The other night a certified monkey bananas apeshit crazy bitch sat at my bar. Thought I'd share. So crazy bitch (CB) sat her ass at my bar right around five-ish, not long after we opened. First thing out of her mouth is how she just walked out of the place down the street because they fucked up her steak. Just got up, and walked the fuck out. Didn't pay or even bother to tell them why. So of course, I'm thinking, "Fuccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkk, this is going to be good, good times "
Okay, backstory. I'm from the South. I'm sorry. I can't help it. I was born there. If you take away the racism, homophobia and politcal dumbassness, it's really not that bad. Anyway, I have a habit of calling people "hon," "sweetie", "darlin'", shit like that. I really don't even realize I'm doing it half the time. Mostly I just do it because I can't (or don't want to) remember people's name for shit. And let's admit it, guys dig that shit and it helps my tips.
So I give the guy sitting two seats down from her a beer and ask if he needs anything else, sweetie. He didn't seem to have a problem with it. Then I ask CB, "What can I get you, hon?" CB then proceeds to lose her shit. Telling me how unprofessional it is. How her and her dad are from up North (I'm guessing her mom is a native of Planet Crazyasfuck), and they DO NOT do that shit up there. Then CB goes on to tell me how if a server calls her dad "honey" more than one time, well, no tip for that rude, horrible bitch. It took all I had not to tell her that her dad sounded like a supreme asshole but he probally homeschooled her himself and it would have just pissed her off more. I then tried to explain to her that I'm southern and it's kinda a southern thing. Also, I'M A FUCKING BARTENDER! You're not at a goddam bank, or in a courthouse or any place like that and I'm not wearing a suit in case you have not noticed. I'm wearing a (tasteful) shirt that shows off my tits. So lighten the fuck up. I can assure you, you are not an any way a "hon" to me. I'll be at the service bar telling the servers what a fucked up bitch you are.
Finally this twat's food comes out. Thank God. We actually got her steak cooked right and she didn't walk out. Unfortunaly, I really wish we had because she would not stop running her fucking gob.
She starts telling me how she is a teacher for a mostly African-American school. And how basically all of her students were facinated with with white people's hair and skin. And how when she had a sunburn, "they" all assumed she had a skin infection. And how they thought all white people were related. And a bunch of other crazy shit about "those" people (funny, I thought only redneck southern people said stupid shit like that. But whatever.)
At this point I didn't know who was crazier, her or me, for actually allowing myself to have a converstion with this silly twat, so I just walked away. Then she went on to talk to anyone sitting around who might make the mistake of making eyecontact with her. Point is, bitch was just flat-out weird. She still wouldn't let the whole "hon" thing go either.
Okay, I can understand if your server is creepy, overly flirtly or something and keeps calling you stuff like that. I might get annoyed to. But I don't do it in a creepy way, I can assure you. It just kinda comes out. Unless you've come in before and left me a shitty tip or pissed me off. You don't get the pleasure of me calling you anything but an asshole. But I have never had someone get all pissy about it. And I try not to call someone's boyfriend that if his girlfriend is sitting right there. I'd probally be more likely to call her "hon". And I don't really do it when I'm on the floor, just when I'm slinging drinks.
But all of this explaining is pointless. Bitch was just plain out weird. That trumps Southern and I was happy to see her crazy ass walk out the door.
On a related note, later that same night one of my everyfuckingday regulars told me he thought I cussed too much. I then replied that I thought he drank too fucking much. End of conversation. Me: FTW.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
An Open Letter to Table 34
Dear Assholes that sat at table 34 Tuesday night,
First of all, Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Now since that has been taken care of, let's start at the begining, shall we? Okay, well first off your incomplete table sat your asshole asses at my table. Fine, whatever. Two of you sat down while your third walked his happy ass over to the bar and proceded to mingle as if he was at a fucking cocktail party for the next twenty minutes. I got the two bitches that were sitting down a drink. At which point cocktail partys girl (or I think it was his girl, she looked a lot older than him-but who the hell knows) informed me he would be having a screwdriver.
On a related note, that just annoys the hell out of me anyway. Just say a vodka OJ. Ditto with other dickheads that order a CapeCod (vodka and cran) or a Cubra Libe (rum and coke, yes, asshole, we know you've seen the movie Cocktail. I know what the fuck it is). But I digress. Anyway I got their drinks, but I'll be goddam if I was walking my ass through the bar crowd to had deliver his precious drink to him. I sat it at the table and if it got watered down, well, fuck him. Anyway, like I said, after about twenty minutes of bullshiting with the drunken regulars he sat his ass down. Okay, finally we can get this show on the road and get you guys the fuck out of here, because I got about 45 more episodes of the show I'm addicted to on Netflix and I really need to get home to it. Little did I know the fuck me in the ass fun was just beginning.
They then informed me they were waiting for a fourth friend, who was notoriously famous for being late. Fuckfuckfuck. Are you kidding me? Why the fuck didn't you asshats just wait at the bar? No, that would be showing some consideration and that's just not how you roll, isn't it? Oh, and you won't be ordering until your notoriously famous late dipshit friend get here. Good times for me.
So after about more thirty minutes your asshole friend shows up. At this point I understand his problem with arriving on time. He needs about half an hour to emmerse himself in some type of God awful cologne. I'm thinking Stetson. Yep, defintely Stetson. It was so fucking strong walking up to him made me think I was at Gilley's from Urban Cowboy and I was pretty sure he was going to start calling me Sissy and ask where the mechanical bull was. It was so bad that the table behind them asked to move. I don't blame them. My eyes were starting to water too.
After about fifteen more minutes of catching up with each other and yet even more bullshiting, you decided to order. Thank God. Maybe you might get the fuck out of here before I start collecting social security.
You wanted wine. Fine. Here's your fucking wine. More fucking blahfuckingblahing. I get you food order. Which was like pulling teeth because you haven't stopped running your fucking cocksuckers long enoungh to look at the menu.
What are the sides? What kind of dressings do you have? Hey, dickwads, that thing that has been sitting in front of you for over an hour. It's called a menu. All the information you need is on it.
Okay, orders in. Salads out, which you then eat at a glacial pace. Oh looky here!!! It's your goddam food. Eat it . No, can't do that. That would mean you would have to shut the fuck up for more than five seconds. More wine. Fuck me. I'm never getting out of here. (Did I mention this is my last table?)
So after what seems like an enternity, seats one, two and three finish. I take their plates. Stetson man, who has at this point has stunk up the entire place has maybe three grains of rice left on this plate. I go to take it. He flips the fuck out. NO!!! I'm not done!!! Oh, for fuck's sake, their is nothing left of the plate! Fine, whatever, keep the motherfucking thing, take it home with you. I don't fucking care at this point.
Anyone want dessert? Of course you fuckers do. And coffee? You bet your sweet ass!
Around this point is when I had to sneak into my special stash of Xanax and take one because, wouldn't you know it, our owner, who is notorious himself for talking to tables about random bullshit decides its time to walk over and get into a politcal debate. FML. I'm just going to take a little nap in the dishroom and someone wake me when this shit is over.
Now at the point your bill is over $200, so at least I might make a little money. And that is what I'm here for, also I think the Xanax is kicking in, so go to the bar, eat a few olives and just tell myself its almost over.
Stetson man puts his credit card on the table, so I just hall my little ass over their and pick it up (while the owner is still running his fucking gob) and run it. Thank you, have a great night, yadda,yadda, yadda.
You are still making no move to leave, so after I see you sign the slip, I creep over and get it so I can run my check out.
Ten percent. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Nope. Ten percent for waiting for you asshole party to show up, nearly get knocked out by your stank and run my ass off. Ten fucking percent. Stetson douche paid, and I'm just hoping that your friends have no idea how much you fucked me. But who knows, maybe they might put up with you being late all the time because you pick up the tab. So you guys can eat a dick, too.
Again, let me say fuck you.
But their is some justice that will be had out of this whole ordeal. I'm usually the bartender. Tonight I just happened to be on the floor and was wearing my white oxford and khakis. I also had my hair pulled back, little make-up and my glasses on. Also no cleavage enhancing shirt that I usually wear when I'm behind the bar.
Stetson guy sits at the bar on the weekends (when I'm always behind the bar). By himself, I might add, because who has time for a notorious late fuck on the weekend? And he didn't recognize me.That I'm sure of. But I will remember that asshole. I NEVER forget the face of someone that fucks me over. And, Stetson man, you can bet you ass that you will now become the most short poured fucker this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
Hugs and Kisses,
The bartender/server who will be charging you eight bucks for tonic water
First of all, Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Now since that has been taken care of, let's start at the begining, shall we? Okay, well first off your incomplete table sat your asshole asses at my table. Fine, whatever. Two of you sat down while your third walked his happy ass over to the bar and proceded to mingle as if he was at a fucking cocktail party for the next twenty minutes. I got the two bitches that were sitting down a drink. At which point cocktail partys girl (or I think it was his girl, she looked a lot older than him-but who the hell knows) informed me he would be having a screwdriver.
On a related note, that just annoys the hell out of me anyway. Just say a vodka OJ. Ditto with other dickheads that order a CapeCod (vodka and cran) or a Cubra Libe (rum and coke, yes, asshole, we know you've seen the movie Cocktail. I know what the fuck it is). But I digress. Anyway I got their drinks, but I'll be goddam if I was walking my ass through the bar crowd to had deliver his precious drink to him. I sat it at the table and if it got watered down, well, fuck him. Anyway, like I said, after about twenty minutes of bullshiting with the drunken regulars he sat his ass down. Okay, finally we can get this show on the road and get you guys the fuck out of here, because I got about 45 more episodes of the show I'm addicted to on Netflix and I really need to get home to it. Little did I know the fuck me in the ass fun was just beginning.
They then informed me they were waiting for a fourth friend, who was notoriously famous for being late. Fuckfuckfuck. Are you kidding me? Why the fuck didn't you asshats just wait at the bar? No, that would be showing some consideration and that's just not how you roll, isn't it? Oh, and you won't be ordering until your notoriously famous late dipshit friend get here. Good times for me.
So after about more thirty minutes your asshole friend shows up. At this point I understand his problem with arriving on time. He needs about half an hour to emmerse himself in some type of God awful cologne. I'm thinking Stetson. Yep, defintely Stetson. It was so fucking strong walking up to him made me think I was at Gilley's from Urban Cowboy and I was pretty sure he was going to start calling me Sissy and ask where the mechanical bull was. It was so bad that the table behind them asked to move. I don't blame them. My eyes were starting to water too.
After about fifteen more minutes of catching up with each other and yet even more bullshiting, you decided to order. Thank God. Maybe you might get the fuck out of here before I start collecting social security.
You wanted wine. Fine. Here's your fucking wine. More fucking blahfuckingblahing. I get you food order. Which was like pulling teeth because you haven't stopped running your fucking cocksuckers long enoungh to look at the menu.
What are the sides? What kind of dressings do you have? Hey, dickwads, that thing that has been sitting in front of you for over an hour. It's called a menu. All the information you need is on it.
Okay, orders in. Salads out, which you then eat at a glacial pace. Oh looky here!!! It's your goddam food. Eat it . No, can't do that. That would mean you would have to shut the fuck up for more than five seconds. More wine. Fuck me. I'm never getting out of here. (Did I mention this is my last table?)
So after what seems like an enternity, seats one, two and three finish. I take their plates. Stetson man, who has at this point has stunk up the entire place has maybe three grains of rice left on this plate. I go to take it. He flips the fuck out. NO!!! I'm not done!!! Oh, for fuck's sake, their is nothing left of the plate! Fine, whatever, keep the motherfucking thing, take it home with you. I don't fucking care at this point.
Anyone want dessert? Of course you fuckers do. And coffee? You bet your sweet ass!
Around this point is when I had to sneak into my special stash of Xanax and take one because, wouldn't you know it, our owner, who is notorious himself for talking to tables about random bullshit decides its time to walk over and get into a politcal debate. FML. I'm just going to take a little nap in the dishroom and someone wake me when this shit is over.
Now at the point your bill is over $200, so at least I might make a little money. And that is what I'm here for, also I think the Xanax is kicking in, so go to the bar, eat a few olives and just tell myself its almost over.
Stetson man puts his credit card on the table, so I just hall my little ass over their and pick it up (while the owner is still running his fucking gob) and run it. Thank you, have a great night, yadda,yadda, yadda.
You are still making no move to leave, so after I see you sign the slip, I creep over and get it so I can run my check out.
Ten percent. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Nope. Ten percent for waiting for you asshole party to show up, nearly get knocked out by your stank and run my ass off. Ten fucking percent. Stetson douche paid, and I'm just hoping that your friends have no idea how much you fucked me. But who knows, maybe they might put up with you being late all the time because you pick up the tab. So you guys can eat a dick, too.
Again, let me say fuck you.
But their is some justice that will be had out of this whole ordeal. I'm usually the bartender. Tonight I just happened to be on the floor and was wearing my white oxford and khakis. I also had my hair pulled back, little make-up and my glasses on. Also no cleavage enhancing shirt that I usually wear when I'm behind the bar.
Stetson guy sits at the bar on the weekends (when I'm always behind the bar). By himself, I might add, because who has time for a notorious late fuck on the weekend? And he didn't recognize me.That I'm sure of. But I will remember that asshole. I NEVER forget the face of someone that fucks me over. And, Stetson man, you can bet you ass that you will now become the most short poured fucker this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
Hugs and Kisses,
The bartender/server who will be charging you eight bucks for tonic water
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Brandy, you're a fine girl
Not a lot of drama has been going on at the job. Which basically means no one has been pissing me off too much lately. So I thought I would take a minute to write about someone who shaped who I am as a bar bitch. Like I said, I got thrown into this whole bar thing and didn't know a Bud Light from a Jack Daniel. I was just out of Jesus College and the only time I had ever really been drunk was the time I drank too much AfterShock (anyone remember that shit?) when one of my friends stole some from her mom. At the time, I worked at a place that had a pretty solid happy hour crowd. The girl that trained me was named Brandy. First of all, I have never met a "Brandy" that wasn't cool as shit (except for my whore cousin, but I think she spells her with an "i" with a heart over it. But whatever.) Let me give you a basic visual of Brandy. She had curly hair, green eyes that always was mascared perfectly, and probally the most perfect set of teeth I've ever seen on a person. Oh, and she was about six feet tall. To this day, she is the best bartender I have ever seen step behind a bar. She owned that shit. If she was slinging drinks, goddammit, YOU were going to have a good time, YOU were not going to start any shit, and YOU were going to tip the fuck out of her because she was just that good. She was in a word, a badass.
And she was going to be training me to do something I knew nothing about. And I was scared shitless.
When I first started bartended, we used mini-bottles (guess which redneck state I'm from). And if you didn't know your shit, well, you had to answer to her and that was not something you ever wanted to do. And as much as I bitch and moan, I know I'm a kick ass bartender. I was trained by the 007 of them.
To see her behind the bar was really a spellbinding experience.She knew everyone's drink by heart and had it in front of them before they even sat down. And she made damn sure the rest of us did too. Even today, I can't remember people's name for shit. But If I've servered you more than twice, I will know what your drink for the rest of your life. It's one of the few things I pride myself on. Brandy trained me to make sure a drink was refreshed the second it was done, if they asked for it or not. I remember asking her one time, "What if they don't want another drink?" to which she replied, "Sit that shit in front of them, they will fucking drink it." And they did. She introduced herself to every single new person that sat at that bar, shaked their hands, gave them that smile and instantly that person became a loyal regular. It was amazing to watch.
Also, no one, and I mean, no one, fucked with her. You know that chick that started Coyote Ugly that is supposed to be so tough. Bitch had nothing on Brandy.If a guy big enough to win a Tough Man contest was getting a little rowdy, she would tell him to shut the fuck up. And he would, indeed, shut the fuck up. There was no fighting or bullshit on her watch. Someone once told me that she one time jumped over the bar and put a guy in a headlock because he was starting shit. I don't doubt it one bit. This was a girl that had a set of lips tatooed on her ass (no lie, I've seen it). "If you got a problem, kiss my ass."
And come closing time, she always did last call. She was ready to go out herself, and she would be goddamed if these people were going to hold her up. People didn't dick around, and they got the fuck out. She just had that kind of presence.
And I'm pretty sure, everyone was in some type of love with her. She could talk to anybody and she did something few people in life are capable of. She made people that came to her bar feel special. And if you behaved yourself, she would take such good care of you, that going to another bar would be like cheating on your wife. But don't get me wrong, she was always in control. She had a look in her eyes that said, "Fuck with me or my bartenders or the staff and I will fucking break your ass." And now, if anyone tries to fuck with me, my inner Brandy comes out and let's just say, very few people fuck with me. I'll always have her to thank for that.
And bitch made (well deserved) bank. I remember hearing a rumor one time that they wanted her to become a manager. To which she basically said "fuck that, I ain't takin' a pay cut". Bartending was in her blood and she was the best. She taught me a lot but the best thing about Brandy was, when work was done, work stayed at work. We were going out, going to have the time of our lives and you would probally have a pretty good story the next day.This is the girl that egged my Bible college ass to enter an amature night strip contest. To which I can proudly to this day say I won.
Okay, so now here's the kicker. I haven't seen Brandy in years, but through the grapevine I heard she was having a baby. Of course, I knew she would make a great mom. Even in all her badassness, she had some sort of maternal quality about her. And I have found that the a lot of people who were the wildest, something changes in them when they have kids and they are great parents. A former roommate of mine (another Brandy actually) would pull some shit that would literally make me jaw drop. But she always kept shit real, and had a "take me or leave me type" of attitude that I respect. She's now a PTA, minivan driving supermom to two great kids.
So I keep up with Brandy on Facebook and it is obvious that kid is her world. It makes me smile to hear the girl who would make Sorority bitches cry when she snatched their drinks out of their hands a 2 AM talk about taking her little girl to the park and planning her first birthday party. It also makes me smile for my future. Those old times I had with Brandy were good ole' days for me. And I know they were good days for her too, but I know as much fun as we had then, these are her best days. I hope to one day be as lucky.
Brandy is still bartending. It's in her blood, although I doubt she would have had any problems with any career she tried. Motherhood may have softed her up a bit, but I know she still has that look in her eye that says, "Fuck with me or my kid and I will fucking break your ass." Sometimes at closing time, I imagine her in her bar doing last call and telling everyone to get the fuck out of the bar. She has a kid to get home to and she'll be goddam if these people are going to hold her up. And you can bet your ass that they don't dick around.
And she was going to be training me to do something I knew nothing about. And I was scared shitless.
When I first started bartended, we used mini-bottles (guess which redneck state I'm from). And if you didn't know your shit, well, you had to answer to her and that was not something you ever wanted to do. And as much as I bitch and moan, I know I'm a kick ass bartender. I was trained by the 007 of them.
To see her behind the bar was really a spellbinding experience.She knew everyone's drink by heart and had it in front of them before they even sat down. And she made damn sure the rest of us did too. Even today, I can't remember people's name for shit. But If I've servered you more than twice, I will know what your drink for the rest of your life. It's one of the few things I pride myself on. Brandy trained me to make sure a drink was refreshed the second it was done, if they asked for it or not. I remember asking her one time, "What if they don't want another drink?" to which she replied, "Sit that shit in front of them, they will fucking drink it." And they did. She introduced herself to every single new person that sat at that bar, shaked their hands, gave them that smile and instantly that person became a loyal regular. It was amazing to watch.
Also, no one, and I mean, no one, fucked with her. You know that chick that started Coyote Ugly that is supposed to be so tough. Bitch had nothing on Brandy.If a guy big enough to win a Tough Man contest was getting a little rowdy, she would tell him to shut the fuck up. And he would, indeed, shut the fuck up. There was no fighting or bullshit on her watch. Someone once told me that she one time jumped over the bar and put a guy in a headlock because he was starting shit. I don't doubt it one bit. This was a girl that had a set of lips tatooed on her ass (no lie, I've seen it). "If you got a problem, kiss my ass."
And come closing time, she always did last call. She was ready to go out herself, and she would be goddamed if these people were going to hold her up. People didn't dick around, and they got the fuck out. She just had that kind of presence.
And I'm pretty sure, everyone was in some type of love with her. She could talk to anybody and she did something few people in life are capable of. She made people that came to her bar feel special. And if you behaved yourself, she would take such good care of you, that going to another bar would be like cheating on your wife. But don't get me wrong, she was always in control. She had a look in her eyes that said, "Fuck with me or my bartenders or the staff and I will fucking break your ass." And now, if anyone tries to fuck with me, my inner Brandy comes out and let's just say, very few people fuck with me. I'll always have her to thank for that.
And bitch made (well deserved) bank. I remember hearing a rumor one time that they wanted her to become a manager. To which she basically said "fuck that, I ain't takin' a pay cut". Bartending was in her blood and she was the best. She taught me a lot but the best thing about Brandy was, when work was done, work stayed at work. We were going out, going to have the time of our lives and you would probally have a pretty good story the next day.This is the girl that egged my Bible college ass to enter an amature night strip contest. To which I can proudly to this day say I won.
Okay, so now here's the kicker. I haven't seen Brandy in years, but through the grapevine I heard she was having a baby. Of course, I knew she would make a great mom. Even in all her badassness, she had some sort of maternal quality about her. And I have found that the a lot of people who were the wildest, something changes in them when they have kids and they are great parents. A former roommate of mine (another Brandy actually) would pull some shit that would literally make me jaw drop. But she always kept shit real, and had a "take me or leave me type" of attitude that I respect. She's now a PTA, minivan driving supermom to two great kids.
So I keep up with Brandy on Facebook and it is obvious that kid is her world. It makes me smile to hear the girl who would make Sorority bitches cry when she snatched their drinks out of their hands a 2 AM talk about taking her little girl to the park and planning her first birthday party. It also makes me smile for my future. Those old times I had with Brandy were good ole' days for me. And I know they were good days for her too, but I know as much fun as we had then, these are her best days. I hope to one day be as lucky.
Brandy is still bartending. It's in her blood, although I doubt she would have had any problems with any career she tried. Motherhood may have softed her up a bit, but I know she still has that look in her eye that says, "Fuck with me or my kid and I will fucking break your ass." Sometimes at closing time, I imagine her in her bar doing last call and telling everyone to get the fuck out of the bar. She has a kid to get home to and she'll be goddam if these people are going to hold her up. And you can bet your ass that they don't dick around.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A Quick Little Observation
If you have ever, at any point in your life, said to a bartender or server who is really, really busy to "Smile", Congratulations! You are officially a douchebag.
The Irregulars
I have worked at about every kind of food/bar place there is. I got my first job at McDonalds in high school ( I also had a mouth full of braces and headgear....so yeah, high school was fun times for me) and have since done everything to dive bars, college bars, casual and fine dining and even a comedy club (not as much fun as you would think). I take that back, I have yet to work at a strip club. But, hey, tick-tock.
Anyway my point is, that at every single place I have ever worked, there are regulars. Those people that everyone of the staff knows because they come in so damn much. Bar regulars are a particular brand within themselves. Some of them come in every fucking day. Every. Fucking. Day.
Over the years, I've had some regulars that I really did like. Why did I like them? Because they were nice, respectful great tippers and hooked me up. That was the only reason I liked them. I knew I would make money off of them. I really didn't care what they were blabbing about and I didn't want to hang out with them.I certainly didn't want their asses to be there my entire shift, as some would tend to do. Maybe this sounds harsh, but anyone who has had to stand behind a bar for countless hours on end understands. Unless you give me a reason otherwise, I have to be nice to you to some degree. But every damn day, the regulars are here. I've been in relationships with people I didn't want to see every damn day. And if you are a shitty-tipping regular, I will give you your drink as is required of me, but I'll be damned if I'm going to waste a second of my breath talking to your cheap ass. And I've had my fair share of this type of regular too and you would be surprised how many of them don't even notice that I would rather clean the nasty beer cooler than acknowledge them. Not to mention that some of them think because they are a regular, they deserve some kind of special treatment and I'm supposed to bend over backwards to appease there self-entitled asses. And God fucking forbid someone should be sitting on "their" stool. Have you ever seen a grown man pout like a four year old and stare someone down, willing them to move, because, don't you know, HE is a fucking regular and YOU are in HIS seat! I have. Lots of times.
I remember once getting off a night shift around 11 and coming back in the next day around 4 to see the same two regulars sitting in the same goddam chairs they were in the night before when I left. I just remember thinking to myself, "You have to be fucking kidding me". Did you fuckers even go home? Surely you did, because at some point we closed, but here you are again by some kind of drunken draft beer magic. Here's an application. Fill it out and just get a fucking job here. You clock in more hours than I do.
Look, I've glad you like my place of employment. Happy you found your own personal little "Cheers". But I can assure you, we may know your name, but we probally have a different one we refer to you by. The Wack Pack, The Watermelon Fucker (he told us that he once had sex with a watermelon. So what else could we have called him?), Coors Regular Guy and Lush Housewife Lady are just a few of the nicer ones I've heard over the years. And if you are cheap, rude or we don't like you, some of those names can be really, really nasty. And you come to this place everyday. The place that has a nasty, deserving nickname for your ass.
There's nothing wrong with having a staple bar that you and your work buddies come to a couple days a week. I get that. I just couldn't imagine going to the same bar by myself every single day, ordering the same drink every single day, and talking about the same old bullshit every single day. There just seems to me like there are too many other things in life to do. I suppose I should feel some type of pity for the regular. Maybe they are lonely and have no friends, or family (although I know for a fact, some of them have wives and kids at home, which kinda does make it a little sad). But everyday? Get a hobby, join a book club. Stop by the red dot store and drink at home everyonce in a while. Fucking something. It's just not healthy, normal behavior for your ass to be glued to one of my bar stools every day. And don't say you come just to see me. As I've already stated, seeing you this often is annoying and if you can't understand that, than I guess you really are a lonely drunk. Perhaps your time would be better spent at an AA meeting everyday.
Even I know this post is coming off a little mean and bitter (my current bar has some of the worst regulars I have ever encountered in my entire life). I know a lot of bartenders that depend on there regulars for making a lot of their money. It's mainly just the ones that are ALWAYS there that I just don't understand. Or the ones that are cheap and I cringe when I see them walk in the door. Or the creepy ones that stare at my tits and make sexual comments that even I find offensive (and, believe me, it takes a lot to offend my ass). But as long as there are bars, and I have to work in them, I've come to accept the fact that there will be regulars. And some of them will be there waiting for me every fucking day. Just do me a favor, okay. If I must look at you every shift, at least throw me a decent tip and don't be a asshole. Is that too much to ask?
Anyway my point is, that at every single place I have ever worked, there are regulars. Those people that everyone of the staff knows because they come in so damn much. Bar regulars are a particular brand within themselves. Some of them come in every fucking day. Every. Fucking. Day.
Over the years, I've had some regulars that I really did like. Why did I like them? Because they were nice, respectful great tippers and hooked me up. That was the only reason I liked them. I knew I would make money off of them. I really didn't care what they were blabbing about and I didn't want to hang out with them.I certainly didn't want their asses to be there my entire shift, as some would tend to do. Maybe this sounds harsh, but anyone who has had to stand behind a bar for countless hours on end understands. Unless you give me a reason otherwise, I have to be nice to you to some degree. But every damn day, the regulars are here. I've been in relationships with people I didn't want to see every damn day. And if you are a shitty-tipping regular, I will give you your drink as is required of me, but I'll be damned if I'm going to waste a second of my breath talking to your cheap ass. And I've had my fair share of this type of regular too and you would be surprised how many of them don't even notice that I would rather clean the nasty beer cooler than acknowledge them. Not to mention that some of them think because they are a regular, they deserve some kind of special treatment and I'm supposed to bend over backwards to appease there self-entitled asses. And God fucking forbid someone should be sitting on "their" stool. Have you ever seen a grown man pout like a four year old and stare someone down, willing them to move, because, don't you know, HE is a fucking regular and YOU are in HIS seat! I have. Lots of times.
I remember once getting off a night shift around 11 and coming back in the next day around 4 to see the same two regulars sitting in the same goddam chairs they were in the night before when I left. I just remember thinking to myself, "You have to be fucking kidding me". Did you fuckers even go home? Surely you did, because at some point we closed, but here you are again by some kind of drunken draft beer magic. Here's an application. Fill it out and just get a fucking job here. You clock in more hours than I do.
Look, I've glad you like my place of employment. Happy you found your own personal little "Cheers". But I can assure you, we may know your name, but we probally have a different one we refer to you by. The Wack Pack, The Watermelon Fucker (he told us that he once had sex with a watermelon. So what else could we have called him?), Coors Regular Guy and Lush Housewife Lady are just a few of the nicer ones I've heard over the years. And if you are cheap, rude or we don't like you, some of those names can be really, really nasty. And you come to this place everyday. The place that has a nasty, deserving nickname for your ass.
There's nothing wrong with having a staple bar that you and your work buddies come to a couple days a week. I get that. I just couldn't imagine going to the same bar by myself every single day, ordering the same drink every single day, and talking about the same old bullshit every single day. There just seems to me like there are too many other things in life to do. I suppose I should feel some type of pity for the regular. Maybe they are lonely and have no friends, or family (although I know for a fact, some of them have wives and kids at home, which kinda does make it a little sad). But everyday? Get a hobby, join a book club. Stop by the red dot store and drink at home everyonce in a while. Fucking something. It's just not healthy, normal behavior for your ass to be glued to one of my bar stools every day. And don't say you come just to see me. As I've already stated, seeing you this often is annoying and if you can't understand that, than I guess you really are a lonely drunk. Perhaps your time would be better spent at an AA meeting everyday.
Even I know this post is coming off a little mean and bitter (my current bar has some of the worst regulars I have ever encountered in my entire life). I know a lot of bartenders that depend on there regulars for making a lot of their money. It's mainly just the ones that are ALWAYS there that I just don't understand. Or the ones that are cheap and I cringe when I see them walk in the door. Or the creepy ones that stare at my tits and make sexual comments that even I find offensive (and, believe me, it takes a lot to offend my ass). But as long as there are bars, and I have to work in them, I've come to accept the fact that there will be regulars. And some of them will be there waiting for me every fucking day. Just do me a favor, okay. If I must look at you every shift, at least throw me a decent tip and don't be a asshole. Is that too much to ask?
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