Jan 31 2012
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cranky rants, internal dirt

distractions

No. I didn’t get fired or quit. I’ve just been distracted.

Let me cut to the chase: I’m very sore for not having had actual sex, and, frankly, I just want more. See, all you men lure us over with the image of a relaxing Sunday evening on the couch…”watching a movie.” Obviously, this is always code for, “I’m going to get you naked and make you scream until 3am…while my cat watches.” I’m sure the fact that I wasn’t wearing underwear contributed to this situation…but, frankly, that’s nothing special.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that you can tell how much sex a woman is having based on the length of her nails. It’s been a while…and my nails have never been this long; so, I’ve never realized what a threat talons are to the penis. Men, beware. I also managed to bend one of my nails back mid-some-leg-over-the-shoulder-situation. Clearly, one of today’s top priorities was visiting the nail salon. Hot pink. Tastefully trimmed. Ready for rounds 3-10.

What does this have to do with bartending? Everything:

1. I met this guy while bartending…while he was out on NYE with his “best girl friend”. Yea. Right.

2. My nail bar-rot is getting to be a little OOC. The last thing I need to be thinking about while I am being ravaged is if one of my real nails is going to pop off.

3. My work schedule is getting in the way of my life; and, more importantly…my (recently rediscovered) sexual needs.

And now I’m just totally distracted. I’m like a cat in heat.

The fact that my AGM got shit-faced on Saturday night, attempted to fry chicken in the restaurant’s kitchen, may or may not have actually fried French Fries in the kitchen, and then passed out on some random tweaker’s couch doesn’t even seem amusing and/or important.

I am, however, pissed that we were so busy on Sunday night. I hate working on Sundays. Having to make 11 carafes of margaritas (4 of which were virgin…for some stupid whore’s 16th birthday…GAY) didn’t help the situation. I could’ve been “watching a movie” earlier in the night. Fuck you, Castro!

I’m also ready to be a real person again. Me = frustrated.

I’m off tomorrow! Considering sitting in bed with a bag of frozen peas between my legs while I apply for real jobs…

Oh, and I last-minute requested Super Bowl Sunday off. I’m not taking any chances on being the 1 bartender elected to work that night…without a TV. I would actually slit my wrists. And I’m not saying that to be dramatic. No. I don’t watch football. I could give 2 shits about who wins (read: willing to root for either team if the offer is right); however, I look forward to drinking a lot of alcohol and ending the night in an inappropriate fashion.

Penis.

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Jan 28 2012
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cranky rants

i hate everything

Not only do I not want to go to work today. I am already considering walking out.

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Jan 28 2012
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cranky rants, internal dirt

open letter to secret shoppers

Dear Secret Shoppers from last night,

You both are cunts. My vocabulary is pretty developed, and frankly, the only adjective that is appropriate for the two of you old, crotchy biddies is: CUNT. And, while I hope both of you died in your sleep last night, I’m in touch with reality just enough to understand that it’s highly unlikely. Hence, this open letter of response to your offensive submission. Oh, and by the way, submitting this shit less than 24 hours after your dining/bar experience isn’t working in your favor. Get a life.

Basically, I want to take this opportunity to provide my own responses to your comments; because, while you may think that my opinion doesn’t matter and/or I was born to serve you, in plain English: you are very fucking wrong.

Staff said goodbye and thanked us for coming.

  • “The only people who said goodbye were the security guards/bouncers.”
  • I couldn’t wait for you cunts to leave. But, if we want to get technical, you later go into detail about how the music was too loud and how you couldn’t hear anything. SO…basically you don’t know what you’re talking about. Go to hell.

Manager was actively working the restaurant floor, helping staff and guests.

  • “He definitely was interacting with the staff. I did not observe him helping guests and he certainly had an opportunity to come over to us given what happened with our chorizo taco, but he never did.”
  • Um…did you die from eating the taco? No. So, shut the fuck up. You’re acting like I served you a miscarried fetus in a tortilla shell the way you’re going on about this fucking chorizo taco. I HAD IT TAKEN OFF YOUR BILL! MOVE ON!

Bartender asked all guests appearing under 30 for ID.

  • “There were plenty of guests who looked to be under 30 and we never saw any bartender ask for an I.D.”
  • No shit, Sherlock. I KNEW THEM ALL! Why would you ask for the I.D. of someone who regularly comes to the bar…and enjoys themselves…that you know already? You wouldn’t, asshole. Die.

Bar atmosphere was fun and welcoming.

  • “…We could not hear anything the bartender said.”
  • Basically, this statement negates all of your statements that follow because you clearly made all of the shit up that you thought I said. Die.

Bartender kept the bar clean.

  • “The bartender and server removed empty plates in a timely manner. Empty glasses, however, remained on the bar (such as my empty Margarita). We never saw either the bartender or the server wipe the bar surface.”
  • And, if I removed your Margarita glass, you probably would’ve written that you weren’t finished sipping every last drop. You suck.

Bartender offered us menus.

  • “We had to ask for the menus after being at the bar for eight minutes.”
  • 8 minutes?! Are you sure it wasn’t 7…or 9? Sorry I missed that stopwatch you were using. Was it hidden under that piece of paper you were taking notes on…and/or “planning a party” with? LAME cover-up, whores.

Bartender knew the menu well, and was able to answer any questions.

  • “I asked if there were any other beers than those listed under ‘cervezas’ on the menu. She said there were not. She mentioned Red Stripe and pointed to two or three beers toward the bottom saying that a couple were from Majorca, but we could not hear her and could not distinguish which beers she pointed to on the menu.”
  • Hi. Are you smoking crack? For starters, we don’t have a secret menu with an unpublished beer selection. This isn’t In-and-Out. Second of all, were you listening to ANYTHING I was saying to you, or were you too concerned with ruining my night and taking notes? Majorca?! Seriously. Are you smoking crack? It’s Mexican beer. From Mexico. Get a map. My blood is starting to re-boil as I am typing this.

Bartender asked if we would like to have dinner at the bar.

  • “We had to ask for menus ourselves. She did not ask about dinner.”
  • If you were able to order a cocktail, you had the menu in your possession, dumbass. THE FOOD IS INSIDE. And I probably didn’t ask about dinner because I thought it would be in your best interest to skip a meal. Sorry… Oh, wait. No. I’m not. The only thing I am sorry about is that you didn’t choke on that “bone and gristle” in your chorizo taco. Better luck next time.

Bartender was friendly and engaged us in conversation.

  • “Any conversation we had, we generated. She was enthusiastically engaged in an animated conversation with two male guests at one point.”
  • I am not going to engage in conversation with 2 frigid bitches who look like they want nothing to do with me. Also, this is a very interesting statement since later you claim that I “rarely engaged in conversation with anyone.” Which one was it?

Bartender did not drink alcohol behind the bar.

  • “I have to be very careful here. Both my guest and I saw the bartender drinking from a glass; the same glass type in which the margarita and mojitos were served. The glass definitely did not contain water. The beverage had a cloudy appearance that was deeper than if just some lime or lemon juice had been included in the water or seltzer. We honestly did not see her pour the drink but both concluded it was probably an alcoholic drink.”
  • PINEAPPLE JUICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This isn’t prison! I am allowed to drink other non-alcoholic liquids apart from water. Jesus Christ. Am I going to need my gyno to write me some retarded doctor’s note about how I need to drink some kind of sugar juice so that I don’t pass out? This is absolutely ridiculous. Oh, and I wasn’t aware that I needed to drink out of a special glass. And, you didn’t see me pour the drink? So, was your conclusion that I was drinking someone’s leftover alcoholic beverage? Foul. Seriously, you should both burn in hell.

Problems I had (if any) were resolved to my satisfaction.

  • “The cost of the chorizo taco was taken off the bill. But, given how disgusting that was, we should have been compensated in some other way, I believe.”
  • We don’t do happy endings on Thursday nights. Whore.

Congratulations. Not only did you ruin my Thursday night, but you also ruined my Friday night. People actually really like me AND my margaritas which you apparently think really suck (yet, noted were “made correctly”???? HOW WOULD YOU EVEN KNOW?!?!?).

It’s probably in your best interest that Castro’s Cuba isn’t in your top 50 places to go in the future.

IT WAS PINEAPPLE JUICE!!!!!!

P.S. I’m too pissed off to re-read this post. So, if shit is misspelled or sentences are incomplete/missing prepositions…get over it.

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Jan 23 2012
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cranky rants, internal dirt

so much for the sabbath

Let me tell you how I really feel...

As of today, Impregnated Male Degenerate, GTL and myself are no longer on speaking terms.

I spent the 3 hours that I actually “worked” today eating a 4-course meal: family meal (salad, chicken, rice); viddles from The Sombrero (lamb chops, scallops, roasted cauliflower, purple sweet potatoes); a special lamb-beef burger from the Sombrero; and, to top it all off, mashed potatoes courtesy of my AGM.

Then I got cut. GTL threw a shit fit because he was assigned to service bar and apparently “owed” the first cut because “that’s the rule”. Well, let me refresh your memory, asshole. Remember that Sunday when you were still drunk because you decided to rage at Pacha until 10am…and I was on service bar? Who went home early that night? If you don’t remember because you’re blacked out 4 nights a week…it was you. And that Wednesday night when someone who had worked a double was on service…and one of your biddies was in the bar…so you wooed her into giving up her cut so you could get it in. You really disgust me. But, I’m not disappointed since it’s nothing I wouldn’t normally expect of you.

Then I went home and ate a fresh-out-of-the-oven blueberry muffin. In the 4 hours that I spent out of bed today…I might have actually gained 10 pounds.

In other news, I have drinks with a guest on Tuesday. And I’m off for the next 3 days.

Woot.

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Jan 22 2012
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cranky rants, harsh judgements, internal dirt

birthday cake and bowel movements

So, it’s literally 7am…the sun is rising…and I just got home from The Sombrero. Certainly a new record. Tonight really sucked.

1. It snowed in CT and it was really cold.

2. For 3/4 of the night I had 5 bartenders behind my bar…and, myself included, had only 2 bartenders actually making drinks. READ: THIS IS A PROBLEM. Basically, this is what was happening while another female bartender and I were holding down the fort:

2a. GTL (your typical non-Italian guido) was disappearing frequently with my garbage can to go smoke. HELLO!?! I’m already tipping out someone to take out the garbage. AND you were supposed to quit smoking for the New Year. Also, stop hanging on my juicer. You have your point. I have mine. Stay on yours. And, what right do you have to go eat free guac like you fucking own the place when you’re fully aware of new policies. You’re a bad egg, GTL. And you know what happens to bad eggs? They get tossed.

2b. Impregnated Male Degenerate was standing up at the front of the bar smiling and keeping a look-out like he was steering a fucking cruise ship. Again, just to remind everyone…STAY OUT OF MY FUCKING POINT WHEN I AM TRYING TO MAKE DRINKS! Go smile elsewhere…like the well to which you were assigned…all the way at the end…in the basement of Target. Seriously. There’s a throng of people that need drinks and I all see you doing is smiling and moving glasses. AND you were doing a shitty job at that because I still didn’t have enough to make my drinks! WHERE WAS MY BARBACK?!?! Again AGAIN, I’m already tipping out a barback…I don’t need you to fill that roll. Cue: “We’re going down to myself and those three other bartenders. You can go now. Thanks.” Sorry that I’m not sorry I wasn’t nicer. Having to make drinks for 25 people at a time doesn’t leave much time for me to cup your sensitivity balls. You shouldn’t even have a job, you degenerate. Fucking Diego!!!

2c. Blonde Trainee. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, honey. The only reason you weren’t cut is because you were free labor. Puleeeze. If it wasn’t for the fact that you were still training, I would’ve sent you and Impregnated Male Degenerate home in the same hand-basket. If you have time to smile…you have too much time on your hands. What kills me is that you apparently are employed at another bar right now! You tell me. When there are empty beer bottles and glasses on the bar…what do you do with them?!?! But thanks for putting in all those tips! We couldn’t have done it without you! Actually, the best part of my night was having you count the money that you weren’t getting tipped out from at the end of the night. Be happy that I was too busy to tell you to put in the tips directly…

**Boy, that sounds evil. But seriously, people…I was drowning most of the night. I even had a guest ask if I was the only bartender working. This is ridiculous.**

3. I had a $227 tab that cashed out. $0 tip. An intended $0 tip. You cock-sucking degenerates.

Done listing.

Now…here’s the question of the century: what happens to women at bars that turns them into savage beasts in the bathroom? Seriously. The ladies’ bathroom at Castro’s Cuba tonight had broken glass all over the floor, toilet paper EVERYWHERE, and a full slice of birthday cake resting on a ledge in the handicapped stall where we normally stack spare rolls. There are some nights where I think we’re secretly holding livestock auctions in there. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ALL OF YOU?! And, more importantly, were you planning to eat that slice of cake before or after you rid your bowels of waste?

I have to go to sleep now. Work tomorrow. AGAIN. Bleh.

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Jan 20 2012
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cranky rants, harsh judgements, internal dirt

smackin’ bitches

The only word I can think of right now to describe tonight (business-wise) is: doodie. Seriously, where is everyone? I realize that everyone is getting their W-2′s in the mail this week. I’ve personally received 4 out of the 6 I’m expecting (including one 1099). But everyone knows that the best way to forget your financial woes is alcohol. Clearly.

Regardless of whether I go home with $30 or $300, there is still bullshit to discuss. So, let the Gospel begin.

We had yet another new trainee today. I suppose she’s been training during a few day shifts, as well, so she’s not entirely “new”…but why would you have someone come in to train on a normally busy night? This doesn’t make any sense. I generally have very little patience for teaching people things…but I really tried to instill some pertinent knowledge in this new blonde. My main issue with all of these new biddies is that they linger and have absolutely zero regard for personal space. Usually Europeans are all physically up in everyone’s beeswax; but I’m pretty certain she was American. What’s up with that? I’m not an ogre. I love myself some personal touch. But unless I grant you access, stay the fuck out of my bubble. She was the first cut.

The second cut was our in-house Trailer Park Train-Wreck. Seriously, bitch. There’s a reason why you’re on service bar every time you come to work: you offend people both aesthetically and verbally. Probably more of the former than the latter. There are tickets spewing out of the printer with drinks for you to make…and where are you? Frollicking. Lurching up on my juicer. Having a conversation…with yourself. Yes. I know you may think that you’re talking to those men. But, they are actually staring at my tits. Sorry. Oh, wait. No, I’m not. You’re hopelessly annoying. And the fact that you think that we have the same taste in men makes me want to donate my ovaries to science.

I got another number tonight. Sam. You charming motherfucker. I feel like you’re way too nice which is why, in the “real” world, we’d never work out. But, I texted you back. You’re actually almost too charming. I’m afraid that I wouldn’t be able to have a conversation with you because I’d just smile the whole time. This worries me. Not that I’m totally into conversation. But I’m not totally about smiling, either. And why are you hanging out with old men that could be your grandpa? This also worries me, Sam.

Can I take a moment to remind fellow bartenders that when I’m bartending and you’re ordering a drink and being a total cunt/asshole…guess what?! I could give two shits that you’re also a bartender. Honestly, what’s the motive behind telling me that you’re a bartender? I’m busy. I can’t hear you. The guy who normally engraves the plaques went on break 20 minutes ago. Just tell me what you want to drink! I don’t have all night.

Then we did last call. Or, did we? I’m pretty sure that my AGM just turned on the lights. Nothing wrong with that!

I had a pretty fantastic sandwich: meatballs, chicken, cheese gravy. Hell. Yes.

Fast Forward >> Epically awkward run-in with the New Rochelle Pocahontas who was banished back to the location where she was spawned. Evil seed. She hates me because she thinks I had a hand in her banishment. Maybe I did. Maybe Giant Fetus does have a small penis. But, just like the number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, the world may never know. Cunty McCunterstein. Hate me. But don’t go hatin’ on my fellow Tittie Committee member who would prefer to do nothing more than kill you with kindness. ESPECIALLY when you’re about to ride Gordon Gecko’s gyro. For the record, my girl tapped it before you did…as in, before he slipped that ring on his fiance’s finger. Is it something in the water in New Rochelle? Or, are you all just natural-born sluts (I was going to go with “whore”…but…”slut” is more scathing)? And, I know that you’re trying to look tough, but that expression on your face just makes you look constipated. Not cute.

And then I met a homosexual man named Miles. He puked into the river outside Sam’s mid-way through telling me how he wanted me to attend some advertising award ceremony with the 4A’s. Honey- been there…done that. I won their stupid crystal pyramid from Tiffany’s. It’s gayer than you are. You’re time would be better spent learning to hold your liquor.

Amen. Praise Jesus.

Note to self: Get your ass out of bed before 2pm tomorrow. You’re out of tinted moisturizer.

Special thanks to lonely metal-heads who aren’t ashamed to break out into full air guitar and drums. I have a nice video of you that I look forward to watching tomorrow.

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Jan 19 2012
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cranky rants, internal dirt, intoxicated exploits

i’m so hungover

I woke up this morning singing the theme song to Aladdin…only to notice, seconds later, that I apparently vomited in my (thankfully) very large garbage can beside my bed. This means one thing above the rest: I have to wash my hair again. Fuck. Goddamn Palestinian red wine.

Did I mention that I’m really hungover?

I really don’t even remember anything remotely interesting about yesterday save these few disconnected bits of information:

-I’m no longer allowed to eat guacamole for free at work. Actually, I’m not allowed to eat for free PERIOD at work. Family meal starts today which is probably going to be some french fry casserole with beans. And avocado.

-I gave my number to some 31-year old coal and oil shipper. This is part of my new plan to stop sleeping with children.

*SPEAKING OF SLEEPING WITH CHILDREN! Oh my. I almost forgot. At 10:30am I get a text from recently 21-year old Giant Fetus accusing me of spreading rumors around Castro’s Cuba that he has a small penis. This apparently hurt his feelings because I still “hit him up”. Seriously, Fetus? Your giant cock is probably your only redeeming quality. And if I find out what degenerate is spitting this bullshit (which is probably Diego), I might actually give him/her a high-five. Grow up.*

-I had a really long conversation about ghosts and spirits at the Sombrero.

And then I drank a lot of red wine. Fuck. My. Life.

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Jan 14 2012
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cranky rants, harsh judgements, internal dirt, intoxicated exploits

saturday night’s alright for fighting

Tonight was pretty epic in a number of terrible ways.

1. As I got home at 6am last night/this morning…I woke up with my eye-mask covering 75% of my eyes and nearly in a coma at 3:30pm. Less than 12 hours. Not enough.

2. Surprise! We had a new trainee tonight. She was suffering from too many visits to the electric beach and a bad hair dye job…which MAY have remotely appeared (to the male eye/penis) to have resulted in a color in the same family as my own hair color…so, apparently she was my “twin” or “look-alike” or whatever. GROSS. She’s a fucking lurch that was taking up all of my personal space. Her face was long. AND she had a double chin. ALSO…who the FUCK has someone visit them at a bar…when it’s their first day training? I don’t care that you worked at Public House in the city. The person that thought it was a good idea to semi-hire you and have you “shadow” us on a Saturday night needs to be stabbed. Lucky for you, I like him 65% of the time. So, he (who’s now being gifted with the name “Diego”…) can stay. You, however, better not make a repeat appearance. Just sayin… And…you’re ugly. Did I mention that you linger? Move that fat ass of yours. Mine is big, too. But I don’t need your fat ass rubbing up against mine while I am trying to squeeze juice, bitch. Seriously, Diego…where the fuck are you finding all these assholes? Is there a farm somewhere? Or, better yet, a barrel in your basement? You deserve a spanking. And I bet you’d enjoy it. Moving on…

3. On the subject of ugly bitches…keep your attitude in check! It’s not my problem that you aren’t getting laid. I’m not either. But you don’t need to tear your change out of my hand. Or demand hoe cones with special candles for your guidette-friend’s birthday. Believe me…if you were a real friend you would’ve given her a carrot stick for her birthday. Not gelato. Ouch. Seriously, though. When another guest with a functioning vagina feels the need to call out your unnecessarily foul behavior, you should really consider taking it down a few notches. Come back next weekend and wave an empty bottle in my face…and you’ll have a full one smash on the side of yours.

*Rainbows. Sunshine. Dancing fairies.*

4. Is everyone a fucking secret shopper? Or, is everyone preparing for tax season and saving their receipts? Seriously, guests. You are all freaking me out. Because after 9pm…I don’t give a fuck about your needs. And then 80% of you keep all of your receipts except for the one that you sign. Unless you actually ARE a secret shopper…or expensing a business dinner/client booze fest…the receipts are pretty worthless. It’s not like you can return a shot…that you’ve already consumed. I need to know where all these receipts are going. It’s really bothering me.

5. FIGHT!! We had about 5 amazing fights break out tonight…all fueled, apparently, by some scrawny kid in a red flannel shirt who’s greatest accomplishment in life was probably becoming captain of his high school chess team. After he was dragged out by an arm and a leg (with his head knocking the side of the door on the way out…OUCH)…some other shit went down (which I am still waiting to watch again on the camera roll): some bitch threw a rocks glass…punches were thrown…people got choked out…a fellow bartender (who I so warmly refer to as “Polly Pocket”) got hit in the head with a glass…CHAOS. I don’t know how well Murphy’s Oil works on blood. And I wasn’t about to find out….so, my first reaction was to remove all of our knives from the bar. Best part: as my AGM is attempting to kick everyone out, some asshole standing at my point asks, “So, are you making my 3 margaritas?” Short answer: NO.

6. Then we went to Port Chester. And I had a heart attack driving home because I thought I was getting pulled over for a DUI when a Lincoln Towncar was flashing its brights at me. Turns out that this asshole just wanted to drive the speed limit. So, actually, I am not sure if I was driving too fast or too slow for him. Legitimately.Almost.Died. But I obviously didn’t. I know you’re relieved.

I don’t have to work tomorrow. Woot! Cue: 16 hour sleep fest.

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Jan 12 2012
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cranky rants

humpless hump day

So, I just got home to find the much anticipated chicken and snow-peas in my refrigerator…but no rice! And…we’re out of that sweet Uncle Ben’s microwaveable rice. This isn’t an appropriate time to run out of instant carbs, mom! What the fuck!? So, while I wait for my yam to cook in the micro…let’s discuss what retarded nonsense I had to deal with tonight:

1. Honestly, why is everyone so infatuated by what I am doing with my life? For your benefit, you should probably not touch this topic with a 10-foot pole. I tell you that I don’t want to discuss, but you keep prodding. And, that look in my eyes that makes you think you’re right in your assumptions…well, that’s just me internalizing and trying not to stab you.

*Yam cooking complete. Cue: yam snacking in bed!*

2. Believe it or not, “salt” is not a drink. In your broken English, “salt” sounds like “Sol”…HENCE the reason why I opened a beer for you. “Salt” does not mean “margarita”. AND you’re old. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m crying on the inside because you weren’t entertained and only had a few sips of that margarita. ACTUALLY…I’m really pissed because I had to make that fucking drink.

3. Once I’ve poured your wine into a glass…your ship has sailed, bitch. No. You cannot order a margarita. What do you expect me to do…funnel that wine back into the bottle? The fact that you would even admit that you did the same thing to me last time makes me even less sympathetic to your palatal needs and desires. And…guess what? You’re old.

4. And to the bitch with the crazy, over-bleached hair that I suspect is a prostitute…I’m still not sure that I’m ok with you staring at my tits. You actually scare me a little.

Despite all this bullshit, I did get to eat a slice of someone’s birthday NY cheesecake from Junior’s. #winning

In other news, we’re planning a work ski trip. Who’s bringing the NDA’s?

In other OTHER news, I’m greatly looking forward to a lamb-beef burger for breakfast tomorrow from The Sombrero. Love me some meat.

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Jan 09 2012
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harsh judgements, internal dirt, intoxicated exploits

just another manic monday

Oh. Em. Gee. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?

Hold the phone. Rewind.

Yesterday started out fairly normal (read: boring and uneventful). For a solid 2 hours, there were only 3 people at the bar: some tall, dark and handsome fellow on a date with his grandpa…and some lonely creeper who works at Chef Luis in New Canaan. Once the date broke up, I was left with no other choice but to talk to the single…which always ends epically awkward.

Dear lonely bar creepers: If you are sitting by yourself at the bar, and the bartending is chatting you up (especially when you’re the ONLY human being sitting at the bar), it’s mostly likely because they HAVE to…not because they WANT to.

No. I don’t want to hang out with you. I don’t want to hear about your favorite author since I’ve clearly just established that I hate reading. And, I sure as hell won’t be checking out that Indian-trance band from Australia that you so highly recommended. Next time I answer, “Anything but country…”, I will be sure to be a little more specific and add “trance”. I mean…Shpongle? You cannot be serious. It sounds like a Jewish noodle casserole. Or a terminal illness. You’re lucky that you weren’t the highlight of my night because a shot of the napkin you left me would’ve been today’s featured image.

Fast Forward >> Successfully solicited some eye-candy/Black Card business.

FF >> Last call 10:15pm. “Really?” No. I just wanted to interrupt your deep conversation with your ugly girlfriend for my health. Yes. Really.

FF >> Cleaning. Refrigerated shift drink. Tip out. $60. Stupid.

Now this is when it really gets interesting. The restaurant across the street that we frequent after-hours was having their staff holiday party. For the sake of simplicity, I’m going to refer to this place from now as as “The Sombrero”. I’m also going to start referring to my bar as “Castro’s Cuba”. Moving on…

As part of the extended Sombrero familia, the invitation to attend was extended to me and a couple coworkers. Red wine…tequila…whiskey…Honey Jack…vodka…beer…all in my belly. And then El Capitan opened a bottle of champagne with a sabre. I didn’t want to be rude…so, add that to whatever was already sloshing around in my stomach. Delightful!

Good party. Nice people. Some of them need to be re-schooled on the beauty of personal space…and breath mints. But, nice people, nonetheless.

And then shit turned sour. The normal bartender, Blondie, at The Sombrero obviously wasn’t working her own staff party. Actually, a fellow bartender from CC’s was given the honor. Batman.

All within a matter of 10 minutes: Blondie starts to aggressively clean up behind the bar…stops…pours herself a goblet of wine…walks outside with some Mexicans (kitchen staff?)…comes back inside screaming. And then the cops came.

I guess what started out as a nice gesture to help the Mexican kitchen staff get home in a cab, ended with a slap in the face. Literally.

Tears. “I’m on probation!” Blondie gets arrested. Bystanders in cuffs. Definitely a few things going on inside that wouldn’t necessarily get a seal of approval from the 5-0…

That was my cue to blow that popsicle stand and hit up the local 24-hour diner, which I will appropriately refer to as “The Vortex” (not to be confused with The Vortex in Atlanta, GA…for any familiar parties).

Disco fries (cheese + gravy): $4.50.

Bud Lights served in a paper Pepsi cups: $42.

Watching a homeless man thank the host for calling the cops to get him arrested: priceless.

Watching the cops beat said homeless man with a metal flashlight: no comment.

2 arrests in one night. WTF? Was there a full moon out last night?

Then Batman came to fetch what was left of the CC crew. And after The Vortex drama, it would only make sense that we’d return to The Sombrero to get the full scoop. Only at The Sombrero would upper management bail you out of jail.

Shots. Shots. Shots. “Laughing Out Loud” by The Wallflowers ironically playing in the background.

And then I woke up topless with my electric blanket on. God bless The Sombrero.

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