Dear Bar Patrons

A few quick tips to better your service at my bar. Some of these are quite general, while others may be directed at a more specific audience. Due to time constraints and your obvious lack of attention, the list has been considerably shortened.

Slick Guy over 50- I can see your still-wet hair, glittery bitch watch, two rings, your beemer key chain and that crisp 50 dollar bill you keep waving like a white peace flag to stop Indians from raping you. All that 50 will do is take all the change out of my register, none of which is going to end up back on my bar you cheap fuck. I’m busy, wait your turn like the other 48 people in front of you. And tell that 40-yr old skank you were hanging with that she’s a real trendsetter w/ that Poison-style lid she was sporting.

Blond Honey-I know you’re hot, you’re actually fuckin smokin, and if you were in a bar where I was drunk I’d probably pull a “flyby” on you (that’s where I cruise around, “accidently” bumping into hotties to cop a cheap feel), but this ID looks like something my niece made in her 1st grade art class. If I serve you and lose my job, can you gaurantee me lifelong BJs and monthly stipends from Daddy’s Trust Fund? If not, get the fuck out of my bar.

Graduated Frat Boy w/ the Shiny New Job-No, I don’t know where you can get “some good shit.” Just because I’m a bartender doesn’t make me Pablo fucking Escobar. And even if I was holding a tweener and looked like I just drilled a few lines while checking for some non-existent drink condiment in the pantry downstairs, I would definitely use it in a bribe attempt with the Hottie (see tip #2) before sharing it with your secret-handshake ass.

Inexperienced Group Leader-You’ve been milling around in line, waiting a good 10 minutes for a drink. I’ve no problem that you have 9 people in the group (Believe me, I can knock out a 9 drink order for a group quicker than Oprah can finish a melting ice cream cone), that the girls are getting impatient for a Cosmo, its a bar and these issues are fairly prevalent on any busy night. But when you finally get to the front of the line and I say “What can I get for everyone?” your response should be something to the effect of, say, quickly and clearly barking out a precise 9 drink order. NOT, “Hey what does everybody want?” Christ pal, maybe while your bitch was pissing and moaning for 10 minutes your college-educated ass should have thought to ask her (and everybody else) what the fuck they were thirsty for. And don’t give me that “you shot my Yellow Lab” look while I ignore your preppy ass for the next half hour.

My name is not: Bartender, Buddy, Pal, Guy, Bro, Garzon (you pretenious prick (and by the way, don’t ever again ask for a Stolichnaya up, say Stoli or I will take that 800 pg saga you brink in to read on Wed. evenings and crack your fucking skull) ). I know I’m a fucking bartender, it said so on the application. You are not my buddy or pal, I’ve never seen you before in my life. I am not your bro, I have two sisters buttfuck, and besides them, the only other people I allow to address me as “bro” are the Homeys on my Thursday rec hoop league and my 5 best friends. And Garzon? Fuck you. I have to wear a retarded name tag while I’m working dickface, the least you could do is take a fucking nanosecond to read it.

Teacher on a Date-Dude, its obvious you don’t go out much. You’ve got this bouncy little muffin on your arm, looking excited about “the big night out.” I can tell you are a bit uncomfortable w/ the bar scene, but Jeez O’ Fucking Peets, you’re a teacher, do some goddamn research. Your girl had no problem figuring out what she wanted (not to mention she was no freakin Einstien) but never, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES, EVER, ask me what you should have to drink. There are beer bottles on the shelves behind me, liquor bottles everywhere, Fuckin A., even a menu 3 pages long. Maybe you drink like a cooze and need a strawberry daquiri, or want to look sophisticated by knocking back a Glenlivit or two, why the fuck would I know what the fuck you should have. Nothing looks more pussy than a man who knows not what he wants to drink. (A tip that will not only help you at my bar, but prevent you from looking like a total maid in front of your lady.)

Drunk Fuck-I’ve saved you for last. I didn’t cut you off for being drunk. I love drunk people and, when I’m not behind the bar, I usually fall in that category. There are a few actions that I consider “stepping over the line” and these will get you escorted out of my bar, either peacefully or with the Louisville Slugger I keep over the bar. (It was signed by my whole Pee Wee Reese team when I was twelve and I hit a game winning double to send us into the state semi-finals. Then we got our asses beat by thirteen runs in the semi’s because Jimmy fucking Jankowski couldn’t throw a strike to save his life.)

But I digress.

Drunk Fuck-You cannot stumble over in a fit of drool and incoherent Torret’s speak, grab one of my cocktail server’s (especially the one I’ve been trying to bang for a month now), grab her ass while trying to whisper in her ear, get rejected and begin to pull that inhaler-sized spoke out of your pants to drown the bar in piss, without expecting me to beat your ass. In the end, I’m not sure what was funnier: the look of total bewilderment on your face when I told you to get the fuck out, or your nose bleeding like an unkinked garden hose as the cops dragged your pathetic ass out. Thanks for stopping by.

Folks, if you follow even just a few of these guidlines, I promise the night out will be more enjoyable for me and you.

This is in or around your local watering hole.