Sunday, January 16, 2011

Goats, Chimps, Birds

Not to overplay the "cranky bouncer tirade" card too much--though it's been my schtick for a couple decades now--but Thursday, Jan 13 was definitely a goatfuck. We had a promo for the Ricky Gervais Show and the USF Law School folks were there as well. Just a friendly hint folks: it is totally acceptable to call ahead and say, "Hey, we invited 400 people to your bar tonight." That way we can maybe throw in an extra door guy or bartender if need be. (Yeah, I know: the phone doesn't always get picked up. But give it the old college try, okay?)

Going from five customers to five hundred in about an hour gave me some great examples of minor misbehavin' to regale you with, mostly in terms of how to enter and exit a bar. For one, if you're not ready with the ID, why are you in line? Because you like making the people behind you wait while you dig through your jumbo-assed tent of a purse?

When the door guy reaches for your ID, hand it to him. There are certain things I'm looking for, and I can't find any of those things if you're white knuckling your license. Chances are, I'm going to give it back. (If it's not fake, right?) I'll look at it as long as I need to, nod graciously, say "Thank you," and hand it back. I will not, however, hold onto your ID as you hug your 35 besties while you scream like an eighth grader or while you play Grabass McChestbump your tight bros from way back when. I am not an ID caddy. At the point where you walk off to do whatever, I'll simply lay it on the bar and leave it to the prevailing winds of fate. I may also put it in my pocket and sell it back to you if you're especially annoying.

On a related note, I am neither interested in, nor paid for, holding your beer or watching your drink. No you can't bring it outside. Welcome to California, Frenchie. "So where can I put it?" Um, that long, horizontal slab of wood? It's called "the bar." This piece of furniture is so important to our establishment, in fact, that in a perfect example of synecdoche, the place is known simply as a bar. Beyond this, any place having one of these inside is called a bar. A whole type of business known for a particular piece of furniture. Amazing. That's how important bars are to bars, so get to know our convenient, balanced, lacquered beverage storage area, okay? Stick a coaster over your drink--international sign for "don't dump this, I'm still working on it"--and go have your smoke. "But I don't want someone to roofie me." Well, if mickey slippage is a concern, finish your drink first. Life is full of important decisions that take time and careful consideration: who to marry, where to live, whether to part your konk on the left or the right. What to do with your PBR should not be one of these decisions.

However, the single biggest party foul as far as I'm concerned is putting your ID (or ticket, in the case of clubs) in your mouth while you fiddle-fuck around with your purse or wallet. Incredibly bad form, yet not all that rare of an occurrence.

Human beings are primates, supposedly the jewel of the Great Apes. As such, we engage in codified social interactions. What does it mean when you walk up and hold your hand out for me to shake? Conversely, what does it mean when you hand me something that's been in your mouth? Are we on such intimate terms that we're swapping fluids? If I want to touch your saliva, I'll stick my finger in your mouth, all right? I don't even hand my girlfriend stuff that's been in my mouth..."Hey babe, been sucking on this jawbreaker for an hour, can you hold it for me?" If you worked at a bakery and I ordered a muffin, would you lick it before you handed it to me? Would I hand you a five spot that'd been in my mouth? Germ theory anyone? You hand me something that's been in your mouth and the whole social order breaks down--a few hundred years of this zoo type behavior and we'll be flinging shit at each other (on places besides public transit). Don't be a bad chimpanzee.

Finally, let's talk about the doorway itself. Here's an interesting bit of history: for hundreds, if not thousands of years, the architectural confabulation known as "the doorway" has been reserved for the ingress and egress of the human animal. Which is to say, people walk through that shit. It is only recently that this space has been appropriated--nay, misappropriated--for posting up and talking on your cell phone. Please find another way to signify your immense douchiness. I would've thought the popped collar and flip-flops might have been enough.

Do not stand in the doorway holding a drink and scream at your friends outside: "Joe! HEY JOE! I GOT YOU A TECATE BRO!" After a dozen or so Motörhead shows, my hearing is not the best. However, yelling in my earhole from a half foot away is still highly painful, as well as lacking the well thought out riffage of Motörhead. Put the drink down, walk outside, and have a civil conversation at a civilized volume or start your own band. Elsewhere.

On the reals, though, doo--I ain't mad atcha. I leave that to Raynie (pictured with bird) and friend. They'll fuck you up, Jack--so come correct.

1 comment:

  1. Couldn't have said it better myself... Once again, Thanx DuncMotherfuckin'Deeeeeeeeeeee!!! Hi five, bro! (heh heh... )