Monthly Archives: May 2012

Duane the Mixologist

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I LOVE MY LEMON ZESTER SO MUCH I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH IT.

Hello, my name is Duane.  I am a mixologist.  People call me Duane the mixologist.  If you need a cocktail, please do not call out, “Hey bartender,” because I will not respond, as I am not a bartender.  Please call me Duane, or Master Mixologist and I will be happy to serve you (sometimes when I’m feeling fun, I tell people that my name is Sir Mix-alot or Dr. Mixy and I get a fun reaction to my clever banter).

I work with Dave, but I do not like him very much because he calls me Sewage Duane and makes fun of me when really he should be making fun of himself because he is only a bartender.

Some people think it is fun to go out and have drinks at a bar, but I have found a way to make it an agonizingly slow and painful experience. Before this I worked at Applebee’s as assistant to the assistant head mixologist where I was in charge of filling the ice bins and stocking glassware.

In case you are ignorant, mixology is the process of making drinks exactly the same way a bartender does only taking much more time to do it. Mixology is very difficult and consists of putting ice in a glass and pouring alcohol over it.  If there was such a thing as a double PhD in Mixology, I would probably own a degree in it right now.

I have an excellent memory and can hold up to two drinks in my head at any given time.  If I can remember how to make the drinks without consulting The Bartender’s Guide, I am usually able to finish them in just under four minutes.

If you are interested in becoming a master mixologist like me, you probably won’t be able to because it’s more difficult than Navy Seal training, but here are the list of requirements anyway.

1.  Spend at least 8 minutes talking about mixology and the forces that influenced you to arrive at this point in your life before making the drink that was ordered.

2.  Tell the other bartenders what they are doing wrong every time they make a cocktail.

3.  Bring your own Boston Shaker and Hawthorne strainer to work in a case you purchased from BevMo.

4.  Wear a gay apron to hold your tools in.

5.  Always carry a lemon zester in your pocket or apron, even when you are not working.

6.  No matter what topic a guest brings up, steer the conversation towards things that you like and possibly any problems you are experiencing in your life at that moment.

7.  Let everyone know that you are a mixologist by telling them over and over that you are a mixologist, and then show them your lemon zester.

8.  Say things like “tinctures” and “flavor profiles” and “Please stop calling me bartender, I am a mixologist.”

9.  Pull out your 15 mixology tools and describe in great detail their many purposes to guests until they want to wrap their lips around a tailpipe to end their pain.

10. If you come to my bar I will create a classic cocktail for you, but if you don’t like it, please don’t return it because I cannot afford to pay for it out of my tips, as I currently only work lunch shifts on Mondays and Tuesdays.

I wish they would fire Dave so I could have his shifts, but the owner says people always ask for him to make their drinks because they say he makes them fast.  This is not fair because Dave hides my mixology tools which isn’t funny because the guests have to wait longer to get their drinks while I search for my tools, and usually while I’m searching for them, Dave makes them their drinks and takes credit for helping them.

I once offered to teach Dave how to properly craft cocktails, and he told me, “Sure, just let me go drain my main Duane first.”  Then another time I asked if he wanted to borrow my lemon zester, and he said, “Hold that thought,” and then he started singing that Prince song really loud so I couldn’t talk, except he changed it to Purple Duane instead and everyone was laughing, but really I think they were laughing at Dave because he is only a bartender.

My mixology mentor’s name is Brad.  He still works at Applebee’s and knows everything there is to know about cocktails and mixology.  He lives in his mom’s basement and plays Farmville on his computer until 6:00 a.m.

One thing you should know about us mixologists is that we don’t “make drinks”.  Instead we “craft cocktails”.  I am writing a book about this very thing and I’m calling it Krafting Kocktails With Duane.  ”Crafting” and “cocktails” both start with a “C” but I am using “K’s” because I am super “Kreative”.  Haha, see what I mean?

Brad says lots of people will buy my book because it is so rare and valuable.  My mom has already told me that she will buy three copies when it comes out.  I have been working on my book for threes years now and it already has 31 pages and has much better writing than you will read on Dave’s blog. When I’m a best selling mixologist author I will come order a drink from Dave at his bar and not tip him.

If I had one piece of advice to pass on to aspiring mixologists, it would be this:  Do not order drinks from Dave anymore or read his blog. He is an asshole.  Also, get a lemon zester.

Sincerely yours forever,

Duane The Mixologist, a.k.a. Sir Mix-a-Lot (Haha)

The Bourne Mis-Identity

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When I was born a terrible mistake was made and God failed to include enough common sense and logic in my DNA to allow me to think and function like a normal adult.  What this means is that I am interesting enough and have the ability to generate compelling and original thoughts, but I’m lucky if I can remain focused long enough to remember to pull my pants down when I pee.

My most crippling characteristic (or possibly greatest superpower; it’s yet to be determined) is that I seem to be missing the Reality gene.  Translation:  I participate in the grandiose fantasies usually reserved for ten-year-old boys.

Movies are largely to blame.  Growing up I dreamed of being Luke Skywalker, Rambo, Steven Seagal, and more recently of course, Jason Bourne. (That reminds me, I should warn you about something:  approaching me right after I’ve seen an action movie is risky to say the least, as this is when my kick-ass emotions are at their peak which means I am more than likely to see you as an undercover operative rather than my son’s teacher, and when you ask me if I’m coming to back-to-school night I will say something in my “important voice” like, “You tell Vinnie the Sausage and his goons that I can’t be bought.”  Either that or I will kick you in the stomach and search you for a hidden wire.)

I’m not saying that dreams are unhealthy or damaging, because for most people they aren’t.  They propel us to grow and achieve and envision the possibility of success every morning when we crawl out of bed.  Nevertheless, dreams need to be categorized.  For instance, there are dreams like becoming an architect and designing bridges or one day owning a vacation home in Costa Rica, and then there are dreams like the ones I have where I foil corrupt CIA agents by employing brilliant tactical strategies that keep my three steps ahead, as well as using freaky-swift hand-to-hand combat that snaps the necks of anyone trying to bring me in.

Since some people are more visual, allow me to externalize the visions that go on inside my head (luckily this drawing only took me six hours to construct).

This is me taking down corrupt CIA agents, or possibly large oil company CEO’s who have sinister laughs and jack up gas prices for no reason at all.  I ran out of room for further description, but my backpack is full of Jason Bourne high-tech assassin shit like tracking devices and those things that look like hockey pucks that you stick on the sides of buildings so you can blow a hole in the wall.  I also feel the fossil is a pretty sharp addition, and perhaps even thematic when you consider the oil company angle.

Though I am capable of hallucinating on every level, I seem to specialize in disaster situations.  I’m not sure I even have a choice in the matter.  I enact entire scenarios in my head in which I take down terrorists and save dozens of hostages at least once a week, and afterwards the hostages fawn over me and the terrorist curse me and shake their fists like the villains at the end of every Scooby-Doo episode.

If I’m not saving hostages, I’m toppling corrupt government officials who try to pass shady laws or prevent gay marriages.  They come to me and threaten to harm me and my dog if I don’t keep quiet about their top secret and controversial issues and I respond by turning their fucking universe INSIDE-OUT!

For whatever reason, I have found that my most vivid fantasies are formed while I’m either driving or in the shower, which means I will stand under the spray for 45 minutes until the water turns cold and jars me back to the present, or you can find me happily cruising along in the fast lane of I-680 at a comfortable 35 MPH.

My greatest fear is that I will wind up like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind where the line between fantasy and reality fades gradually each day until I wake up one day in a padded room hugging myself in a white coat with buckles while my family looks at me with pity through that ridiculously small square window in the door.

This is not one of those vague fears either.  I have actually pictured the moment in my mind when I’m too far gone to recognize a phantom truth:  The phone rings, I pick it up and a voice on the other line says, “Hello, Dave. This is Agent Callahan.  The oil companies are planning to raise gas prices to $7 per gallon.  Also they are holding a room full of orphans and nuns hostage in the infant ward at the hospital. The world needs you…immediately!”

Then I slowly rub my chin and consider the risks.  ”$7 per gallon, eh?” I say.  ”We’ll just see about that.”

And then I am gone…until the water turns cold and I am forced to dry off and get dressed for work.

Cheers, until next time (unless I’m sent to an asylum),

The RB

Hook Me Up Mr. Bartender

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I just love when people come into my bar looking for a deal.  Just so there’s no confusion, there are no clearance items.  This is not Sears or JCPenny and I am not a used car salesman.

This piece-of-work-cool-guy came into my place about two weeks ago trying to impress his buddies with his negotiations skills:

Some Guy:  Do you have any specials tonight?

Me:  You mean like swordfish?

Some Guy:  No, to drink.

Me:  Sure, how about a blackberry mojito with fresh blackberries, mint and Bacardi Limon rum.

Some Guy:  How much is that?

Me:  Ten bucks.

Some Guy:  No, I wanted a special, dog.

Me:  How can you possibly get more special than a blackberry mojito?

Some Guy:  By not selling them for ten bucks.  I’m asking if you have any deals.  I’m a really good tipper. Can you hook me up?

Me:  Well, disregarding the fact that you left me fifty cents for the three Crown and Cokes you ordered the last time you were here, I would be delighted to “hook you up” based on fabricated promises of future and possibly gargantuan tips you may or may not leave on the bar in the form of dimes and quarters.

Some Guy:  What are you talking about?  That wasn’t me.  I used to bartend.

Me:  You did?  Then you must know the secret handshake. If you know the secret bartender handshake I can give you free drinks all night.

Some Guy:  Very funny.  Come on, you gotta have something.  Two for one on beers maybe?

Me:  Ohhhhh, I get it.  You think this is a yard sale, where you can bargain for used items.

Some Guy:  (Laughing) Exactly.  Help a brother out.

Me:  Well, there’s this half a Budweiser left in the bottle that this guy didn’t drink.  You can have the rest of it for $2.

Some Guy:  Ha, ha (sarcastic).  That’s gross.

Me:  You don’t like my yard sale?

Some Guy:  You don’t have to be an asshole. I just thought we could help each other out.  I’ll have a Crown and Coke, but make the Coke light, if you know what I mean.

Me:  Got it.  One Crown and Diet Coke coming up.

Some Guy:  No, not light like that.  I mean make it strong.

Me:  Gotcha, you want to order a double.

Some Guy:  NO! I mean, make it strong but I don’t want to pay for a double.

Me:  Pardon my ignorance.  NOW I understand.  You want me to steal liquor from the owners of this place and move it at a cheaper price so that you can save some money and I can risk losing my job.

Some Guy:  Give me a break.  Bartenders do it all the time, bro.

Me:  I see.  So you’re suggesting that I should become a conformist?

Some Guy:  A what?  What’s that?

Me:  Have you ever heard of Hitler’s army?

Some Guy:  I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.  I’m just sayin’, you know how it works.  You hook me up, I hook you up.

Me:  That sounds like quite a visionary system you’ve invented, and despite the life-changing possibilities that your fifty cents could provide for me and my family, I’m going to have to decline restructuring the fixed price arrangements that have been established here.

Some Guy:  Forget it.  I’ll go somewhere else.

Me:  Sorry we didn’t have what you wanted.  Come back again and I’ll give you fifty cents off your mojito.

Some Guy:  Blow me!

TheRealBarman Voted Best Bartender in the Bay Area by Some Drunk Guy who Likes to get Drunk

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Finally, after all these years I’ve received the recognition I deserve.  This guy told me last night that I was the best bartender in the Bay Area.  I’m not sure what his credentials are, but I’m assuming he must be on some important committee, panel or academy to be so astute in finding me and recognizing my hard work and skills.  He was so excited after the announcement he couldn’t contain himself and he promptly stumbled to the bathroom and vomited in our sink.  I’m very honored and humbled.  Thank you, drunk guy.  Thank you very much.

The RB

The Misguided Wave

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At the beginning of my shift last night I looked up and saw a girl across the bar whole-heartedly waving and smiling at me, and even though I didn’t quite recognize her from that distance, I returned the wave with childish enthusiasm , only to realize a sickening second later that she was waving to someone right behind me.

Yeah, that actually happened to me, and I’m not sure why a genuine mistake like this would make me feel like the biggest donkey in the stable, but it totally did, and so I had to quickly pretend I was shooing away some imaginary stench in the air, and then I buried my head in the sink and pretended to clean out the drain for like twenty minutes so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with anyone who had witnessed me wave at the girl who had no intention of being my friend.

It wasn’t fair, to be caught in this predicament, to be feeling this way.  I was just trying to be friendly and now I’d been tagged as the guy so desperate for companionship that he had to resort to acquiring friends by intercepting waves from people.

The worst part is that the girl who waved to me–or should I say “waved in my general direction”–saw me wave back which means she was perfectly aware that I didn’t know her and that by me waving back I was fully prepared to pull the whole “I-have-no-idea-who-you-are-but-I’m-going-to-pretend-I-do” routine, which makes me look like a moron AND a liar.

Wait, I take that back.  The even worst-est part is that even though she saw me wave at her, she chose to participate in our little charade, acting as if she didn’t see me either, so now we’re both doing this pretending game, only she has actual friends who are receiving her warmly and all I have is this cold stainless steel sink I’m pretending to scrub.

So I have my head buried in the sink while she heads in my direction to hug her friends and all I can think is, Please don’t order a drink from me, and now I double-take-it-back because this is where it could actually get worse than the previous two worsts because I just know that the second I look up she’s going to be standing there staring at me with a holier-than-thou smirk on her face, and she’ll say, “Did you really think I would wave to someone like you, idiot?”

Thankfully she was merciful  and now we have a really clean sink at the bar.

I can’t figure out why something like this needs to be embarrassing at all, but it is.  It’s like when you stumble on a sidewalk crack while you’re walking down the street and you either 1) stop and look back at the crack like you’re all baffled and angry and thinking “Who the fuck put a sidewalk crack right there in the middle of the sidewalk?” or 2) you break into a light jog and look down at your watch as if you suddenly forgot that you were late for a meeting even though you’re wearing sweats and a baseball cap backwards which means there’s no way you’re going to a meeting unless you were meeting with Run DMC or something, and now you’re committed so you have to keep up your run for like two-hundred yards to get out of site from anyone who may have witnessed the initial stumble because you have to make them believe that you really are late for something because who runs ten feet when they have to be somewhere?

The moral of the story?  Be very careful when dispensing waves to your friends by making sure no one is in the line of fire.  Or maybe the moral is to learn some humility by learning to deal with embarrassing situations in a mature manner.  You know what?  I don’t really care what the moral is.  Just don’t fucking fake wave at me if you come into my bar because it’s MY goddamn bar and I shouldn’t be made to feel small and friendless in my own bar.  Not to mention I hate fake cleaning drains and sinks because it’s both humiliating that I’m hiding from you and it’s also often disgusting.

Cheers, until next time.

The RB

Fucking With Drunk People

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 I’m not sure why, but lately I’ve become more irritable about the fact that I spend five nights a week in a place where I’m sober and everyone else is flying high and yuckin’ it up.  I understand that it’s my job, but after awhile it feels like I’ve been invited to a party but when I arrive, I’m told I should stand out front and wait for guests to arrive so I can park their cars.  I hate it I hate it I hate it!!!

Let’s not dilute the facts, being drunk is stupenderrific!  You’ve all been there, you know how it is:  that sensational feeling of perceived invincibility you experience after five or six drinks.  Even better is if you compound that experience by drinking with a group because the camaraderie shared between buffoons slopping alcohol on each other can only be compared to that of championship sports teams.

That’s why bars are so popular, because being drunk with a group is so much more badass than being drunk alone.  Everything is hilarious and fun and no matter what fucked-up shit you’re dealing with in your every day life, at this moment you and your drinking clan are downright convinced of your indestructibility, so much so that you find yourself discussing scenarios to prove it. In fact you’ve all agreed that, under the right circumstances, if you had a titanium body suit, a utility belt, and a Peter Pan-sized boy with a yellow cape to watch your back, any one of you could easily transition into the role of Batman.

On the other hand, being sober around drunk people is like trying to fit into a clique you were never invited to join, except this clique has the maturity equivalent of nine year olds.  Disorderly nine year olds.  With brain damage.  That’s me, every night (the guy-hanging-out-with-disorderly-drunks part, not the brain damage part).  We bartenders are like matadors armed only with one of those flimsy piece of crap Zorro swords trying to hold off a ring full of dazed, irritated bulls.  Except replace “sword” with “bar rag” and “bulls” with “vomity, cursing drunks”.

Being sober around drunks is boring, which provokes me to spice up the action, which is why I have a serious problem that some of you may have identified already, and it’s that I can’t help fucking with people who take things too seriously (See “Peta Girl”).

I can’t decide if it’s a disease or a superpower, but I do know that I’m addicted because every night before I go to work I choose some mantra to repeat to myself that might help me overcome my problem (something along the lines of, “Bar patrons are my friends, not toys for my amusement”) but every night I somehow become misaligned and betray that mantra which means I have to start my 12 steps over again and apologize to people I’ve wronged and make amends with Jesus in a non-sarcastic way that shows him I’m not fucking with HIM.

I try to leave people alone, really I do, but please remember that I work in a bar with drunk people and telling me not to fuck with them is like placing a ribeye in front of a tiger and saying, “Now when I get back, that steak had better still be there, mister.”

Yes, I understand that drunk people are vulnerable in their state of cheery befuddlement, but you should know that I leave 98% of them alone, the ones who are lovable and considerate and sometimes even offer to buy me a shot.  It’s the 2% that I fuck with, the ones who are determined to destroy everyone else’s good time.

This brings me to Artie, a decidedly irate and spiteful individual who enters my bar about once a week so he can try to drink enough to kill whatever’s inside him that he hates about himself.  I won’t waste your time with too many details except to say that Artie is the type of man that I imagine pulls the wings off butterflies for the pure joy of performing reverse evolution.  Sometimes I want to stab a pacifier into his mouth because I’m fairly certain he would immediately and innately start trying to suck all of his anger out through the rubber nipple like a teething baby.

Like most people who have issues with the world, Artie communicates his problems without bothering to pay attention to what anyone else has to say, which manufactures entertaining conversations where he attempts to recruit misery to accompany him at the bar and I do my best to derail and distract him.  This is what happened that last time Artie stumbled to the bar, already a bit schnockered, trying to tell me about the car accident he had that day:

Me:  How’s it going, Artie?

Artie:  It’s going shitty.  Some jackass smashed into my Porsche today.  Three months off the lot, and he totaled it.

Me:  Wow.  That’s too bad.  Were you alone or by yourself?

Artie:  I was…what?  I was by myself.

Me:  What happened?

Artie:  Asshole ran a stop sign and smashed into my passenger side door.

Me:  How did he smash into you if he was at a stop sign?

Artie:  No, idiot.  He ran through a stop sign.

Me:  I thought you said he was driving.

Artie:  He WAS driving.

Me:  You just said he RAN through it.

Artie:  That’s what you say when you drive through a stop sign without stopping.  What the fuck is the matter with you?

Me:  I don’t know.  My father used to hold me under water for long periods of time…

Artie:  ANYWAY…I jump out of the car and I’m getting ready to beat this punk’s ass.  He’s like 18 years old with tattoos all over the place, and he starts running for these stairs…

Me:  What kind of stairs?

Artie:  What?  What do you mean?

Me:  I mean did they go up or down?

Artie:  They’re stairs…what the fuck? They go up and down.

Me:  Come on.  How do stairs go up and down at the same time?

Artie: Are you retarded? It wasn’t an escalator. They’re just STAIRS!  FUCK!

Me:  Don’t escalators have buttons and sliding doors?

Artie:  Can I finish?

Me:  I wish you would.

Artie:  So then I chased him up the stairs into an office building.

Me:  So they were “UP” stairs (I cleverly used my quotation fingers for this).

Artie:  Will you forget about the stairs, for Christ sakes?

Me:  What stairs?

Artie:  Are you serious?  What the fuck?

Me:  No, you don’t understand.  You said “forget about the stairs”, so I was like, “What stairs?” like I already forgot about them.  You know, like when someone says, “Promise me you won’t tell Jane about the secret passage way,” and you say, “What secret passage way?” because it’s like you’re telling them you’ll pretend you know nothing about it. It’s a clever way to say that I’m on board with you.

Artie:  Jesus, forget it.  I’m done talking to you.  You’re missing out on a goddamn good ending too.

Me:  I know, it sounded like a good plot.  What was the name of it?

Artie:  The name of what?

Me:  Hello?  The movie you were just telling me about with the guy running up the stairs.  Did you forget already?

At this point Artie slammed what was left of his Sierra Nevada down and started to stomp out the door, but I reminded him that he hadn’t paid yet so I ruined his dramatic exit because he had to rummage through his wallet for some time before he found the right credit card.  The great thing about Artie is that he drinks so much he usually doesn’t remember what he’s mad at me for and I’ll see him again in a week when he’ll tell me some other story about how everyone in the world is an asshole except him.

I know what you all are thinking and you’re right, I need help.  I’m going to ask Jesus* to guide me.

*By Jesus I mean our dishwasher, not the real Jesus.  He’s studying psychology at the junior college so maybe he knows some stuff about “fucking-with-drunks syndrome” or whatever.  Again, I’m talking about our dishwasher, not the main Jesus.  I assume the real Jesus already has psych figured out pretty good which is why he mind-fucked everyone by allowing them nail-gun him to lumber instead of using his superpowers to turn them into salamanders.

Cheers, until next time.

The RB

Drunk Talk of the Week – Etiquette

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A husband and wife were sitting at my bar this weekend when I overheard this conversation.  I was drinking a water at the time and almost snorted it through my nose.

Wife:  My god I’m full.  I ate way too much.

Husband:  Uh huh. Me too.

Wife:  I hate when I do that, but the burger was soooo good.

Husband:  Yep, that’ll do it.

Wife:  That’s it, after this I’m going on a diet.  I’m tired of this. Every time I look in the mirror, all I see is a fat, ugly old lady looking back at me.

(Silence)

Wife:  Let me give you a lesson on etiquette, dear.  As a husband and friend, this is precise moment that you pay me a compliment to make me feel better about myself.

Husband:  Ok…you have outstanding eyesight.

Dear PETA, Can I Please Join Your Extremist Group?

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ANGRY PETA GIRL

I love animals.  Probably because they boost my self-esteem and don’t judge me when I eat an entire cheese cake or watch porn.  When things are going wrong, they show up at just the right time and make you feel smooshy inside.

Then there’s PETA.  What a train wreck.  I hate them for the same reasons I hate all extremist groups, which is because they think everyone in the world is wrong except themselves, and because their priorities are skewed by rage, and because they won’t LEAVE THE REST US THE FUCK ALONE!  Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that they believe in a cause and have a purpose and all I believe in is getting the next TV and HBO series in the mail from Netflix (right now I believe deeply in The Shield).

The other night I had a PETA person in my bar, and not just one of those passive hippie-vegetarian-spread-the-love-and-live-green types either.  She was more of the angry-at-the-world-because-cows-are-sold-at-McDonald’s-by-the-billions types, and because she felt animals in general were being humiliated, like dogs being used to help blind people get around.  She is one of those people who can’t sit next to a person eating a slice of pepperoni pizza without being all judgy and making comments using the same tone as my mother-in-law.

BY THE WAY, SPEAKING OF ANIMALS, HERE IS ME WITH MY CAT NINJA, WHO ADOPTED US WHEN WE MOVED INTO OUR NEW PLACE LAST YEAR.

Even though I am partial to dogs, Ninja is some kind of serious awesomeness resting on a bed of kick ass. It’s not just her blackness that makes up her name.  She catches like three gophers a day (which probably puts her at the top of PETA’s euthanization list) and can climb a telephone pole like a squirrel on crack. I want to give her a mini Samurai sword and some throwing stars just to see what she could do, but I’m afraid the CIA might show up at my door and tell me that they have an international incidence on their hands, and then they’d hold up a picture of Ninja and ask if I’d seen this cat recently.

Anywho, the way I found out this girl was from PETA was that a guy at the bar was getting ready to take a bite of his cheeseburger and Little Miss PETA said (while looking straight ahead, like a bad guy in a John Wayne movie), “Hope you like the taste of cruelty.” (And then she proceeded to tell me she was a member of PETA, which I guess is how I really found out.)

I could see this guy was perturbed about eating his burger so close to this nut case, so I provided some distraction by striking up a conversation and to fuck with her in general.  The great thing about extremists is that they are so gung-ho about spreading their gospel and telling everyone how to live that they’ll ignore the hostility around them as long as they can assemble their soapbox and educate everyone on what horrible people they are.  Here’s how our conversation went, approximately:

Me:  Hey, I was thinking of joining PETA.  What’s the criteria?

PETA:  It’s simple.  Love animals.  Don’t eat them.

Me:  I do love them.  I love them with potatoes and au jus.  Can I still join?

PETA:  No, scum nuts, we don’t want people who eat meat, or do anything else to harm or disgrace animals.  That makes you a hypocrite.

Me:  Well I wouldn’t WEAR it or anything, like Lady Gaga, unless it was Halloween of course.

PETA:  That’s the problem with the world, you don’t even know what a disgusting dickhead you are.

Me:  What if I gave up everything except bacon?  Because I love pigs but I’m not IN love with them.  You know what I mean?

PETA: No, asshole!  Don’t you get it?  Animals are better creatures than us.  Humans don’t deserve to be on the same planet as them.  You can’t pick and choose which ones to slaughter, you evil prick.

Me:  What about ostrich burgers.  I heard those are super healthy.

PETA:  It’s got nothing to do with health, dumbass.  You’re killing a living creature!

Me:  Yeah, but they’re really low in fat.

PETA:  Christ you’re an idiot.

Me:  My uncle got eaten by a cougar once, so shouldn’t I get like an exemption in this case.  You know, like when we betrayed all the the Indians and stole their land 500 years ago and so now we let them have casinos and if you’re of Indian heritage you get to collect fat checks because your relatives were treated unfairly?

PETA:  Your tiny-dicked uncle probably deserved it.  I hope he bled a slow death.

Me:  What about ants?  Can I still squash ants?  Sometimes I like to pretend I’m a giant who came to their planet where I wreck havoc on their little world.

PETA:  Ants are better than you.  They build entire colonies, dipshit!  What do you do?

Me:  I know they do.  It’s AWESOME.  I like to get a hose and stick it in their little hill hole thingy, and then turn the water on and yell, “FLOOOOOOOOD!”

PETA:  Now you’re being an idiot.  You’re making fun of me, right?

Me:  I’m just curious how it works.  Before I decide to join I want to know what I can and can’t do.  Can I throw red paint on people?

PETA:  I won’t stop you.

Me:  Can I throw red paint on you?

PETA:  What do you think?

Me:  Can I hit a dog on the nose with a rolled up newspaper if he pees on my carpet?

PETA:  Can I punch you in the nose for being a worthless piece of shit?

Me:  What about spiders?  Can I pull their legs off, because they really creep me out?

PETA:  You are fucking ruthless!

Me:  I am not.  I’m completely ruth.

PETA:  What?

Me:  What?

PETA:  You’re what?  What did you say?

Me:  What did I say?  When?

PETA:  You’re ruth?

Me:  Yeah.  I’m totally ruth.

PETA:  What the hell does that mean?

Me:  Well, ruthless is bad, so ruth has to be good, right?  Kind of like being dicklesss is bad but having a dick is good. Unless you’re you, of course.  It’s a word.  Look it up.

PETA:  It is not.  I’m done here.  Enjoy your bloody, slaughtered cows, assholes.

Me:  Wait, come back tomorrow.  We have goldfish races on Wednesdays.  We totally won’t swallow them or anything.  Anymore.

PETA:  Fuck off!

Just for the record, my uncle wasn’t eaten by a cougar, I don’t really squash very many ants, and even if Ninja was delicious, I totally wouldn’t eat her.  Probably.

Cheers, until next time.

The RB