripper. Still, I am not a stripper. I'm a bartender. Don't ask me to see my tits. For any amount of money. Go to a strip club if you want to pay to see boobs. Furthermore, you are a jack- off.

Point Three:
Don't tell me you know the owner and expect special treatment. Everyone knows the owner. Everyone is the owners best fucking friend. Don't expect it to get you anywhere. I'm going to treat you like anyone else unless the owner tells me to my face that you are his best friend and can drink for free... Which never happens, by the way. A bar is a fucking business... Plus? I don't believe you and it makes you look like an asshole.

Point Four:
No matter how much money you spend at the bar while I am working, it is not my shit to give away. If you make me feel bad enough to buy you a round, I'm taking it out of my tip jar and therefore away from my family. 
Knock it the fuck off. 

Point Five:
You can't bullshit a bullshitter. I've heard it all. Even if you really are in a loveless marriage and your wife is a castrating bitch who won't have sex with you anymore...I will nod, smile, advise you to seek a divorce, take your tip money and still not let you get in my pants. 

Similarly, that young lady you are trying to get drunk and take home? Do not expect or assume that I will lie for you, or watch you lie to her. I am going to tell her that you are married when you get up to pee. I may or may not embellish the truth with a little white lie that you are not only married, but you have five kids, no job and herpes. Because I can respect honesty, but playing games with people pisses me right the hell off.

Point Six:
Tips do not buy loyalty. If you are an asshole at the end of the night, even if you do tip 100% on every single beer, you're still an asshole and I will still kick you out. 

Point Seven:
Don't be the guys standing toe to toe talking shit to each other. It doesn't make you look like anything more than a pussy. I won't step in. I will stand behind the bar and laugh at you because if you were gonna do something, you'd have done it. 
Instead? You are standing in the middle of the bar, yelling at each other like school girls.
Furthermore, you're a jack-off.
 Knock it off.

Similarly, leave the bar fights to me. If I need help, I'll yell for it. While I appreciate your concern for my safety, your involvement before that point will only intensify the situation and then you are going to go to jail or the hospital and I am going to have to clean up blood. 

Also, if the guy you were talking shit to for banging your girlfriend ten years ago in high school later gets drunk, grows balls, and sucker punches you....I can't really blame him  and I won't choose sides. 

If you are only beginning to talk shit and the other person decks you instead of talking shit back, I can't really blame him either. You shouldn't step into the shit if you aren't prepared for it. Like my friend T says, if you are going to be stupid, you better be tough.

Point Eight:
While I can match you shot for shot and still be drinking while you are drooling on my bar, there is a lot of shit I have to do before I get to go home. I appreciate the offer to buy me a drink, but save it for when I am on the other side of the bar and give me the two bucks as a tip.

I know you mean well, so you are not a jack-off.

Point Nine:
Money isn't everything, you fucking egotistical, self-important douchebag. If you see someone only leave me a 50 cent tip, or a dollar, or nothing at all after drinking for a while? Keep your fucking mouth shut. 
Maybe you think you are helping me out by giving the guy a little shit as he walks out.
 Maybe you think he is being an asshole or trying to insult me. 
Maybe you think he's a loser.
 I don't care.
 I probably know that the guy hasn't worked in months and that his mom sick and going downhill fast and that he has a family to take care of... and that the 50 cents on the bar is really all he can afford to leave. Maybe you think he shouldn't be in a bar if he can't afford to tip. Maybe you should not be a fucking cock holster and just keep your mouth shut about shit you know nothing about.
Making that borderline suicidal guy feel even worse just makes you- right, you guessed it- a jack-off.

Point Ten:
An apology goes a hell of a long way. I know, probably better than most people, that alcohol can cause people to do and say fucked up shit. If you are out of line, or rude, or start a fight on my shift or are just generally an asshole? A simple "I'm sorry for being a dick the other night." means a lot to me. 

People get drunk and do dumb shit. I don't judge people because of it. Shit happens. If, however, you find yourself having to apologize for every evening you spend in the bar? You are probably just a jack-off and should consider a twelve step program. 

Tomorrow maybe I'll do one for the ladies....

12 April 2012

Dead Pigs, Homicide, Hammers and Communism

I warned him before he came to meet me for beers that I was in one of those moods, frustrated and emotional and cranky. I told him maybe he would be taking his life into his own hands by coming up to drink with me. T did not believe me. T has the balls to ask what is wrong and the floodgates open after the second tequila.

I tell him about work, about how I keep getting laid off from the bar we are drinking at. I tell him that it seems like I simply can't get my shit together and talk about how much I loved bartending there.. I complain about money and work and $4 a gallon gas and then mention that just in general? Life blows right now. I tell him how I feel about my marriage and maybe cry a little bit when I try to explain that I feel like I should be able to be happy, how I wanted to keep our family together, but that I was going to have to leave anyway because I simply can't do it any more. 

We argue about my feeling like a bad person because I am unable to simply suck it up and just be happy not being unhappy. I mention that I love my husband, that I love hanging out with him, but that we are unable to really have a relationship, with all that we have been through this last year. I tell him how much I love to see Husband smiling and laughing and being a good dad and that I don't want to ruin it. I wonder if I am a selfish prick for not being able to go on this way. 

He makes valid points, tells me everything that I would have told someone else, but I don't care. I am all sad and feeling sorry for myself. I maybe tell him to shove his irritating optimism up his ass before steering the conversation back to shallow waters by discussing the state of communism in China. 

I think we were arguing in earnest about my stubborn refusal to see less than the best in everyone when Boss Lady bounces up to the bar and shows me a paper. She tells me that they are going to have a hog roast at the bar. T offers to fill the bar with bikers and then asks if I am working Saturday. I tell him that I am unemployed at the same time Boss Lady tells him that I am bartending Saturday.

I am thoroughly confused by this, so I do the only thing I can think of and offer to kill the pig for the hog roast. With a hammer. Because I like hammers.

 I pluck the list out of Boss lady's hand and begin to write "kill pig" on the bottom of the paper. I proclaim it to be my list of shit to do. I then wonder what would happen if someone found the list and maybe thinks I am talking about killing cops. I spend a long time trying to figure out a synonym for pig that cannot be confused with a derogatory term for law enforcement. It is not as easy as one would think. 

Upon returning the list to Boss Lady I agree to a number of things. Someone mentions bringing a dish. I offer to bring chips and dip because I don't want to kill anyone. I offer no explanation as to why people would die if I didn't bring chips and dip.

The bartender pours us shots and asks us if we know that feeling, where you really just want to hit someone with a beer bottle. I tell her hammers are better, but who brings a hammer to a bar anyway...

T and I spend several more minutes arguing about killing people for various reasons when I realize the lady sitting next to us is staring with what can only be described as trepidation. 

I remember T's recent statement, "Fuck yeah. Because I would have killed that motherfucker." T has a way of looking really serious and mostly scary even if he isn't.

I laugh at the poor lady and tell her that T is only joking. Mostly joking. Actually he's maybe dead serious. Who knows?
 I am doing nothing to relieve this woman's fear. I maybe mention that T does not kill people just for no reason. Unless there is vodka involved, then everyone dies.

I tell T that is why he has trouble making friends. 

We return to arguing until we decide to annoy the shit out of each other by playing songs on the juke box that we know each other hate.

When I sober up in the morning, I realize that I have agreed to several things. I retract my offer to kill a pig via text to Boss Lady. I ask T if he remembers what days I have agreed to cover for the bartender that served us. He does not, but he pretends he does and ends up telling five different things before he admits he has no clue either.

04 April 2012

Wonderbras, Tequila and Angry Monkeys

What happens when Krissy gets all emotional and overwhelmed with life? I do ridiculous fucking things in an effort to distract myself from...well...everything. Once? I decided to ride my bike down to southern Indiana to see some caves. You can read about that here: Caves . I did not, of course, find the stupid caves. I found donkeys. By the time I found the donkey, I didn't care anymore about the caves. 

On a completely separate occasion I decided to drive to Kentucky for the day - simply because I had never seen Kentucky. So I drove there. For no reason. 

But my favorite emotion-avoiding activity is drunken tree climbing, strictly because sober tree climbing is not nearly as much fun.

And so one evening...having had more than a few shots of tequila, I ask H if he would like to go and climb the tree in the backyard with me. I don't know if H was as drunk as I was or if he just thought I should not be climbing trees alone under extreme emotional distress and slightly intoxicated as well. 

We stumble from the bar to H's backyard where I immediately begin climbing the large tree I have been thinking about climbing for the last few weeks. It's a huge tree.

H and I? We climb the tree.

M and T? Stand beneath the tree shaking their heads at us and then handing us our beers when we decide we have reached a comfortable spot in the tree. H and I drink beers, and then M and T hand us up cigarettes. We flick our butts and drain our bottles and hand the empty bottles down to M and T. M is standing on a lawn chair - because she is short and doesn't want to climb the trees with us. T declines to climb the tree because his back was injured in some sort of freak stripper pole accident - he doesn't like to talk about it.

In any case, having finished our cigarettes and beers, I decide to climb higher into the tree, because, as H says, the higher you climb; the farther you see. I have tried to explain to him that in real life? The higher you climb; the farther you fall...but he is one of those glass half-full kinds of people. 

And so, in all of my drunken and misplaced confidence, I move up the tree like a monkey. Sorta. I lean out to place most of my body weight on a half-dead limb that almost immediately cracks and breaks away. H's hand shoots out like a ninja, and grabs the strap of my tank top and bra. 

For some ridiculous reason, I find this to be a hilarious situation and H does not help contain the absurdity of it all.

"I'm sorry. So sorry, Krissy. I swear to God, I am not trying to feel your boob. Oh shit. I am so sorry." At this point, H is attempting to pull me up far enough so that I can grab a hold of the branch my leg is now wrapped around... but I am laughing so hard and he is shaking and nearly hyperventilating, so it goes rather slowly. 

I am trying to tell him that it doesn't matter if he uses my bra strap or my boob to save my life at this point, just as long as he saves it. H does not see any humor in the situation, maybe because I am drunker than he is.

After what seems like an eternity, I able to grab the branch and H moves his hands to cover his heart and wonders if he is having some sort of heart attack or if it is just a panic attack. 

I thank him, profusely, for saving my life and go on to brag about the awesomeness of my bra straps until his face is maybe glowing red, even in the dark. 

We descend the tree and H thinks he needs to go to bed and hugs me extra hard and tells me that I have made him have his very first panic attack. I am glad to have exposed him to these new life experiences. I tell him he is welcome. 

He makes some comment about me climbing trees like a monkey in front of M and T. It seems harmless, but is actually not, because it sparks a good three hour discussion about monkeys. orangutans, gorillas and their mating habits, and also how to avoid an attack by an orangutan... in the case you are ever subjected to angry monkeys. H is maybe giggling as he walks away, because he knows damn well where this conversation is going to go when he makes the comment. 

I tell T that I am reasonably certain that I will never encounter and angry monkey, and if I happen to encounter a happy monkey, I will go out of my way to make sure I do nothing to anger the monkey. This does not really help the situation... instead it opens a whole new and disturbingly philosophical conversation about how I would know if the monkey was happy or not. 

I tell T he has entirely too much time on his hands to think about shit.