"Go easy on me"

You:" I'm ready to close my tab.....and go easy on me."

Me: "Go easy on you? I'm not exactly sure what that means?" I DO know what that means, but I really just want you to verbalize it to me in greater depth so that I can just double check the fact that you're an idiot.

You: "Ya know...take it easy on me. I ordered a lot of shots from you so maybe you could hook me up on a few of those."

Me: "Sir, do you go to the check out line in Kroger and ask the cashier to 'go easy on me'?" You cheap fuck. If you don't have enough money to buy the shots.......then don't fucking order them!

You: "Aw, come on. I've worked in a bar before. I know you don't have to ring everything in."

Me: "Well, I'm not the owner of this establishment, sir. Therefore, this is not my alcohol to give away. Just like the Kroger cashier is not going to give you free bread; same concept." There are too many cuss words to insert here that would portray to you the thoughts that are going on in my head. But here's the moral of this unfortunate overly occurring incident: IF YOU WANT SHIT FOR FREE......MOVE BACK INTO YOUR MOTHER'S BASEMENT WHERE YOU BELONG. Don't embarrass yourself by allowing yourself to be put in public settings and situations where you are tempted to ask simpleminded moronic questions. You should stay home, download free apps on your phone, eat your mom's home cooked meals, and ask her for permission that would allow all your friends to come over........so that not one of you are at my bar.



(Just a reminder that I like to throw out........I am not an idiot that thinks this scenario above is a REAL problem. It's trivial and doesn't throw a negative kink into my life in any way shape or form. I just bitch about it on paper so that I can keep a smile on my face when you walk into my bar.)

Strong Island

Some people, maybe even you, would encourage me to open up a chain of Cobra Kai Karate studios and instruct servers and bartenders on how to sweep the legs of the consumers who make us want to kill people the most. 

If you say the following phrase.....then you are lucky enough at this very moment in your life to have me tell you how annoying you are. That doesn't mean that you have to change your overly agitating ways for me or for your local watering hole tender. I just want you to truly know how much you fucking piss me off.

You: "I want a STRONG ISLAND!!!!!!!!" 

Me: "You want a drink that's meant for 16 year old's who just recently weaned themselves off the Smirnoff Ice? You want a chilled beverage that contains more alcohol in it for free so that you can get ‘fucked up’ for a cheaper price? You don’t want to taste the combination of 5 liquors but you want it to be strong?

Listen here you cheap fucking bastard…...this is what I’m going to do for you. I’m going to give you my fake crooked smile and say ‘gotcha’ in the most pleasant way that I can conjure up. Then I’m going to fill your cup with more ice than it can possibly hold. Next, you’re lucky enough that I’m going to put the appropriate amount of liquor in your glass; no more, no less. From there I will splash in some sour mix and some lovely fountain cola. Lastly, I will top it off with more ice so that now your drink will be more water than anything and I will charge you $6.50 for it.

So now you take a sip. And since I put in less sour mix and more ice, you will think it tastes ‘extra strong’. So you will tip me more than you should and go tell all your friends how the bartender just hooked you up. Lucky for me, all your credulous little friends will come up to me and one by one, ask me for the same thing expecting me to hook them up just like I did for you. And of course I will show them the same VIP treatment as I showed you.”

That’s what I’m thinking every time you order a Strong Island.

Slugger

“My dicks like the end of a Louisville Slugger,” said the regular patron who has every luxury offered to him by planet earth with the exception of someone to love.

“You know people can hear you, right?” I asked out loud because I actually like this regular. Granted, in my head I was thinking,

“No, no you probably don’t have a large penis at all. Judging on the size of your petite, overly moisturized hands, you probably have a dick that is well groomed, rather thin, and it hasn’t smelt like a vagina in a very long time.”

The regular smiled at me with his recently whitened teeth and his gold pinky ring that glistened under the dim bar lights. He replied,

“ Oh…you know you love me, even if I am short. You know, my dick looks bigger because my legs are so short. That’s called optical illusion. But then again, you wouldn’t care. You get hit on all the time and you don’t have to worry about nobody loving you. You’re smart, well-traveled, and quite gorgeous. You don’t have the hardships of getting rejected by every person that you like. I mean…all I want is somebody to cuddle with that’s semi-attractive and petite.”

My regular often went on rants. And by the term “often”, I mean always. I don’t get paid the same as a therapist, but I often feel like one. I looked into the eyes of my regular and I squinted my brow a bit so that he thought that I was concentrating on what he was saying. I cocked my head to my left a bit because I feel that if I cocked it to my right, then that it would indicate I was confused about what he was saying. And I didn’t want him to feel that I was not one hundred fucking percent sure of my advice that I would undoubtedly give him.

I occasionally, and at the precise moments nod my head in a concerned manor. You can’t nod too much or make too many “uh huh’s” or people will catch on to the fact that you are not listening. I would break eye contact to look down from time to time….but not for too long. Those look-aways have to be brief and precise. But they are important to the whole listening experience because when I looked down and then came back to meet his eyes again—he would secretly but temporarily feel a moment of relief that I was so “involved” in his story that I had to keep coming back for more. And when he felt that I was involved, he kept talking. And when someone finds you comfortable to talk to….they keep coming back for more. And when they keep coming back….I become their BARTENDER and they become my regular. And in my warped, mildly fucked-up, but overly enjoyable world—that’s how I make a living.

It’s not that I don’t give two shits about my regular. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But I hear so many sob stories and first world problems on a daily basis, that if I took them all to heart…I would go fucking ape-shit. I mean, we all have problems. Problems are universal. So while I want to tell my regular, “Look man, life is 10% what happens to you and 90% of what you make it”, I don’t.

Instead, I look at him like I care and like he’s the only person in the room. All the while, in my head, the G-rated version of what I’m thinking is this:

 “I have to make sure my daughter did her homework. I need to finish my own homework in the morning so that I can make it to the MMA gym tomorrow. I wonder when the boy that I like is going to stop intruding on all my thoughts. Why do I always like the boys that don’t like me back? Did I feed the dog this morning? Dammit…I forgot to pay the water bill. Again.”

The R-rated version that included more cussing is this:

“My homework fucking sucks. Speaking of fucking…when’s the last I got fucked? I’m watching the words come out of my Regulars mouth but I’m not listening. All I assume is that you’re talking about life and loneliness and I will just bust out with a quote that will cover all aspects of life and hand you your tab and call it a day. Wait….could you be cute? Could I like you and your short legs and your Burberry scarf? Could I at least fuck you? Hmmmm. Nope. Alright…let me focus on your exact sentence now so that I can choose the perfect time to cut you off and pick a quote to intervene with.”

So even though that’s what your bartender is really thinking…..don’t let it deter you. It’s the same scenario as your doctor looking at your boobs and not telling you that he thinks they are saggy or like your husband telling you that you are beautiful without make-up on when in reality, we are not. I think awful things about you sometimes…but at the end of the day, I just want to make your day better! So I will put on my best bartender face—and not tell you what I’m really thinking.

"Diet Coke"

You sit down at my bar wearing a trench coat and glasses that are not size appropriate for your face. I throw my award winning, semi- white smile your way and say, “hey man, how’s it going today?” You take the time to do a half squint and push your glasses up the rim of your nose so that you’re more comfortable reading your menu.

“Diet Coke” is your reply to me.

 Diet Coke. I ask you how you are doing and your thought out answer that you verbalized with your lips formed two words for me, Diet Coke.

“Hi. I’m Sprite. Nice to meet you, you fucktard.” I thought, but I didn’t say it. My actual response sounded rather forced as I said,

“Yes sir. I’ll have that right out for you.”

 This is my job; my profession, my niche. I bring you things that you could get yourself and then you give me money for it. I’ve worked in restaurants for fourteen years now and I feel like I’ve mastered my craft in most aspects of it. Overall, it’s an enjoyable experience that has slapped more life lessons in my face that I could have ever conjured up. Let me assure you that cleaning dishes and remembering the ingredients that are poured into a Cosmopolitan is not what bartending is all about. An ungodly amount of patience for stupid people, reading people and adjusting to them, and constantly wiping off my mouth because I have so much bullshit on my lips is what bartending consists of. If I’m having a bad day, guess what? You’re sure as hell not going to know about it because I’m here to entertain you. I’m here to shoot some encouragement your way. I’m here to listen to you tell me that your parents are coming in town this weekend and then I’m here to pretend that I give two shits that they are.

You could go to any bar in Atlanta and purchase an overpriced drink and get placed on an uncomfortable barstool while multi-tasking your attention to your phone and your underappreciated, self-made bitchy girlfriend. But you can’t go just anywhere and have you bartender know what you drink, know where you like to sit, know what you like to talk about, and know that you could have just poured a scotch at home; but you didn’t. You chose not to because you want the company, you need to be social; you need to feel like someone out there actually gives a damn that you had a bad day at work. And right there, ladies and gentlemen, is where my art comes into play.

My outer layer says to you, “You’re amazing. You make my life complete every time you walk into my bar and I care about you.” My second layer says, “I don’t give a fuck that Lisa wore shoes to the office today that looked like stripper stilettoes and I don’t care that Bill didn’t text you back last night. He’s probably avoiding you because you ‘hashtag’ too much on his facebook page.” I NEED to think angry thoughts like that so that my sanity stays intact and so that I can decipher what inspires me and what doesn’t. But my inner layer, the layer that actually shapes and forms my character and contemplates my flaws and life’s true meaning; it actually thinks this: “Remember there’s no such thing as a small act of kindness. Every act creates a ripple with no logical end. “~ Scott Adams

So even though the end of my shift entails me talking shit about your diet coke response and laughing with my amazing co-workers about how awesome we are, I still strive to be kind because life is too incredible to be anything else.

What I Think....

I am many things in life, good and bad. One of those things happens to entail serving drinks to patrons that view me as "nice, polite, and a great bartender". My bartending skills not only pay for my education and that of my daughter, but they also grant me a poker face unlike no other. I am here to tell you what I really think. And if you don't give a shit, then don't take the time to read this. Pretty simple logic there, folks.

I don't presume to be better than you, more knowledgeable, or even have a better perception on life than you. More than likely, you scored higher on your SAT's than me and you probably use spell check half as much as I do. But I'm not here to educate you. I'm here to tell you that while you're telling me that your "food doesn't taste right" and I'm replying to you, "Oh, I'm so sorry ma'am. Let me get that heated up for you"; I'M REALLY THINKING, "You fucking bitch. If you would have started eating right away and hadn't told your girlfriend your epic tale of how 'Eric' couldn't get his dick hard last night and you think it's because you don't look like the girl in the porno that you caught him watching in his man cave that you so graciously allow him to have, then maybe, just maybe, your food wouldn't be fucking cold! Bitch.” 

I will be sharing and posting at least one story a week with you. But let me emphasize one point with you; I am completely and utterly excited to have my job. I love it and I wouldn't do it if I didn't love it. It allows me the flexibility to follow my dreams and it has given me an understanding of people that I couldn't buy or learn in any classroom. I am TRUELY a happy person and by allowing myself to vomit my deep, inner thoughts onto a computer screen, I am relieving all first world stress and it enables me to live the most enjoyable life that I could ever deem possible.

And if you find that you're the person that I'm venting about, I apologize in advance and I have to say I'm really glad I'm not you.

Ps. You come to my bar and give me an attitude. I grovel at your feet and pretend it was all my fault. You give me money. I go hiking. You go back to your shitty job. The End.