There’s a difference between people who drink often and people who get drunk often. I am a professional among the former, who dabbles in the latter, when necessary. As such, I’m out practically nightly honing my skills and occasionally slamming my clipboard to the turf as I witness egregious fouls. Play is becoming sloppy, people. Something needs to change. The don’t-be-a-pussy beer commercials aren’t helping because they are self-serving and everyone knows light beer doesn’t taste like anything except rusty club soda.
Here are today’s lessons, which I hope you’ll share with the stumbling, bumbling first-beer-ever boobs you see out this weekend.
- Do not buy anyone a drink unless there is a legitimate chance it will make you more attractive to the recipient and said recipient hasn’t already warned you that you’ll never see her or him without clothing.
- If you’re a man, do not buy me a drink. If you buy me a drink, you create yet another debt I must repay. This annoys me. Also, I’m probably not through with the drink I have, so the new drink is going to become warm and watery before I get to it. This also annoys me.
- If you’re a woman, do not buy me a drink. If you’re attractive, you will have emasculated me causing embarrassment as my brothers wonder what happened to my testes. If you’re mediocre, please allow me to determine how much I need to imbibe to make you a mating option. If you’re unattractive, you’ve put me in a difficult situation, which will probably cause me to excuse myself to the toilet and set off the rear-exit alarm as I sprint to my Jeep.
- If you’re a bartender or server, don’t buy me a drink. I used to own a club and nothing irked me more than when one of my bartenders said, “This one’s on me.” Technically, it was fucking on me, the owner. Right? So, if you’re the owner, I will accept your generosity and probably frequent your establishment. Don’t be surprised if you find me sleeping in a stall. It happens and you’d be partially to blame. Consider yourself forewarned.
- If you’re posted up at the bar, use your peripheral vision for more than locating cleavage and cock lumps. Be aware of people who are thirstily waiting for access to the bartender. You’re probably blocking their advance. See them waving those large bills and credit cards or doing jumping jacks? No, they’re not Richard Simmons’ fans; they’re parched. Move it, roadblock!
- If you stubbornly block access, this is what you will encounter: The odorous armpit of stoner dude who thinks himself a surfing Kurt Cobain reincarnated and thus refuses to wash his hair while he wears the same goddamn plaid flannel shirt six times before tossing it in the laundry.
- The two attractive ladies standing behind you do not want to have sex with you. In fact, they’re scanning your scalp for evidence of hair plugs and coloring. Ah, but you think you’re slick. You offer to get the bartender’s attention for the ladies or take it a step further and offer to order their drinks. Neither the bartender (trying to make a living off you’re one dollar tip) nor the ladies need you involved in the transaction. Step aside.
- You’re going to be dripped upon. It may be as innocuous as condensation or it may be pinot-gone-wild. In some bars–the ones who play Taylor Swift’s music–what lands on you may be tobacco drool from the lower lip of an inbred who just mated with a cousin, four-legged creature, or jar of Mother’s strawberry preserves. Spit leaves stains, so, unless you’re wearing a body condom, scram.
Take these lessons to heart, friends. You must study and remember that practice makes others hate you a little less.
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