Ahh, beer. My one weakness; my Achilles heel if you will
I have had the most random experiences while at the bar. I’m talking weird as shit. Like, waking up and trying to figure out 1) where I am; 2) how I got there, and 3) why am I wearing women’s underwear. There was the one night where I was drunk at the bar, ran into a hooker, fucked her in the bathroom, left without paying (not my fault she didn’t get the money up front) then drove to the local massage parlor where I asked the Asian sucking my dick if I could call her “Lucy Liu” in order to complete the fantasy. But that’s a story for another day. This is the story of what I have affectionately termed “Spring Break Thursday.”
It started as a normal Thursday. My friends had left my place after spending a solid three days straight doing nothing but sitting on the couch and drinking excessively. Then I got a phone call from one of the bartenders. She was opening the bar for someone else and told me to come down and drink with her. Never one to say no to booze, I told her I’d shower and be right down.
I arrived at the bar and the drinking commenced. I had a plan: I was going to get drunk during happy hour, sober up, and then call my friends to see what was going on that night. Problem was, I ignored the “sober up” part of the plan and just kept on drinking. I partially blame the bartender I was hanging out with who kept ordering rounds of shots on her tab. I also blame the bartender who was working who gave us two or three rounds of shots. By the time happy hour was about to end I was drunk. The person I was hanging out with had to go home and take a nap because she was supposed to be working later. I drunkenly told her ok and that I would probably still be at the bar when she came back.
Somewhere in there is where my drunk dials started. I called a friend who was still in town a few times and sent him some text messages telling him to get his pussy ass out to the bar. He didn’t answer my phone calls (good decision on his part). So I did the only thing I could: I kept drinking. And not slowly. Then the bartender I was hanging out with showed up again; she was supposed to be working later that night, but it was a slow night so the bar didn’t need her to work. Instead she sat there with me and got drunk. And goddamn were we drunk.
Somewhere around ten or so the friend I was calling shows up in the bar to find me wasted. His statement: “Yeah, I saw all the missed phone calls and text messages and figured you probably didn’t need to be alone downtown at this point.” To which I replied, “Get this man a beer and I need two shots of Jager.” While he was just planning on staying downtown for a beer or two, after doing the Jager shots with me he decided to move his car to the parking deck and get shitfaced with me. And shitfaced we both were.
We sat at the bar and we drank. We did shots. Apparently I was drinking Bourbon like the bar was about to run out of it. The bartender had to yell at me to quiet down about thirty times. This only led to me hanging my head and quieting down for about thirty seconds before starting back up with the yelling, the screaming, and the pounding on the bar. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized how out of control I was until that same bartender told me he thought he was going to have to kick me out of the bar. Normally this wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but you have to understand that 1) I go to this bar a lot; like, a lot; if I’m only there three nights a week it’s because I must have been really busy; 2) I know and am friends with all the bartenders; 3) Ditto for both owners; 4) I hang out with the bartenders and owners when they aren’t working. Taking all that into consideration, it would take a great deal of effort on my part for them to have to kick me out of the bar.
Of course, I was unable to contain my yelling and screaming to just one bartender. I started with what is, apparently, my favorite saying when I’m drunk: “Jesus is fucking thirsty!!” This is already slightly entertaining. But you have to also understand that when one of the bartenders was first being trained, I was introduced to her as “Jesus.” She caught on to the Jesus name so much that she didn’t really know my real name until about two or three weeks later. Due to my slight resemblance to the alleged son of the alleged god (i.e. long hair, a beard, always changing water into wine) and the fact that random people stop me probably about once a month or so just to tell me I look like Jesus I readily embraced the Jesus moniker. I moved forward from simply responding to Jesus when someone said it, and ended up right in the land of sacrilege where I refer to myself as Jesus and constantly scream out “Jesus is fucking thirsty” when I need another drink.
After screaming at the bartender that Jesus was thirsty I received another drink and then bartender started walking towards to other end of the bar. Unfortunately (fortunately?) I decided that I wasn’t being quite obnoxious or offensive enough. So I screamed at the (quite attractive) bartender, “Hey [bartender]!!!”
“Yes, Jesus?”
“I wanna do you in the butt!!!!!”
“[Silence followed by the bartender turning away from me and then putting her leg up on the beer cooler and shaking her ass at me]”
It finally became apparent to both my friend and me that we were both sufficiently drunk and probably shouldn’t have anymore. Luckily we did a shot right after that in order to beat the common sense into submission. And then we decided to go to the strip club because we wanted to “go see some titties!!!!” I closed out my tab and realized how much alcohol I had ordered. I closed my tab the first time at the end of happy hour and my tab was around ten bucks; and that was for at least four hours of drinking. My second tab, which was again for about four hours of drinking, was just a bit higher than the first. It was somewhere around fifty bucks. Now this is a college town so drinks are cheap to begin with. But I also get a small to large discount from the bartender (depending on who’s working). Add all this together and the answer (why is there an answer; I don’t remember asking a question) is that a fifty dollar bar tab for me equals out to a lot of fucking alcohol; there is literally no way that I could drink that much booze and not die (luckily (un-luckily?) I found out the next day that I ordered at least three rounds of shots for me and two other people which makes me feel a little better; but that’s still probably enough to kill a small horse; or at the very least Gary Coleman).
So off to the titty bar we go. But first I have to say bye to the bartender that called me down to the bar in the first place. So I walk up to her to let her know we’re finally leaving for the strip club. Now all of this is second hand because I did a little bit of time travel in here. According to my sources, I walked up to her, told her we were going, she stood up to give me a hug, and then I just stuck my tongue right down her throat. We stood in the middle of the bar and made out for about ten seconds; I then pulled back, said “later” and just turned on my heels and walked straight out of the bar. I got about six steps outside the bar when I stopped and turned to my friend just long enough to ask him, “Dude, did I really just make out with [her]?” To which he responded, “Yeah.”
We stumbled down to the strip club, ordered some beer, and then I proceeded to sit at a table where I did a little more time travel, somehow decided it was time to leave, somehow found a cab, and somehow made it back to my friend’s place where I promptly laid down on the couch and then passed the fuck out in roughly three seconds.
I’d like to say that this story has some sort of a moral or a higher message or some other fucking lofty goal about how drinking is bad for you and always causes problems and stupid shit like that. But it doesn’t. Basically, if you get really fucking drunk and go into the night with an open mind, you’ll have a fucking blast. And who knows; you just might end up making out with that hot bartender.
It started as a normal Thursday. My friends had left my place after spending a solid three days straight doing nothing but sitting on the couch and drinking excessively. Then I got a phone call from one of the bartenders. She was opening the bar for someone else and told me to come down and drink with her. Never one to say no to booze, I told her I’d shower and be right down.
I arrived at the bar and the drinking commenced. I had a plan: I was going to get drunk during happy hour, sober up, and then call my friends to see what was going on that night. Problem was, I ignored the “sober up” part of the plan and just kept on drinking. I partially blame the bartender I was hanging out with who kept ordering rounds of shots on her tab. I also blame the bartender who was working who gave us two or three rounds of shots. By the time happy hour was about to end I was drunk. The person I was hanging out with had to go home and take a nap because she was supposed to be working later. I drunkenly told her ok and that I would probably still be at the bar when she came back.
Somewhere in there is where my drunk dials started. I called a friend who was still in town a few times and sent him some text messages telling him to get his pussy ass out to the bar. He didn’t answer my phone calls (good decision on his part). So I did the only thing I could: I kept drinking. And not slowly. Then the bartender I was hanging out with showed up again; she was supposed to be working later that night, but it was a slow night so the bar didn’t need her to work. Instead she sat there with me and got drunk. And goddamn were we drunk.
Somewhere around ten or so the friend I was calling shows up in the bar to find me wasted. His statement: “Yeah, I saw all the missed phone calls and text messages and figured you probably didn’t need to be alone downtown at this point.” To which I replied, “Get this man a beer and I need two shots of Jager.” While he was just planning on staying downtown for a beer or two, after doing the Jager shots with me he decided to move his car to the parking deck and get shitfaced with me. And shitfaced we both were.
We sat at the bar and we drank. We did shots. Apparently I was drinking Bourbon like the bar was about to run out of it. The bartender had to yell at me to quiet down about thirty times. This only led to me hanging my head and quieting down for about thirty seconds before starting back up with the yelling, the screaming, and the pounding on the bar. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized how out of control I was until that same bartender told me he thought he was going to have to kick me out of the bar. Normally this wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but you have to understand that 1) I go to this bar a lot; like, a lot; if I’m only there three nights a week it’s because I must have been really busy; 2) I know and am friends with all the bartenders; 3) Ditto for both owners; 4) I hang out with the bartenders and owners when they aren’t working. Taking all that into consideration, it would take a great deal of effort on my part for them to have to kick me out of the bar.
Of course, I was unable to contain my yelling and screaming to just one bartender. I started with what is, apparently, my favorite saying when I’m drunk: “Jesus is fucking thirsty!!” This is already slightly entertaining. But you have to also understand that when one of the bartenders was first being trained, I was introduced to her as “Jesus.” She caught on to the Jesus name so much that she didn’t really know my real name until about two or three weeks later. Due to my slight resemblance to the alleged son of the alleged god (i.e. long hair, a beard, always changing water into wine) and the fact that random people stop me probably about once a month or so just to tell me I look like Jesus I readily embraced the Jesus moniker. I moved forward from simply responding to Jesus when someone said it, and ended up right in the land of sacrilege where I refer to myself as Jesus and constantly scream out “Jesus is fucking thirsty” when I need another drink.
After screaming at the bartender that Jesus was thirsty I received another drink and then bartender started walking towards to other end of the bar. Unfortunately (fortunately?) I decided that I wasn’t being quite obnoxious or offensive enough. So I screamed at the (quite attractive) bartender, “Hey [bartender]!!!”
“Yes, Jesus?”
“I wanna do you in the butt!!!!!”
“[Silence followed by the bartender turning away from me and then putting her leg up on the beer cooler and shaking her ass at me]”
It finally became apparent to both my friend and me that we were both sufficiently drunk and probably shouldn’t have anymore. Luckily we did a shot right after that in order to beat the common sense into submission. And then we decided to go to the strip club because we wanted to “go see some titties!!!!” I closed out my tab and realized how much alcohol I had ordered. I closed my tab the first time at the end of happy hour and my tab was around ten bucks; and that was for at least four hours of drinking. My second tab, which was again for about four hours of drinking, was just a bit higher than the first. It was somewhere around fifty bucks. Now this is a college town so drinks are cheap to begin with. But I also get a small to large discount from the bartender (depending on who’s working). Add all this together and the answer (why is there an answer; I don’t remember asking a question) is that a fifty dollar bar tab for me equals out to a lot of fucking alcohol; there is literally no way that I could drink that much booze and not die (luckily (un-luckily?) I found out the next day that I ordered at least three rounds of shots for me and two other people which makes me feel a little better; but that’s still probably enough to kill a small horse; or at the very least Gary Coleman).
So off to the titty bar we go. But first I have to say bye to the bartender that called me down to the bar in the first place. So I walk up to her to let her know we’re finally leaving for the strip club. Now all of this is second hand because I did a little bit of time travel in here. According to my sources, I walked up to her, told her we were going, she stood up to give me a hug, and then I just stuck my tongue right down her throat. We stood in the middle of the bar and made out for about ten seconds; I then pulled back, said “later” and just turned on my heels and walked straight out of the bar. I got about six steps outside the bar when I stopped and turned to my friend just long enough to ask him, “Dude, did I really just make out with [her]?” To which he responded, “Yeah.”
We stumbled down to the strip club, ordered some beer, and then I proceeded to sit at a table where I did a little more time travel, somehow decided it was time to leave, somehow found a cab, and somehow made it back to my friend’s place where I promptly laid down on the couch and then passed the fuck out in roughly three seconds.
I’d like to say that this story has some sort of a moral or a higher message or some other fucking lofty goal about how drinking is bad for you and always causes problems and stupid shit like that. But it doesn’t. Basically, if you get really fucking drunk and go into the night with an open mind, you’ll have a fucking blast. And who knows; you just might end up making out with that hot bartender.
posted by Naked Drinking Coffee at 4/28/2006 03:51:00 PM
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