This past Monday marked my final Monday shift at the bar where I work. Due to gainful employment --specifically the whole "9 to 5" schedule-- I figured it was no longer beneficial to pass out on the couch at 4am covered in Taco Bell and regret if I was going to have to wake up at 7am. Sad as I was to give up the Tuesday sleep-in, what with its well-cultivated scent of Jagermeister, stale beer and dishwashing detergent, I think I made the right choice. And that is what this post is about: the RIGHT choices, as opposed to the WRONG ones which I will be highlighting shortly. The following is a list of the greatest hits, misses, and horrendous decisions that I've been privy to during my Mondays at the pub. Names have been changed or withheld, not because I'm protecting the innocent, but more because I don't want to have to explain to you why what you did was so out of line when you Google yourself and my blog pops up in the top slot. Helpful Hint: if your name pops up on the Google-machine when you type in "bad decisions" or "village bicycle", you're probably doing something wrong and it is probably too far along for even me to help you out. I may look like Gargamel when I walk around in my Snuggy, but I'm not a fucking wizard.
Sex in the Parking Lot is Never a Good Idea:
As the above states, no, it isn't a good idea. Ever. And especially not when said parking lot abuts not one, but two giant outdoor decks filled with unrepentant smokers dusted to the gills on whatever drinks we've been firing down their faces all night long. What could make the entire situation a whole lot worse? The "couple" doing said horrendous deed against an Econoline that has windows down both sides! For the helmet-wearers in the group, that's like sneaking a quickie in a glass phonebooth if said phonebooth were on stage at a Pogues concert. Sadly, my jump-kicking the van repeatedly didn't dissuade the two Vodka-faced stroke-victims from their liquor-fueled fumbling. On a happy note, the night ended in both crying and a slurred "I think he really likes me", so there's always that. Hint: if you're at any particular bar for more than two shifts every day and you don't work there, it's time to shut it down before your liver is as damaged as your skin.
Claiming to be in "Special Forces" won't stop me from throwing you out:
And even if you are in said "special forces", the 18 drinks you've consumed over the past 6 hours makes you the short-bus kind of "special", not the Jason Bourne kind. I don't care what cultural background you come from, if you toss your arm around the shoulder of a woman whom you don't know and she tells you, and I'm paraphrasing here, to "go fuck yourself" in a tone normally reserved for scary clowns and LaRoush pamphleteers, then I am going to keg-toss you out the front door. You may think you're a badass after watching Bloodsport on the FX channel and drinking beers all morning, but sadly, that is not the case.
This is about 100% more intimidating than you look right now.
Two problems with your line of thinking: a) everyone here loves me and b) you are in unfamiliar territory. If you think I'm your only problem then you obviously weren't paying attention to the bar full of patrons loosening their belts behind you and my other bar-back pulling Nunchakus out of his backpack while grinning like a mental patient. We get weird up in this bitch, and Algerian Commandos rank pretty low on our totem-pole of dipshittery. Plus, you shake hands like a dead fish and your grasp of the English language made your insults sound like half-stuttered wedding congratulations.
You may be a regular, but I f#$%ing work here:
Yay, we get to leave now!!!
I know, you think that because you come in 6 days a week and tip more than your average Brit (read: nothing) that you pretty much own the bar and can do whatever the hell you want. That is only half true, and even then only if we like you. Now, if we don't like you, your leash goes from "enough for you to jump over the fence and hang yourself" to "about the length of a friendship-bracelet" faster than I can take my shoe off and hit you with it. Note: nearly all of my shoes are of the slip-on variety due to my pontoon-sized feet, so this is not a time measurement you want to test out; a) I'm really fast, and b) my shoes weigh the same as an F-150 car-tire. Whatever the case may be, whatever disconnected Socratic method you've got running through your wine-soaked brain, I can guarantee that you are wrong and I am right. Even if I'm wrong, the mere fact that you're arguing with someone serving you AT A BAR means that it's time for you to make like a tree and get the fuck out of here.
Biff Tannen taught me both English and collar-popping.
Also, please take note that we throw people out ALL THE TIME. This is not our first rodeo, so your claims of "I'm never coming back here!!" will be answered with "Promise?" and your shouts of "You just lost my business!!!" will be greeted with "I think we'll pull through. Use that $10 dollars to buy a new striped shirt." In closing: poor behavior in public reflects poorly on your parents (i.e. your mother is disappointed in you, and your dad blows truckers for Lotto money).
I'll still be around to throw insults at on Fridays and Saturdays, but for now, Mondays? I'm in the wind... And by "in the wind" I mean asleep on my couch watching Invader Zim.
