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SIXTEEN: BRING YOUR FUCKING ID. Unless you look as old as Strom Thurmond, you just MIGHT get carded. Most bars will not allow you in without one. In most states (if not all), walking around without some sort of state issued identification is against the law. They’re not fuckin’ heavy. I can’t tell you how many girls I’ve carded and it’s “My boyfriend has it and he’s parking the car,” or “I left it in the car,” or whatever piece of shit excuse you have that you’re not carrying it on you. You have a fucking hairbrush, two tampons, a compact, lipstick, a cordless drill, a snowboard, and whatever the fuck else you have in that Bag of Plenty that you carry around with you, but you couldn’t put your fucking driver’s license in there? Again, get a clue. While I don’t card EVERYONE, if I suspect you might be teetering on the edge of legality, I’m carding you. It’s not a power trip, I don’t get off on it, it’s the fucking law. And if you don’t have it, you’re probably fucked. Look at it this way: if something happens to you and we need to identify the body, well, at least you had your ID on you. And hopefully you were wearing clean underwear, or your mom is going to be VERY embarrassed.
SEVENTEEN: Do not call me over and then decide you’re going to get the group’s order together. Like this:
“Hey buddy!” (I walk over)
“Uh, yeah, I’ll have a Bud Light, um… hey Johnny, what do you want?”
“Um, I think he’ll have a Heineken…”
(large baseball bat hits you upside the head).
If you get my attention and I come over, you damn fucking well better know what you want when I get there. In addition, don’t order, and when I come back with the drinks, order more. Give me the whole order at once. I’ve had jerkoffs do this:
Moron: “Can I have a Bud Light?”
Me: (Walk away, get beer, come back) “$3.50”
Moron: “I need two.”
Me: (Walk away AGAIN, get beer AGAIN, come back AGAIN) “OK, $7.00”
Moron: “I also need a vodka soda.”
Me: (Make drink) “$11.00”
Moron: “I think we need shots, too.”
You get the idea? It’s just fucking brainless. Get your shit together, order all at once, and HAVE YOUR FUCKING WALLET READY WHEN I COME BACK! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had some fuckass order and when I tell him how much, then and ONLY then does he realize that (a) he has to pay and (b) his wallet is in his pants, and (c) it’s going to take him a friggin’ week to open it and find money.
EIGHTEEN: Have your fucking money ready. It’s fucking obnoxious to be busy, have some half-wit order drinks, and then after you get them and tell him how much it is, watch him fumble for his wallet, look inside, try to figure out simple math, etc. Have an ample amount of cash in your hand when the bartender comes back with your order. Act as if, when you order drinks, that unless you have a tab at the bar, you’re going to have to pay for them. I don’t have the time, energy, or patience to waste on watching you go for your wallet. It’s like watching some old bat start to slowly fill out her check AFTER the cashier rings in her basket full of Depends, Cat Chow, and applesauce at the grocery store. Be prepared. Expediency is always appreciated.
NINETEEN: Don’t bitch about the price. I currently work in a restaurant. The menus are posted on the door so people (morons) can see what the bill of fare is prior to making a commitment so great as walking into the establishment. The menu also has the prices on it. So, when the bill comes, I don’t want to hear how much everything was. You read the menu. You saw the prices. You sat your fat don’t-wanna-cook-ass in a chair, ordered off the menu, and ate it like the bottom-feeder you are. Pay the bill, tip, and go. No one put a gun to your head and told you that you HAD to be here. Same goes for the prices. Eight bucks for a glass of wine? Yes, sorry to get all 2011 on your ass, but… it’s 2011. If you can’t afford to eat with the big people, take you and your too-much-hairspray wife to Applebee’s where you can have your four buck glass of Montevideo White Fucking Zin and your $8.95 all you can eat riblets and leave me - and the rest of us - the fuck alone. You cunt.
TWENTY: One simple rule with wine - if you’ve never heard of the vineyard, it doesn’t mean shit. Unless you are an oenophile bar none or are the Senior Editor for “Wine Spectator” magazine, I don’t care what you have heard of and what you haven’t. I’ve been bartending for twenty years and haven’t heard of half of the vineyards out there. And stop asking me questions as if you know anything about what you are talking about. “Is that chardonnay oaky?” “What’s drier, the merlot or the cabernet?” Here’s what you do: “I’d like to try the…” and have a swig. If you like it, fine. If you don’t, try something else. I actually had some old bat once ask me what kind of white zinfandel we carried by the glass. I replied, “pink.” Who gives a fuck? Really? You’re so much of a wine snob that you are picky about your WHITE FUCKING ZINFANDEL? Do us all a favor, go play in traffic.
TWENTY-ONE: If you go to a party, regardless of where it is (restaurant, bar, hotel, double-wide trailer), and it’s is an open bar - meaning drinks are complimentary - it would be nice if you’d tip the fucking bartender. Especially if you are one of these assholes: “Hey, lemme get a Ketel and club, and make sure there’s not too much club.” My recommendation in that case is that you have a dead president in your paw (not the cherry-tree chopping variety). The funny thing about an open bar is that I’m already making a little money off the party. However, I stress “little.” And if you decide to take advantage of the booze flowing like… well… booze, and to avoid unsightly lugees floating in your adult beverage, leave a tip. Here’s what I do: I walk straight up to the bartender, put a twenty down, and inform him that I plan on drinking heavily, and just make sure that there is vodka for me. You’d be surprised how fast and strong my drinks are, while you, Mister No-Tip Cheapfuck, are drinking swill.