Chicks and credit cards. When did they become joined at the hip and so socially unaware of anyone and everything around them? Young chicks, old chicks, models, fugly chicks, college girls, 4′s, 9′s, sophisticated Upper-East-Siders… all kinds. It’s as if 8 out of 10 of them skipped the entire semester on Dining and Drinking Etiquette – opting instead for How to Behave Badly at Bar 101.
The air around a gaggle of girls rolling up my bar is so thick with anticipation, it makes bartenders instantly panic-stricken. The last thing I want to see when I’m rolling 3-deep on a Friday night, is see Cindy, Paula, Antionette and Lindsey sashay (they do that on purpose) up to the counter. They’re all 24 years of age, sporting super-sexy platforms platforms, barely-there spaghetti-string chiffon blouses, and skirts that really don’t hide their vajayjays all that well from most angles.
I’ve written many instances of War and Peace about topic previously. However, the objective of my rants clearly has still not sunk into the craniums of the masses of bar and restaurant goers. For the hard of hearing and the educationally disadvantaged, in other words – all of you cheap asses – here it is again from another mouth-piece:
From the Amber Road Cafe in Canton, MA
Do you see what that is? It’s a credit card receipt. I took a picture of it just a few days ago at a small restaurant (way outside Boston), that I take everyone to, called the Amber Road Cafe. Anyway, I took a picture of it because I wanted you to see what I wrote for a tip: $5.00. No, it’s not a lot of money. No, I’m not bragging about leaving a $5.00 tip on a $14.00 meal. So why post it? Because you’re an adult now and you need to learn how to tip.
Click through to read the entire article.
So the other night, douchebag and douche-baguette GF roll up to the bar late evening… a well-dressed Caucasian dude about 45 or so, in a suit jacket, and his younger, well-manicured blonde girl toy. Both take about 10 minutes of studying the menu before finally ordering. These folks are not answering when I say “hi, how are you?” or “what can I get for you?” Whatever. I continue along offering what I believe is excellent service, brushing off their rudeness.
They wind up with a couple of entrees. The chick orders vodka and soda, and the dude orders coffee. I’m nice enough – as is customary. The bar is not full, but not completely dead either. These two are complete dicks. Every interaction is some kind of curt order or no reaction at all – especially Miss DB. The guy utters something like “this is milk, right? I want cream.” I politely inform him it’s half-n-half and he’s plows through his coffee happily.
I spent my early childhood at the alter of what was then known as the Worldwide Wrestling Federation (WWF). I idolized guys like Jimmy Snuka, Big John Studd, Tony Atlas, George “the animal” Steele, Bob Backlund, Ivan Putski, The Samoans, The Iron Sheik, Bruno Samartino and of course, André René Roussimoff. I’m showing my age here of course, rattling off these names of now “old,” retired, fat or dead wrestlers.
If you ask me, this was the golden age, the heyday of “professional” wrestling, however scripted of fake. I lovingly recall several evenings in my youth, taking in WWF spectacles at Madison Square Garden cheering on, and sometimes crying for my heroes when I thought they were hurt. ”André the Giant” was by far my favorite – a huge teddy bear of a man. In any case, the article below originally appeared on and is reposted from Drunkard.com. Google this story and you’ll find endless links and varying opinions as to it’s validity. No matter, it’s simply legendary now and I’d prefer to go to my grave believing the fair tail.