DO YOURSELF A FAVOR: WATCH THIS SHORT VIDEO AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. THIS GUY IS FUCKING AWESOME!
DO YOURSELF A FAVOR: WATCH THIS SHORT VIDEO AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. THIS GUY IS FUCKING AWESOME!
In case ya’ll haven’t noticed, I’m on a bit of a hiatus for reasons I will explain in the the not-so-distant future. Until then, thanks for dropping by. -The RB
I get a lot of emails that aren’t quite hate mail, but are closer to “your opinions suck ass, please embrace and express mine instead” mail. The theme of these emails seems to follow a pattern, which is: ”You are callous and indifferent towards people”. In all fairness, I have to say that this does not sound like me at all. Hold on a minute…actually that sounds exactly like me. I can’t help it. I have been structured this way ever since I can remember, and that is to say I have the attention span of a teenage boy in a warehouse filled with porn. Small talk hurts my brain.
Nevertheless, there are times when my job is downright exhilarating, like two nights ago when I donated a portion of my life to share in a dynamic conversation between three fine men who were unearthing the timeless mystery of why some animals do not need an “s” on the end of their names to make them plural.
Genius #1: ”Seriously, like take deer for instance, man. Why aren’t they called deers?”
Genius #2: ”Yeah, or fishes. Wait…” (pauses while he tests the singular and plural forms of fish out loud to himself) ”The fish swam in the lake…the fishes swim south for the winter…”
Genius #3: ”What about buffalo? Is it ‘Flying Eagle kill many buffalos’ or ‘many buffalo’?”
Genius #2: ”I don’t know. That’s crazy-hard to remember, man.”
Though this 20 minute conversation went on for approximately 19 minutes and 60 seconds longer than it needed to, you can imagine my elation when they started debating whether the plural of “wolf” was spelled W-O-L-V-S or W-O-L-F-S. At this point I decided to do something a little more enjoyable so I grabbed a sheet of paper and began administering paper cuts to the underside of my tongue.
THINGS I WOULD RATHER DO THAN LISTEN TO THREE MORONS DISPUTE ANIMAL GRAMMAR
SAW BOTH MY FEET OFF WITH A SWISS ARMY KNIFE
HAVE MY ANKLES HOBBLED BY THE LADY IN MISERY
HAVE ONE MY MY TESTICLES CRUSHED IN A VICE
FORCE A 9-INCH ICE PICK DOWN THE SHAFT OF MY PENIS
What gets my engine really revved up is when someone presents me with a sentence that goes something like, “You’ll never believe how cool and wonderful and perfect my kid is.” This means I’m usually in for a treat, an out-of-this-world anecdote about how their kid got an “A” in jumprope, or whatever.
I am pleased they understand that it’s not only their invaluable drivel I look forward to listening to, but also the drivel concerning someone I’ve never met. Luckily, I am Ninja-awesome at fooling you into thinking I’m interested (or even listening) to what you’re saying by providing a practiced face of genuine interest. Like this:
WHAT I’M REALLY THINKING ABOUT WHILE YOU TELL ME YOUR KID GOT AN “A” IN JUMPROPE, OR WHATEVER
YOUR KID SOUNDS LIKE A TOOL
I’M HUNGRY FOR LEMON PIE
PLEASE ALLOW A PIANO TO FALL FROM THE SKY AND MERCIFULLY SQUASH ME INTO PULP
I believe I’ve revealed more than I should have, and now I’m becoming quite paranoid that baring my selfish soul to you will come back to haunt me. The only reason I can think of for why I did it is that it is therapeutic in some way. Supposedly, sharing dark secrets can release you from future heaviness and torment. I also think the charts and graphs are pretty sharp.
This, of course, is not fair to you, my guest, so the next time you come in, I will do my best to engage in pleasant and snappy conversation. Perhaps we can form an unbreakable bond that will stick like fairly adhesive masking tape, forever and ever, unless you talk too much.
Many people may not know this about me, but I’m on a committee to pass a bill that requires people to work in a restaurant before they are allowed to eat in one. Ok, I’m not really, I just made that up. To be on a committee requires a dedication reserved for beavers and team moms. I’d rather sit in the stands and root the players on (Go, Occupy, Go!). Or simply read the news and do what I do best, which is to throw my hands up in disgust and complain to my cat. Nevertheless, since you brought it up, let’s talk about it.
The serving industry can literally drive you mad. I’m talking curl-into-a-fetal-position-and-suck-your-thumb kind of mad. Forget the postal workers. Servers are 17 times more likely to carve their eyes out with a salad fork than a mailman. I can only compare it to Chinese water torture (drip, drip, drip). That single drop splashing on your forehead is nothing at first, but small annoyances add up until the tension becomes so unbearable you run back into the kitchen and tear the paper towel dispenser off the wall. Every day I am astounded that we are allowed to work in the presence of knives.
The truth is, any employee who has worked longer than a year in this business involuntarily joins an angry, jaded cult of servers and bartenders that cripples their chances to partake in a healthy relationship for the remainder of their life here on Earth. It’s the truth. In fact look-up “server blogs” on the Internet and see what server industry people are saying about you.
One in particular, TheBitchyWaiter.com, inspired this discussion I’m having with you. If you really want to know what servers think of you, check out the site and get inside the mind of a real server. It’s educational, enlightening and humorous. If this terrifies you and you’d rather live in the dark, stay away, but to this day I still can’t fathom why a guest would risk being disrespectful to a person who has access to the food that goes into their mouth. This is akin to insulting a guy smoking a cigarette while you’re standing in a puddle of gasoline.
If you’re a risk taker and you feel at home in your gasoline puddle, then practice these ten mistakes that will put you and your food in the line of fire the next time you go out:
1. FORGET YOUR MANNERS. For whatever reason, some people hoard their manners like Golem protecting The Ring (“My precioussssss”) and they distribute them like meager rations. CEO’s and priests are worthy of these rations, while servers and gas station attendants are treated like the sole of a shoe smothered in dog crap. Use your wildest imagination and make believe for a short time that servers are real people. Stop being a prick and say “please” and “thank you”.
2. IGNORE THEM. This could be a subcategory and is even worse than the former rule. Here’s some advice for those of you who would like your food fucked with: when your server initially arrives at your table and is standing there waiting to say hello, continue to carry on your conversation with the rest of the table and do not acknowledge the server’s presence. These people will continue to treat their server as the invisible person throughout the meal and then when they need something, they will complain to everyone who works there that they don’t know who their server is.
3. STRING ORDER. If you’ve ever played poker, this is like string betting where you make a bet, pull your hand back to your chips and bet again. It’s illegal, or at least against the rules. If you want to fluster a server, try this: order a Coke for your son. When the server returns, order a Sprite for your daughter. Next time, ask for more bread. By this time your server should be breathing heavy, but oooooh, you almost forgot, now you need a side of ranch. Servers depend on efficiency to provide quality service. For them, this is like building a wall carrying one brick at a time instead of using a wheel barrel.
4. ALLOW YOUR BABY TO TORNADO THE PLACE. Are you the person who allows your baby to toss plates of food on the floor and empty every sugar packet onto the table? Do you then pretend that it’s not your responsibility to control this because its the servants’ and slaves’ job to clean it up? If so, chances are your kid causes the same collateral damage wherever he/she goes, including friends’ houses, which means they probably hate you too. Every menu in America needs this message on its menu:
5. EAT 90% OF YOUR MEAL AND THEN SAY YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT AND ASK FOR IT TO BE TAKEN OFF YOUR BILL. (Drip, drip, drip…)
6. MAKE 23 MODIFICATIONS TO YOUR ORDER. There’s nothing wrong with “having it your way”, but don’t act shocked when you order the orange chicken with no chicken, sub soy faux-chicken, no sugar, sub Splenda, no olive oil, sub rice bran oil, extra crispy but no breading, sub corn starch, and it comes out tasting like a dishrag. The chefs created their recipes and sauces to taste good. Unless you are Rachel Fucking Ray, then don’t fuck with them. Yeah, I said it. Fuck!
7. LEAVE A CRAPPY TIP. Sure, by this time you’ll be gone and unless the server has a time machine he/she won’t be able to spit in your food. Still. It reminds me of a girl I worked with once who got a $1 tip on a $150 tab. She chased down the woman outside in the parking lot like she was going after someone who had just boiled her bunny, and that’s exactly how she looked too: like Glen Close at the end of Fatal Attraction when she looks like some crazy hoarder-27-cats-in-her-house-lady who comes at Michael Douglas with a butcher knife before he shoots her and she falls into the bath tub. Yeah, I know, that was this server, and she yelled at the lady, “Keep your dollar you fucking bitch!” right there in the parking lot. That’s how it happens. Remember the towel dispenser we discussed earlier? Drip, drip…
8. COMPLAIN ABOUT THE PRICES TO THE SERVER. This really happens, I’m not kidding. Try this: if you don’t like the prices, try budgeting with the server like you do at a yard sale. Maybe he’ll drop the price of the duck like he would some old shoes because he just wants to get rid of some things on the menu. Then, the next time you meet with your accountant, tell him that taxes are too high and see how that works out for you.
9. SIT AND CHAT FOR THREE HOURS AFTER YOU’RE THROUGH EATING. We call this “camping”, and not the good kind where you get to whittle sticks and make toast over a fire. Servers can’t make money until the next party can sit at the table you are holding hostage. If you aren’t making s’mores or telling ghost stories, mosey along.
10. ASK FOR SEPARATE CHECKS FOR YOU AND YOUR TEN FRIENDS. Ooooh, servers and separate checks are MORTAL enemies. Splitting checks for two people, whatever. Splitting for three, eh, ok. Anything beyond that and you can actually watch an internal meltdown take place before your very eyes. Your server will give you a smile used by catty housewives while she waits for six credit cards and four wads of cash.
Epilogue: I know I’m going to be attacked by some servers who will be like, “Why did you make us look so psycho?” and others will be all, “I’m not like that, I love my job and I love serving people and giving good service,” and even others will be like, “I don’t care if people camp or ask for separate checks, it’s my job and I’m great at it!”
Congratulations to all of you for your capacity to provide unblemished, consummate service. From the rest of us in the biz swimming at the bottom of the tainted fish barrel, we warmly and genuinely invite you to suck our balls.
Hello, my name is Daniel and I love wine. If you do not believe me, just ask people who I serve wine to and they will tell you that I love it.
I used to work with Dave at a restaurant that served wine. Wine involves smashing grapes and putting their juices in a bottle. There are many reasons that wine should replace other interesting things. You can talk about wine. You can smell wine. You can claim the wine is corked and dump it down the drain to show the manager that you are knowledgeable about wine and do not care about profits. You can come to my restaurant and I will use words like oaky, jammy and tannins and then you will think I’m smart and trust me to recommend a glass of wine for you that is way overpriced.
Here are some rules to follow about wine if you are not as great as me and don’t know about wine:
1. Ask to have the wine poured into a giant glass container that looks like a goldfish bowl so the wine can breathe, like a goldfish.
2. Sniff the wine like you’re a cocaine whore who is not only addicted to cocaine, but who also wants cocaine all the time.
3. Throw out arbitrary fruits and spices that you think the wine smells like and I will do the same because there is no wrong answer. You might detect hints of blackberry, wood and leather. I might notice small traces of vomit, stool samples and unwashed feet. We are both right because we are not wrong.
4. Swirl the wine around the glass and see if it makes the glass dirty. This is called the “legs” and it is called that because it is a sexy thing to do.
5. Taste the wine and make a disgusting gurgling sound through your teeth before swallowing it.
6. Do some other stuff with wine that makes no sense.
If you don’t like wine, it’s ok. Wine is for sophisticated people like me. And winos. If you are not a wino or a sophisticator, you can still come to my restaurant and listen to me talk about wine and watch other people sniff and drink wine. Be sure to reserve a large window of time because it takes four hours to drink wine. Three of those hours involves swirling the wine and telling amazing wine stories about other times you tasted wine.
I do not like Dave very much because he makes fun of me for talking about wine. Dave needs to be kinder to me if he wants to be invited to my bunco games where we drink wine and talk about wine and sometimes roll dice in which the winner wins a bottle of wine.
If anyone knows who invented wine, please give me their name and address so I can send a letter of appreciation and request a photo of him or her so that I can make it into a poster and pin it on my bedroom ceiling. My letter would look like this:
Dear Inventor of Wine:
Thank you for inventing wine. It tastes and smells like wine. Please send me a photo of you so I can make it into a poster and pin it on my bedroom ceiling.
Daniel, Wine Demigod and Master of the Universe
IT’S LIKE LOOKING IN A MIRROR!
I have always wanted to be a bad-ass action hero, from the time I was about four, watching The Six-Million Dollar Man, up until about two days ago.
One of the great pleasures I get working at my bar is that about once every three or four months some drunk person whose vision is quite blurry tells me that I look like Matt Damon, which means all I really hear is that I am Jason Bourne. I get so excited by this that I spend the rest of my day or night daydreaming about the collateral damage I would deliver to a thug assaulting a young mother or to a group of European terrorists who had taken over a skyscraper while holding 75 people hostage. My fantasy only works if I try to push the truth aside, which is to say that if I actually witnessed a lady getting mugged I would more than likely turn to the 12 year old girl a few feet away and ask her, “WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD WE DO?!!!”.
I spend my shift anticipating the next person who will feed me my crack, licking my lips as each person approaches the bar to order a drink, and if within a few weeks no one has told me that I look like Matt Damon, I start to get antsy and irritable.
But it finally happened again a couple of days ago right at the end of my shift: someone told me I looked exactly like Matt Damon. I said (with a trembling voice), “You mean like in The Bourne Identity,” and she said, “No, I was thinking more like in that movie I just saw….it was called…oh, yeah, We Bought a Zoo. He was so sweet and vulnerable in that movie.”
I quickly discarded the fact that Damon is about 40 pounds heavier and weeps throughout the entire movie, and then I drove home scanning the rearview mirror to see if anyone from Treadstone was tailing me. When I got home I was so jazzed that I started practicing my Special Forces forward snap and roundhouse kicks in the living room at 2:30 a.m. On about kick number twelve, I delivered a death blow to my living room lamp. My dismayed wife came racing downstairs, found me standing over the debris and asked what had happened.
“I had no choice,” I told her. ”it was holding three light bulbs hostage.” I’m not sure because she was mumbling, but there was something about “marrying a jackass” before she turned and headed back upstairs.
Since the lamp tragedy, I have decided to grow up and retire from my espionage fantasy life. There is no place for lamp violence on this Earth. The next time someone tells me I look like Matt Damon, I will simply thank them and then drive home and fantasize that I am a subdued zoo keeper tending to a motley family of neglected animals on my property.
Cheers, until next time.
Cops are so lucky. They get to wear a sparkly badge and eat doughnuts and tell people to spread ‘em. They carry around their shooty-things on their hip and get to hit people in the upper thighs with a heavy stick that swings recklessly from their Batman utility belt. All I get is a muddler to squish up limes which squirt sting-y stuff in my eye. It’s not fair.
But then I got an idea. A wonderfully wicked, horribly spectacular idea. The other day my nephew told me about this cool thing you can do with cops called a “ride-along”. Crazy, huh? Cops drive you around and you can see them confiscate drugs and intimidate perps (street talk for perpetrators) and other cool stuff. And my nephew’s only fourteen! Are you kidding me?
That’s when my wickedly brilliant idea began to form. If cops can have a fourteen year old ride around with them at the risk of getting shot in the face, then why shouldn’t I be able to provide an educational experience for a teenager to learn what it’s like to work in a bar all night? Exactly! Egalitarianism declares my right to.
I immediately put an ad out on Craigslist for a lucky candidate to join me for a shift. At first I made the ad cool and mysterious sounding so the applicants would come drooling with curiosity:
BARTENDER SEEKS YOUNG BOY FOR NIGHTLY ADVENTURES!
For this I received a tidal wave of responses that I had not expected. After I posted bail, I posted a new, less mysterious, well-defined ad and was soon rewarded with Julius, a fourteen year old go-getter who was just itching and clawing to follow in my footsteps.
I could hardly contain myself as I waited for my young Skywalker to show up for his training. Finally, someone to be molded by my hands.
When Julius walked in, I can’t help but admit that I was a bit concerned. He was a tad on the nerdy side and built like cooked linguini. Not really bartender material at all. My first mistake was not setting ground rules, because Julius was like a three year old in my bar and the questions never ended.
Julius: ”Why do we have to cut so many limes? What’s that waitresses name? Can I meet her? Why do you keep calling me Julius-san?”
Me: ”Well, Julius, we use lots of limes throughout the shift…we’re not just cutting them to strengthen your forearms (though they could certainly use it), the waitresses name is Sandy and no you may not meet her, she’s ten years older than you. Finally, I call you Julius-san out of respect. ’San’ is a title of honor.”
Julius: ”Yeah, but my name is Martin.”
Me: ”Martin? For a bartender? I don’t think so. No one cool was ever named Martin.”
Julius: ”What about Martin Sheen and Martin Short?”
Me: ”Exactly! Hahahaha! But seriously. Julius is a far superior name to Martin. It’s a delightful, frothy orange drink, it’s the name of that Doctor who played professional basketball years ago, and it was the name of one of the greatest presidents of the Spanish Empire.”
Me: ”Julius Caesar.”
Julius: ”Julius Caesar was a Roman general and statesmen.”
Me: ”Julius, I think I know my history a little better than a fourteen year old.”
Julius: ”But I just learned…”
Me: “No more questions at this time please, let’s move on. This here, Julius, is called Patron. Would you like to take a shot with me? You would? Great! Here’s yours. Hahahaha, just kidding, I fooled you good, Julius-san. You can’t take that shot of tequila. My gosh, you’re so gullible, Julius. A shot of tequila has to be taken with a squeeze of lime and a lick of salt. Now lick the back of your hand…that’s where the salt goes. Here’s your lime. Good boy. Burns, doesn’t it?”
Julius: “Can I make a drink now?”
Me: “Can you make a drink? Get the fuck outta here. You think a cop let’s a fourteen year old kid shoot a criminal his first time out on a ride-along? Empty those bus tubs and take out the trash. You need to learn a little hustle first. Like a hamster. A hamster runs on a wheel and then gets his treat, not the other way around.”
Julius: “Hamsters run on the wheel for fun. They don’t get treats for that.”
Me: “Don’t argue. You need to be a hamster for awhile before you climb the totem pole. I’m going to call you Nerbel from now on until you learn how to run on a wheel. Nerbel the hamster.”
I put him to work, gave him some real man-labor, and that quieted him down for awhile, but it didn’t take long for him to start back up.”
Nerbel: “What are those two people doing? Why are they touching tongues like that?”
Me: “Well, Nerbel, she’s doing it because she’s insecure because her daddy didn’t love her and this is the only way she knows how to feel loved. He’s doing it because he’s had 15 beers and has forgotten how unfortunate she looked way back when he had his first sip. In the morning she will feel regretful and depressed and he will be angry with himself.
Nerbel: “Why will he be angry with himself?”
Me: “Because his dick controls his life. It will make you do funny things too one day, Nerbel, and I’m talking way beyond those two hours you spend in the shower doing the old knuckle-shuffle on your piss-pump.”
By this time I began to see a shift in Nerbel. He seemed to have aged five years in the past two hours, and so I pushed on, determined to teach him everything I had learned in my fifteen years behind the bar.
Me: “Don’t ever let anyone convince you to go to bartending school, Nerbel. It’s a waste of time. Take you, for instance. The resume you emailed me stated that you were voted class clown last year in junior high, isn’t that right? Well, did you go to clown college? I didn’t think so. Some things you can’t learn at some stupid school. What’s that? You wanna go home? Forget it. I ask that question all the time too but the owner just laughs at me. You wouldn’t believe all the horrors I see in the place. Not to mention all the whores I see in this place. Hahaha…get it, Nerbel? Whores? Nevermind.”
Nerbel: ”I’m going home now.”
Me: ”What? But you’ll miss the puking and the bar fights.”
Nerbel: ”I don’t care. Bartending is stupid.”
Me: Hahahaha….easy, champ. Don’t want to say something you’re gonna regret. Hey, where ya going? Don’t leave…I’ll do that thing where I rub my hands together really fast and fix you. Come on, Nerbel. I’ll let you make a drink.”
When he reached the door he turned to look at his master and I could see the sadness in his eyes. I had to be strong for him, so I summoned my inner-most Mr. Miyagi and bellowed, “Banzai, Nerbel-san. BANZAI!” He shook his head at me, no doubt choked up from having to say good-bye to his mentor and hero. ”Stay in school, Nerbel. Say no to drugs.”
And then he was gone.
Note: The facts of the preceding article may or may not have been embellished based on my memory which has been deteriorated greatly by many years of consuming Aspertame in behemothic quantities. P.S. RIP Nerbel
It’s no secret that I want to be Jason Bourne. I want the ability to walk into a diner, sit down at a table and recall the license plate numbers of all six cars outside. I want to know that the waitress is left-handed and that the guy at the counter weighs two-hundred fifty pounds and knows how to handle himself. Jason Bourne is stupid-awesome, like a Ninja who’s so baddass he doesn’t even need that black hooded mask to hide his identity.
Then there’s Chuck Norris. I don’t get the fuss. He’s hairy and looks like a porn star, the kind who drives a van and hands out candy to small children. There’s all these facts and jokes in books and on t-shirts about how Chuck rules the universe with his badass-ness, but I think he just has a really good PR guy. The truth is, Jason could snap Chuck’s liver-spotted neck like uncooked spaghetti any time he wanted to.
10 Reasons Why Jason Bourne Makes Chuck Norris Look Like the Stapler Guy From Office Space
1. It takes Chuck 47 minutes to defeat a single opponent in a fight that has him losing the majority of the time. Jason can kill 9 special-op soldiers in 4.3 seconds with a rolled up magazine and a ballpoint pen, before he calmly walk-escapes through a complex maze of people and buildings.
2. Jason’s quick-thinking intuition is mind-blowing. While trapped in buildings he takes emergency maps down from walls, knocks out government soldiers and takes their communication devices to eavesdrop on the other soldiers. When faced with danger, Chuck just strokes his porno mustache and squints a lot, as if he’s always facing west in the late afternoon.
3. Jason has the most kick-ass theme music ever! Just hearing a couple notes of it has me walking faster and looking for a ballpoint pen to stab into someone’s neck.
4. When Chuck takes his shirt off all I can think of is scouring that gross ring around my bathtub with a giant Brillo pad.
5. Walker, Texas Ranger and Sidekicks. Really, Chuck? Really?
6. Jason has forgotten more than Chuck knows. Despite his amnesia, Jason manages to somehow kill all of his co-assassin buddies before taking down the crooked leaders of the FBI, CIA and the foreign consulate.
7. Jason likes vodka. He throws some in a Russian guard’s face to disarm him and then later uses it to disinfect his wound before drinking it. Chuck drinks Minute Maid juice boxes.
8. Chuck tucks his shirts into jeans tight enough to fit a twelve year old boy and then cinches them tighter using a belt with a buckle the size of a license plate (which Jason would memorize if he saw it). That’s why when Walker, Texas Ranger fights he has to settle for kicking bad guys in the stomach. His jeans won’t allow a high round-kick to the face.
9. Jason is so important and dangerous he has hundreds of people chasing him and trying to kill him while Chuck is over on channel 648 selling the Shake Weight or whatever.
10. Bruce Lee kills Chuck in Way of the Dragon. It wasn’t like a stray bullet hit him or a sniper took him out from 800 yards. If someone kills you in a one-on-one fight, you can’t ever possibly be in contention for baddest man on the planet. Period!
A recurring scene at my bar:
“Excuse me, sir.”
“What’s up, chief?”
“You didn’t leave enough money to cover the tab.”
(Looks at the bill) “Those glasses of champagne aren’t mine.”
“I believe they are. You ordered them for those two women.”
(Looks toward the front door where the aforementioned women recently exited) “No I didn’t. I don’t even know those hookers.”
“So when you motioned to me and said, ‘Get these two smoking honeys here some major drinkage’, who did you intend to pay for them?”
“Did you ever hear me say that I’m buying them a drink? All I said was to get them a drink. I was just being friendly. Guess you should pay better attention, Ace. I ain’t paying for shit.”
I hope you are scribbling furiously in your notebook right now, because these tactics are gold. No, make that platinum. Appearing chivalrous and gentlemanly to the ladies while leaving the bartender holding his limp dick in his hand is nothing short of genius.
For those of you who read Part One of “SoYou Wanna be a Douchebag?” and are ready to take douching to a whole other level, let’s soldier on. Don’t forget to be loud and proud. Raise your ripped arm to the sky and scream, “I am douchebag, hear me roar…bro-seph!”
BAGGER BEHAVIOR – 20 LESSONS TO DOUCHEBAG MASTERY
In part one, you learned the importance of announcing yourself by your style and appearance. Now it is time to employ behavioral strategies that, while seemingly offensive and pubescent at first, will announce your mad social skills in a way that is unforgettable to everyone (girls) in the bar. Executing these wicked methods establishes you as a real player in the field.
LESSON #1: Buying drinks for friends, or any other reason that does not end with you getting laid, is a sucker’s game. It’s not your fault someone bought you a drink. You didn’t ask for it. Why should you have to buy one back? When it comes time for you to buy a round, tell your friends that you will be right back and then walk to the next bar. Wait 30 minutes and then send them a text:
“Whazzzzz up, bitches? Sorry I had to leave but some mega hot blonde with giant tits was feeling my vibe and wanted some of the Steve-Meister’s special sauce, if you know what I mean. Getcha next time.”
LESSON #2: If no one laughs at the ultra-hilarious comment you just made, laugh at it yourself. Then repeat the comment. And make sure to say it louder in case they weren’t paying attention the first time. If they still don’t laugh after the fourth attempt, call them a bunch of pussies and give the guy next to you a fist pound with exploding fingers.
LESSON #3: Fulfill your greatest wish by building a time machine so you can travel back to when you were eighteen, and then freeze time. If you are unaware of how quantum physics works, then simply steer the conversation to when you were in high school instead. Describe how many bone-crushing tackles you delivered to quarterbacks and how close you were to winning state. People will be shocked and delighted to discover how great you were fifteen years ago.
LESSON #4: While working out at the gym, check yourself out in the mirror every three or four seconds. It’s especially cool if you do it out of the corner of your eye so no one will notice.
LESSON #5: While working out at the gym and checking yourself out in the mirror every three or four seconds out of the corner of your eye so no one will notice, grunt and growl super loud during your reps. This will let everyone in the placeknow how super hard you’re working, as well as intimidate the girly men using the nautical machines.
LESSON #6: Tell blonde and male chauvinistic jokes (file this under “Great Ice-breakers!”). If the girls appear offended or angry, you can calm them down by telling them that you’re only laughing because it’s true.
LESSON #7: When ordering a drink for yourself, order cheap vodka. When someone else buys you a drink, order Grey Goose.
LESSON #8: To impress the ladies, make the bartender your best friend. Do cool things like snap your fingers at him or yell his name out when the bar is packed. Show everyone that he’s your boy. When he delivers your drink, complain about how long it took to get it and how weak it is. Bartenders will sympathize with you and probably give you a drink on the house.
LESSON #9: Wear your blue-tooth ear-piece wherever you go. This not only makes you look bitchin’, but if you are alone you can carry on a conversation (fake or real) with someone on the other end which makes you appear to be in high-demand.
LESSON #10: Talk about the new protein powder you just switched to and how many ounces of turkey you’ve had today. Discussions about your diet and workout routines get people terribly excited.
LESSON #11: If Lesson #10 doesn’t seem to be impressing them, use other tactics to draw attention to your muscles. Lift your tank top up at the waist and show them your killer abs. Refer to your biceps as weapons of mass destruction and say things like, “I need a band-aid…I’m all cut up.”
LESSON #12: Buy your friends a round of drinks. Hahahahaha….just kidding. I wanted to see if you were still awake. Suckers!
LESSON #13: Raise the roof as often as you can and say, “Woo-woo” while you do it. This gesture of awesomeness needs no further explanation.
LESSON #14: You can never use enough Axe body spray, so head to Costco, grab one of those rolling platform carts and buy them out. I’m not kidding. Have you ever seen one of those Axe commercials where the guy uses Axe body spray and all the women within half a mile turn into wild animals and start chasing him all over the place because they cannot control their horniness? That really happens when you use Axe body spray. Lots of it!
LESSON #15: Now take advantage of your manly-scented body by getting right up into a girl’s personal space. They LOVE that. And do lots of touching when you talk to them. Lightly rub her arm or leg and repeatedly return your hand to the small of her back. If at any time she appears to be pulling away from you like you are a rotting carcass left on a desert highway, you probably need more Axe body spray.
LESSON #16: When you walk into a bar, make sure you’re wearing that stupid grin on your face that let’s every woman in the place know that you are aware of their desire to sleep with you. Their denial should only strengthen your conviction (thus think you protest too much, blah, blah, blah…).
LESSON #17: If you don’t own a motorcycle or a cool car, buy a leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet and bring it into the bar with you. If chicks think you have a motorcycle, it will be all they can do to keep their panties on. Side note: if they ask for a ride on your motorcycle, just tell them that on your way to the bar you swerved to miss a baby squirrel and had to lay your bike down on the pavement. Oh yeah, and by the way, you’ll be needing a ride home (see how I tie it all in? I know. You’re welcome!).
LESSON #18: Remember that you are way smarter than professional athletes. Despite the game being 1,200 miles away, scream at the television and call players idiots and morons when they strike out or drop a pass. You, of course would never strike out in the majors, and this should be brought to the attention of anyone within a three-block radius of the bar.
LESSON #19: Make yourself appear spectacular by raising questions concerning the manliness of other dudes around you. If any of them order a glass of wine or a cocktail with any color in it whatsoever, bellow out, “Someone grab this man a skirt.” Or you can try, “Hey, Sally, how ‘bout a cherry and an umbrella for your fluffy drink there?” If a man has been sipping on his beer awhile, try out this little gem that is rarely ever used: “Would you like a nipple for your bottle?” (Fist pound, explode!)
LESSON #20: Eavesdrop on people’s conversation and then butt in and tell them why they’re wrong and you’re right. If more people could see things as you do, there’d be a lot less talk about community and charity and a lot more pole dancers and free beer.
BONUS LESSON: After your twelfth shot of Patron and your eighth beer, tell your friends that you are ok to drive. In fact, assure them that not only are you ok but that you are actually a better driver while drunk. This is scientifically proven to be true and you’ll be just fine behind the wheel.
This completes your introductory course and should give you a good start on your road to becoming a complete and total douchebag. If there is enough interest, perhaps I’ll offer the advanced course in the near future.
Course review: sick style, stupid grin, that’s what she said, fist pound, exploding fingers, get laid. Jager Bombs!!! Whoooooooooo!!!!
Cheers, until next time,
Insider Tips to the Art of Douchebaggery
I work in a place that attracts douchebags like water to a drain. Somebody has to. When you’re a douchebag, you either own it and drive a Corvette and go out night after night, hitting on other guys’ girlfriends and hi-fiving strangers after saying things like, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, bitch!” for the rest of your life, or you go to great lengths to chastise douchebags and relentlessly piss and moan about how they’re everywhere and how you can’t stand the sight of them, until eventually you jump into your Corvette and go out night after night, hitting on other guys’ girlfriends and hi-fiving strangers after saying things like, “That’s what I’m talking about, bitch!” for the rest of your life.
Understand this: douchebag is in the DNA. It is not a temporary condition, like being drunk. You can’t barf it up and return to a state of normalcy the next day. Douchebag is forever. The only question that really matters is, are you aware of your douchebag status?
People who have no idea they are a douchebag will suddenly look in the mirror one day and see the buffed, tanned body and the hair molded into a perfect porcupine, and they will scream at the sudden recognition of who they really are. “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
This is what’s been bothering me: the douchebags who won’t own up to it. If you’re going to be a bagger, live it, breathe it, roll in it! Don’t act like a perfectly cool guy one minute and then blindside me the next by telling me a story about how you were spinning doughnuts in your high school parking lot earlier that day while checking out the cheerleaders. “Bro, it was so bitchin,” you will tell me. “You gotta come with next time.”
The fact that you graduated from that high school twelve years ago is pathetic. The fact that it does not even register as creepy to you is terrifying.
Time to cut through the bullshit. Stop living a lie. The only thing worse than a douchebag is a semi-douchebag who won’t admit who he is. I see the shit you do and the things you say to people. You love it, and that’s great. It’s time to stop half-assing things and accept your fate. Come out from hiding and let the world know: I’m a douchebag and I love it!
I can sense your hesitation here. You want to know, what makes me the big d-bag aficionado on campus? Why listen to the guy who bags on baggers? I’ll tell you why. I observe these specimens in their natural habitat where they thrive five nights a week. Bars, my sleezy friend, are like a douchebag safari, and I’m driving the jeep. Now, if only I had a high-powered rifle….
…but I digress…
LESSON I: DOUCHEBAG STYLE – STRIKE A POSER
Here’s the most important rule to remember if want become an authentic bagger: your style’s gotta be sick! I’m talking about the kind of sick that makes everyone in the bar turn and look at you when you walk in because you stick out like a clown at a funeral. No posers allowed, you hear me, dog?
For starters, anyone over the age of thirty-five should stick to the basics, and that means suiting up in either Ed Hardy gear or his retarded brother Affliction. Turns out that shirts with flowers and glitter on them aren’t just for little girls anymore. Ed Hardy has remarkably persuaded an entire nation of grown men that sporting designer shirts suited for eight year olds would be fucking awesome.
If your Ed Hardy or Affliction attire happen to be in the dirty clothes hamper, you are welcome to default to a snug tank top or even an Alligator shirt with the collar up. If you choose to forego the tank top, make sure the Alligator shirt is tight enough so the sleeves are allowed to shimmy up your arms to reveal the barbed wire tattoo encircling your curved, veiny biceps (which should be the same leathery consistency and color of my wallet from all the tanning you have been exposed to).
If you have neither barbed wire tattoos nor curved, veiny biceps, then get off your ass and pick up a barrel of protein powder and a bottle of tequila (to kill the pain of the tattoo) because fucking-A, I’m beginning to seriously question your dedication to this.
Next, you’ll want to invest in several Ralph Lauren designer jeans with swirly embroidery on the pockets, the same type of design you’ll find on most wedding cakes. These will be accompanied with a pair of clunky, steel-pointed leather boots which you can casually raise up to set on a stool or the back of a chair so people (girls) can see them and become aware of your awesomeness.
To complete the ensemble, accessories are of paramount importance. In addition to the tasteful stud or hoop earring you’ll stick in your ear, you must never enter the bar without wearing a pair of knock-off sunglasses (which you will claim are real), and once inside you can either continue wearing them, or for douchebag bonus points, you can flip them around and display them on the back of your neck.
The argument also remains that you ain’t no douchebag unless you’re sportin’ some bling bling (I pity the fool!), or pants that sag down to your knees so you have to walk like a penguin to keep them on, but this is reserved for the gangsta douchebag, which the younger generation of baggers rocks when they go out. I refuse to teach gangsta douche-wear since it is my goal to keep the gangsta douches out of my bar. Thus said, how about we move on to lesson two.
LESSON II: DOUCHEBAG DIALECT – DO YOU SPEAK DOUCHE?
Rule #1: Don’t ever use anyone’s real name. This is a great rule because you won’t ever actually have to take the time to learn and remember people’s names. Everyone is bro, bro-ski, bro-seph, boss, chief, kid, buddy, pal, friend or Ace.
The only name you will actually use is your own, which you will do while speaking about yourself in the third person. This is so you can test out the nickname you have cleverly created for yourself, as in “The Chad-inator needs a beerski, bro” (By the way, The Barman can’t stand when people speak about themselves in the third person).
Rule #2: When it comes time to work the babes, forego the nice guy routine. Bitches dig bad boys with swagger, and even though they may not readily admit it, they love it when a guy approaches and uses a bad-ass pick up line. It gets the juices flowing and has them ready to jump into bed with you the first chance they get. Don’t worry if she appears to be having a fun girls night out with her friends, just walk up and say something like, “Nice legs, what time do they open?” or “Is there a mirror in your pants, because I can see myself in them?” Then stand back and revel in her reaction.
Rule #3: Speak in movie lines. This will score mad points with your fellow d-baggers. If ever there is a lull in the conversation, simply scream, “Wolverines!!!!” from Red Dawn and then fist pound the guy next to you (don’t forget to do that cool exploding thing with your fingers afterwards either). You could also use, “Say hello to my leetle friend,” or if you’re going to the bathroom, it never hurts to throw in a little Arnold: “I’ll be back!”
Rule #4: Finally, if you are to truly become fluent in the language of douche, you must master the phrase, “That’s what she said.” The possibilities are endless. Example: While eating a sandwich, someone might say, “Man, this thing is huge. I can’t even get it in my mouth.” Bingo! Jump in with this fresh expression and you will have people all around you busting up and offering you fist pounds for hours.
There isn’t nearly enough time to cover the entire douchebag dictionary, but to get you jumpstarted, here’s a quick list of things you can say that will help declare your douchebaggery to those around you: Always talk about how many women you’ve banged and how drunk you were last night. Use words and phrases like, dope, tight, sick, swagga, word, talk to the hand, yo, peace out, would you like fries with that shake, and above all, identify every guy you don’t like in the bar as gay or a homo. Eliminating the competition is definitely a dope move.
This should give you plenty to work on for starters. Join me next week for more of “So you wanna be a douchebag?” when we will be take on the intricacies of Douchebag Charm and Douchebag Behavior.
Until next time, JAGERBOMBS! WOOOOOOO!!!