The Boss's Father

Ball Sweat recipe
3/4 oz 1800® Tequila
1/4 oz Irish cream
1/2 tsp salt

Put 1 or 1/2 teaspoon of salt into a shot glass. Pour the tequila in. Then if you have the skills, layer the irish cream on top (or mix). Shoot.

At work many people have issues with their boss. Me, on the other hand, I have issues with my boss's father. You see my boss is fairly young and he has his father work the morning to mid-afternoon shift. When I arrive at the bar, Chad's father (we will call him Larry) is there waiting for me to take over. I take off my coat and place my personal belongings on the shelf and not a minute later I am already pouring beers. It is at this point that you would think that Larry would go home, but no he doesn't. He gets himself a drink and plops his enormous pregnant belly on a bar stool and watches my every move as if I were a child using scissors for the first time.

I try my best to not let him irritate me but all attempts fail when I see the sink filled with dirty dishes that he didn't bother to do the entire day. As if his neglected chores weren't enough to aggravate me, Larry constantly makes remarks and asks the most retarded questions I've ever heard. Like when I turned 21 he goes, "So what can you do now that you're 21?" Ummm....let me see DRINK?! Isn't that what turning 21 is all about? You stupid fucking retard. He then proceeds to tell me all the things I can't do like rent a car for instance. Like I was really looking forward to that or something. On top of his mentally draining conversations where I feel myself getting dumber by the minute, he almost always has to come behind the bar. Let me remind you that the space behind the bar is very cramped leaving not much room for two people. But of course, him and his gut are always shuffling past me bumping into things while I say to myself, When are you going to drop that baby already?

Trying to be slick about it but with no success, I catch Larry sneaking peaks into my tip cup to see how much money I've made. One time, he even had the balls to comment on it saying, "Wow, you already got a ten dollar tip." I can tell he's trying to make me feel uncomfortable. I make more money in a half hour's time than he does all day and that's because I have a set of tits and a pretty face. Duh! You don't have to be a genius to figure that one out. He even watches me when I make a drink. He's making sure I don't put too much Jack in the coke so that it doesn't come out too strong. It's like he trying to catch me doing something wrong. Umm heeelllooo I have been working here for almost two years now. I think I got the gist of my job. Fuck you very much.

I wish I could take a collection of every man's ball sweat and serve it to him on the rocks. Now how's that for too strong?

I'm a Bartender NOT a Therapist

Pitbull On Crack recipe
1 1/2 oz vodka
1 1/2 oz rum
1 1/2 oz Jagermeister® herbal liqueur
1 oz Kahlua® coffee liqueur
1 oz Bailey's® Irish cream
1 1/2 oz half-and-half

Fill a 16 oz. glass with ice and add the alcohol. Stir and top off with cream, and serve.

WARNING! BEFORE ENTERING THE BAR, PLEASE LEAVE YOUR PROBLEMS AT HOME!

Unfortunately, this is never the case. Just about everyone who comes in to the bar is carrying a 20 pound sack of issues on their back and I'm the one who gets to hear it all. The last thing I want to do is have to come to work, serve drinks, and assess any issue you have with your wife, girlfriend, mistress, etc. Save it for the therapist couch not the bar stool.

One time I was alone in the bar with this "wacko" lady that comes in every once in a while. Being that there's no one else to run her mouth off to, she turns to me and proceeds to tell me her whole life story. "Oh yea all the cops around here know me. They are always coming to my apartment. My boyfriend gets drunk and yells at me. Well, he's not my boyfriend but, I live with him." Oh boy, the rambling has begun, I'm thinking in my head. She then goes on to tell me how he beats her and how she kicks him out but, then goes back to him. And the crazy thing about all this is, I don't even know if she's telling me the truth! Holy Crap this is not what I signed up for.

Then there's this man who comes in a few times a month and wants to talk to anyone who will listen. I always happen to end up alone with these people, why God why? One night, I was on my laptop because it was slow and he is right there next to me yapping away. He starts to tell me about his daughter who is around my age. I'm giving him the short, brief responses like oh yea? or uh huh, so that maybe he will get the point that I don't want to be bothered. But no, he continues on as if I am incredibly interested. Listen dude, I don't give a shit about your daughter. I don't know her nor do I want to. I could care less about where she went to school and what she is doing now. So please shut up and drink your beer and leave me the fuck alone!

Look people just in case in you're interested in how I feel I'd rather listen to a pitbull on crack than listen to what you have to say.

The Many Places to Find Vomit in a Bar Other Than the Bathroom

The Usual recipe
1 part Ketel One® vodka
1 part Quady Vya® sweet vermouth
2 ice cubes
1 slice lemon

Stir.

What's the difference between a toilet seat and a bartender?
Answer: A toilet seat can only deal with one asshole at a time.

A major part of being a bartender is dealing with drunk assholes. And sometimes these assholes get so drunk that they decide to puke wherever they feel it necessary. Rather than try to make it to the actual bathroom, they vomit on whatever surface or object is in the way giving it a decorative new paint job. And guess who gets to clean it all up? Well, it must be none other than...ME!

Let's see, one time I found an entire crave case from White Castle in chunky liquid form floating in the mop bucket! I mean I have no problem coating the floor with last night's dinner but, I'm not so sure Chad would like the smell of that. Who knows maybe the mysterious vomit came from Chad himself? Another time, upon closing up, Dick and I walked outside the front door only to miss stepping into a giant orange puddle by a quarter of an inch. What a spot! When I am walking to my car I would love nothing more than to create a footprint path of what looks like a screwdriver, potato chips, and a slim jim all blended together to a nauseating perfection.

Are you ready for the worst vomit story ever? I tried my best to prep you with the previous ones so that maybe you can stomach this one. One night when I was working with Betty, her lovely friends decided to come in and get really wasted. The perpetrator (aka the ultimate jerk-off) is sitting at the bar looking disturbingly queasy. Without even flinching to get up and go to the bathroom, this fool throws up ON THE BAR! And if you think this can't get any worse, well it does. Not only did he throw up on the bar but ON MY TIP MONEY too! If you're wondering whether I was desperate enough to take the tip, I will leave that up to your imagination. No questions please.

Next time you decide to order the usual try puking it up on your pillow instead of in my bar! Thanks!