Texts Gone Wild

Anyone involved in the bar culture scene would be a liar if they said they didn’t look forward to waking up the next morning after a binger and checking their phone for entertaining text messages from the night before.  We all do it.  These messages from friends, fauxs, strangers and unfortunately, sometimes family members…are what truly make our nights that much better.  They allow for our forgettable actions to become unforgettable events in our lives that we have documented for as long as our phones shall live.

I not only enjoy the text from the night prior, but also the random text received the next day.  These next day texts generally come from those who seem to believe we made some type of “love connection” the night before.  I suppose this has become a black-out hobby of mine considering that I manage to give these poor lads my real number but not my real name.  Exhibit E for example:

Exhibit E: Fake Name Incidence #1.  I don't even know how to correctly spell "Madelin" but I do know that is NOT how you spell to.  T-O.  Two fucking letters.  Is it really that difficult to text two letters instead of texting numbers like a 5 year old?  I'm not fond of the whole numbers instead of words thing.  The worst part, I vaguely remember this character.  He caught me smoking a cigarette on my stoop right after I got home from my company holiday party.  He was dressed in a reindeer costume.  He told me Santa wouldn't want me to smoke.  I told him, "that's nice but you're not Santa you're just a fucking reindeer."  I shouldn't have done that.  He then invited himself to tell me his ENTIRE life story while I smoked my cigarette.  He's a teacher.  A TEACHER AND HE CAN'T TEXT THE WORD TO!?!??!?!  To get him to leave I gave him my number and a fake name that I use regularly.  A week after the text above, he actually called me.  I disguised my voice and told him he had the wrong number.  He proceeded to apologize and tell me, a stranger who he accidentally dialed, all about the night he met "Madelin" and how incredible their conversation was and that he was drunk and wearing a reindeer costume when they met.  He wanted to take her out for a real date.  I said, "Wow.  What.  A.  Bitch.  Sorry dude."

I guess I didn't learn my ways, as Exhibit F displays:

Exhibit F: Fake Name Incidence #2...I just couldn't accept a date offer knowing that I lied to this poor guy about my name...and because it was after 2 A.M.  I'm no spring chicken.  Post 2 A.M. text = bootayyyy call...this leads to the next segment of Texts Gone Wild...

Exhibit G: Creepiest booty call text I have ever received.  I met this character at the Verizon store earlier that day.  I had to take my sister there for a new phone.  This guy was working.  He put up with us for about an hour.  That in it of itself is incredible.  Later that night, outside one of my regular spots while enjoying a cigarette, he stood right there on the other side of the ropes.  I said, "hello again," and we engaged in friendly conversation.  We exchanged numbers and went our separate ways.  After a few more Jameson shots I took out of my phone and laid eyes on the worst attempt at a booty call I have ever seen.  Actually no, that's a lie.  Exhibit H below may be the worst booty call attempt to date:

Exhibit H: When your best dude friend decides to pull an Ozzy Osbourne and black the fuck out so hard that he actually believes protesting his fake love for you will get you to come over for a booty-call.  Awesomely rad and ridiculously hilarious now.  But then...astoundingly creepy and wayyyyyy awkward.  We're still BFF.  We still wake each other up to texts such as this...

Exhibit I: The best part about this text...I woke up butt ass naked.

Aside from giving out a fake name and receiving booty-call requests, I thoroughly enjoy carrying on conversations with individuals that take the plunge into...sober texting.  I generally don't remember these characters, but when they text I'm sober, bored, and need to be entertained.  Exhibit J take it away!

Exhibit J: This character just didn't know what he was in for.  When I received his text on a solemn May evening of 2011, I was bored as shit and decided that fucking with a stranger would alleviate my ailment.  The conversation began with the character asking me "What's up?" and me replying with, "Battling Ninjas bro."  Like a good sport, he played along.  He had a response for every one of my ridiculous non-sense texts.  Soon enough, he grew tired of the horseplay and moved straight to the point.  He was trying to ask me out.  Not knowing what to do or how to really respond without sounding like an asshole, I figured that honesty was the best policy.  When he did tell me his name and when we met I felt like a huge asshole.

The worst ones though are the ones that legitimately ask me out or genuinely want to converse.  I can't help but be an asshole...

Exhibit K: No Response.

Exhibit L: No Response...but at least he scored my real name!

Exhibit M: No Response and he tried for a solid two weeks.  I'm an evil bitch.

Exhibit N: Well, I responded.  But this shit is crazy girl status.  Where is your penis?

Exhibit O: My Favorite.  Responded.  Boom.

From now on I'm going to start utilizing the tricks of the wiser.  Please take the time to admire Exhibit P below.  Brought to you by one of my older and wiser sorority sisters who may very well be the funniest bitch I know...

Exhibit P: Best Auto Response Ever

Exhibit P is a sure way to keep clear of the fake name fatalists, horny ass booty-callers, sober texters, and hopeless romantics.

Lesson learned: If you want to continue giving your real number out while intoxicated, make sure you're auto response protected.

Peace.

- TBR

The Bar Ultimatum.

To be his customer or to be his romp buddy…is that a for serious question?

A vital lesson I’m continuing to learn throughout my years as a connoisseur of dives, drinks, and dudes is to not date, fall in love with, or simply fornicate with ANYONE who works at a bar that you frequent.  These types of relationships never work out the way they should.  You go into the whole thing head first with the sole intention to just “have fun.”  Get some free drinks and a couple of line cuts out of the deal.  Soon after, reality smacks the horny out of you.  Shit gets weird…real weird…real fast.

For the last couple of years, I frequent this one pub-like bar (among many others) that resides downtown along the strip of various other pubs, restaurants, and shops right before hitting the main drag.  [Review in a nut-shell] The pure aroma of Pepto-Bismol and diarrhea along with a pool table, dart boards, TV’s, and the exquisite ability to hold two rooms with entirely different ambiances in one location.  This all sums up why there’s a ridiculous line on Friday and Saturday nights that ends all the way up to the corner of the next block.  Oh, and how could I forget the DJ that plays shitty house music.  It’s not his fault people love shitty house music.  I, myself, being one of them.  It entrances the shithammered 21 year olds to start humping one another on the dance floor.  Finger-blast, anyone?  Not to be confused with a very similar pub right up the block.  There are three very distinctive differences between these two establishments:

• The Pub Up The Block smells clean…VERY clean.
• Unlike Pub Up The Block where nothing’s left to the imagination, Pepto-Bismol pub has a secret cook with a secret kitchen and a secret bar menu.  Food is only served from 1 pm – 3 pm on weekdays when there aren’t any damn customer
• Pepto-Bismol pub holds a bartender…a bartender that gets off by offering his customers ultimatums… “Either be my blackout customer who I hate or be the girl I sleep with (i.e. a smutfaced hooker)…can’t be both…”

a.     High-Level Backgrounder on Pepto-Bismol Bartender:

                                               i.     Really, really, really fucking cute

                                             ii.     Really, really, really fucking funny

                                            iii.     Really, really, really fucking good with the FE-males

I met Pepto-Bismol Bartender quite some time ago.  Anytime I frequented his place of work, I eye-fucked the shit out of him.  We never exchanged names.  Never held a real conversation.  Never knew a damn thing about one another except for the fact that I liked Jameson shots and he had an incredible beard…and ass.

Not too long ago, Pepto-Bismol Bartender and I officially met.  We locked eye-fucking eyes at the Pub Up The Block.  He wasn’t working that night.  He was an off-duty bartender about to be added to my “bartender hit-list.”   I was an off-duty customer unaware of my destiny.  Banned from his bar…all because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.  And I couldn’t resist.

We got to “know” each other and I continued to frequent Pepto-Bismol Bartender’s Pepto-Bismol smelling bar.  I was getting the 2-in-1 smashed special…smashed in bed and smashed at the bar by 1 foxy beer wench.  ‘Twas the best “relationship” anyone looking to be in a “non-relationship” could have dreamed.

I suppose once I started becoming too comfortable with this more than perfect situation (i.e. showing up to Pepto-Bismol Bar to see Pepto-Bismol Bartender blacked out wasted proclaiming that I wanted to sit on his junk) shit started getting’ weird.  Pepto-Bismol Bartender turned into Pepto-Bismol Emo Douchebag.

Because I’m not stupid and because I hate passive aggressive hipster doucheness, I asked Pepto-Bismol Bartender, “why are you being a standoffish hipster douche?” and so he answered:

                  

“You can’t come to my bar…my job…blacked out…demanding drinks…obnoxious…being one of those customers that I hate and still expect me to sleep with you.  I either see you at work or I see you outside of work.  Can’t be both.”

This ridiculous “ultimatum” left me befuddled and aggravated.  Befuddled simply because our situation was an inch shy from perfect.  How could he not be cool with it anymore?  Probably because of that 3 – 4 guy rule.  After 3 – 4 times with one girl they lose interest and it’s on to the next one.  Aggravated because hipster doucheface just one-upped me and beat me at my game.

Due to my serious irritation, I opted with neither.  I will not be your customer and I certainly will not sleep with you.  Really, the jokes on me.  I gotta hand it to him.  Pepto-Bismol hipster doucheface bartender did a nice job at getting rid of me.  The trick is to just seriously piss me off and then I disappear.  Well, soon enough the joke will be back on him.  I gave myself a one month break from entering Pepto-Bismol Bar.  In only a short couple of weeks I’ll be up to my antics once again.  Except this time, there will be no ultimatum.  We’ll go back to being eye-fucking strangers.  The only type of relationship one can have with a bartender.

- TBR

Op-Ed: The Writing's On The Wall...Trends of Bar Culture

A trend from wiser years past and to stay for years to come, shithammed members of the bar culture soliciting passive aggressive mantras on bathroom stall walls and doors…hoping that their ideals towards society will truly be followed as if they’re the next Buddha, Gandhi, or Mother Teresa, but really we all know…they’re just next in line to becoming America’s Next Top Dick-Wad.

Some of these dick-wads choose to leave endearing cliché messages such as, “Call so-and-so for a good time, 800-555-555 ;-)”…for shits and giggles while you’re relieving yourself from the pints of booze you decide to guzzle, try calling this “so-and-so.”  I dare you.  They tend to be people named Tyrone not so much interested in giving you a good time but rather finding where you live and murdering all of your loved ones because they believe you’re an ex-customer with a price on your head for a debt you’ve owed to them for an extensive period of time.  You then must make it a priority the next day to stop at your local cell phone service provider and block their number.  Glad to know some sadistic dick-wad thought that constituted a good time...ingenious, really.

Other statements are clearly left by Veteran Affairs members of the bar culture community…providing words of wisdom to young early inductees of how they should behave in order to truly succeed and make a name for themselves in the abysmal world of has-beens.  Refer to Exhibit C provided below:

Is that a poor excuse for a penis in the lower left-hand corner?  These words were clearly left by a female Vet that’s had her fair share of dives, drinks, and dudes.  She’s been around the block several dozen times and now hopes to live vicariously through the innocent lives of the not yet morally corrupt younger bar culture generation.

On the contrary, these members of the younger bar culture generation are not ones to be reckoned with.  I heard they give hand jobs in 5^th grade classrooms these days, so these kids are wise beyond their years and not easily bullied or pressured into the bar culture enlightenment.  Exhibit D for example:

Re: Exhibit C – located directly above on the same door of the same stall in the same bathroom of the same bar.

The conclusion to all of this folks is simple.  Being a smutfaced hooker that gets to eat pasta > having class, acting like a lady, and getting treated like one.  Write that on a fuckin’ wall…just don’t forget to call smutfaced hooker for a good time and by smutfaced hooker I mean me.

Be Good,

TBR

No clothes. No car. No phone. No Shame.

I wake up completely drunk from the night before.  The sun is shining through the blinds onto my face giving me a euphoric feeling of wastedness and comfort while an uncontrollable smile forces itself upon my face when I realize that I am waking up, hammered, in my own bed.  This incredible ease lasted for all of 20 seconds until I was reminded of my actions due to flashbacks of the night before.  I immediately jump out of my bed to find myself bare ass naked – hell I even do that sober…sleeping naked is awesome – but I’m not really shamed by it just confused as to how my clothes were even removed from my body.  I run to the window to pull up the blinds and hope to find my car sitting in its designated spot in the driveway.  To my dismay…it’s not.  I then rush to my purse to call all friends whom I was with last to investigate the situation…phone MIA.  Within minutes, the flashbacks from last night became my reality.

            January 2010.  I’ve been an official employee of the place where I pretend to be a functioning adult for about 4 months and I finally give in to a co-worker Friday night outing in Morristown.  I’ve held back for so long due to my inability of pacing and censoring myself.  I decide to not eat that day but rather drink my calories.   Since this outing was in honor of a co-workers birthday I couldn’t show up empty handed.  I bring over a large bottle of Jack Daniels and tell the birthday boy, “let’s party.”  After pulling a sweet Batman and Robin and drinking more than half the bottle we decide it’s time to go out…and continue to drink.  At this time, the party consisted of my co-worker, his sexy ass roommate who’s wiener I had the pleasure of touching later in life, and his adorable sweetheart of a friend from college who happens to be my indirect sorority sister.  Score, someone to hold my hair back.

The Review:

Sona. This bar is dark and loud and plays typical pop/dance/rap hits.  The coolest part is that the second floor is really the first floor and the first floor is a well-decorated basement.  I’ve been there during daylight hours as well and the food is pretty tasty.  If I lived in Morristown I’d probably frequent there more-so than other bars.  Male to female ratio is probably 35:65.  In bar culture that’s 50:50.  Good selection of beers on tap and duh they have a wide variety of the brown’s because it’s what you drink when you’re tryina rageeee.  I did not frequent enough to know much about the staff but I imagine they’re all relatively attractive young people dressed in black and always smiling…because they get paid to make fun of your drunk ass.

We wait on line for 10 minutes, enter the doors, and book it to the basement where we are to meet the rest of the party and a few other co-workers.  Everyone has still not arrived and the four of us rip a celebratory birthday shot…of Jack Daniels…and I chase it…with a Jack & Diet.  More shots are ordered and more shots are consumed.  Finally, the others arrive.  I mingle and socialize until the feeling of being completely lost and abandoned like everyone I know has suddenly disappeared takes over my being.  The entire party is within a 5 foot radius.  I grab a seat at the bar and request a cup of ice.  I chew on the ice and have people talking to me.  All I hear is umpa-lumpa-doo-pa-de-doo.  I puke in my mouth, sallow it, then grab the arm of a co-worker standing next to me and plead, “please take me to a bathroom.”  The co-worker does not know where the closest ladies restroom is and decides we have time to ask a bouncer to direct us to the nearest.  I proceed to projectile vomit all over the hallway, the bouncer’s feet, and in the cupped hands of my innocent co-worker.  Why he cupped his hands to catch my vomit still irks me. I’m escorted into a bathroom where I lock myself in a stall to privately humiliate myself.  I puke and cry and hate myself.  The door opens.  My indirect sorority sister of an angel closes the stall door behind her, rubs my back, and holds my hair.  She repeats, “it’s okay, it’s okay” making me feel as though my behavior is totally acceptable.

After my puke session, I’m driven home by the pukey cupped handed co-worker.  I leave my cell phone in his car.  I don’t remember entering my home, taking my clothes off, or getting into bed.  I wake up happy as a clam.  I wake up to the horrid realization that I’m a complete mess of a person and proved so to my co-workers.  If they judge me they’re assholes.  I have no clothes on.  I have no car.  I have no phone.  I facebook message my co-workers asking them, “where is my car and where is my phone.”  Therefore I have no shame.  My mom hated me that day.

Grow up to be like me.  I’m awesome.

Be good,

TBR

Grey Goose Martini Straight Up With A Twist...I'm Back.

After becoming absolutely shamed and mortified by my actions and poor life decisions, I decided to take a long one-year hiatus to soul search and “find myself.”  My battle of attempting to be a healthy up-standing individual in a relationship and putting the bottle down was quite the triumph.  Needless to say, yoga, running, playing the cat & mouse game with the sexiest bartender alive and avoiding whiskey at all costs was boring and uneventful.  Today while on a business trip, I had a Grey Goose martini straight up with a twist for lunch and realized…this is me.  Accept it.  Embrace it.  Love it.

I will continue to provide my POV on dives, drinks, and dudes and share my personal life experiences in the bar culture.  Some entries will be long in short story format while others will be direct and straight to the point.  Either way, they’re entertaining, raw, and real.  Enjoy them for what they are and be thankful you’re not me…or jealous.

 It’s good to be back.

Take care.

 TBR