Interesting/Awesome Drunk stories

[Liquid Blue]

So I'm going to start bartending on Saturday night at my restaurant. I'm sure I'm going to hear a bunch of awesome/mildly interesting drunk stories, but I want to see if any of you have any to share as well.

If I hear any spectacular ones this weekend (I'm doing Sat and Sun nights for now) then I'll make sure to post them. Start sharing!

[D1st0rt]

I'm going to change some names here, but this is the best drunk story I have.

Ok so one night I was hanging out with neighbors and my roommate Wilbur went downtown. What seems like 20 minutes after we go back into my townhouse, he gets home and there's a commotion on our front yard. I open the door and he's standing there holding his arms up yelling "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" like he's trying to go super saiyan or something, though I don't think he's ever seen DBZ. Our next door neighbors have a scooter in their front yard that is kind of a sore spot because one of them uses it as a placeholder for highly contested parking spots when they leave. He walks over and plants one foot and kicks the scooter over onto another roommate, Thaddeus's car (No serious damage surprisingly). There are a bunch of people outside, and some of them are fanboys of this neighbor who now want to fight Wilbur. "OK LETS GET INSIDE DUDE," as we grab him in and lock the front door. So I made some garlic toast and watched MTV jams for another half hour and then went to bed. BUT THE STORY IS FAR FROM OVER. This next part is second hand, but confirmed by multiple sources.

I went to bed around 3:30, but Wilbur had other plans. Two hours later around 5:30, he is in Thaddeus's room downstairs trying to pee into a red solo cup on Thaddeus's nightstand, and missing horribly. Looking at the scene the next morning, I was sure that some of it had to have gotten on Thaddeus's head just from the proximity. Thad wakes up confused, "Wilbur what are you doing, why dont you just use the bathroom its right there?"
"hholdon man, im allmost done"
"dude, go use the bathroom"
"nah, i think ima go outside" (Thaddeus's room has an external door to the backyard)
So Wilbur goes outside and finishes up. He doesn't show up for another half hour, so Thaddeus decides he must have come inside and he locks his door and goes back to bed. Wilbur is outside in just his boxers now at 6am and its no more than 40 degrees outside, so he really wants to come in now. He starts banging on Thaddeus's door to no avail, so he looks around in our backyard. Our scooter neighbors were recently painting so they have a really long, probably 6 foot, aluminum paint roller sitting on their back patio. He picks this up, holds it butt end forward and proceeds to use it as a battering ram on the back door to THEIR townhouse.

I forget how he got back in but it wasn't much longer after that, I think he may have gone around front and somebody let him in. But yeah, anyways, pretty ridiculous night. It took like a solid week of diplomacy to get the non-scooter-owning neighbors in that house to not hate us, and the scooter one still does (this was probably in October or so)

[Scurvy]

once a group of my buddies were walking through a construction zone after a nigh of partying. They decided to get inside the big orange construction barrels and try to walk them across the road like you see in cartoons (where you can see them stand slightly, scurry a few feet, then settle back to the ground).

One got hit by a car and was hospitalized for 3 months.

surprise

[Xog]

I'm going to change some names here, but this is the best drunk story I have.

Ok so one night I was hanging out with neighbors and my roommate Wilbur went downtown. What seems like 20 minutes after we go back into my townhouse, he gets home and there's a commotion on our front yard. I open the door and he's standing there holding his arms up yelling "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" like he's trying to go super saiyan or something, though I don't think he's ever seen DBZ. Our next door neighbors have a scooter in their front yard that is kind of a sore spot because one of them uses it as a placeholder for highly contested parking spots when they leave. He walks over and plants one foot and kicks the scooter over onto another roommate, Thaddeus's car (No serious damage surprisingly). There are a bunch of people outside, and some of them are fanboys of this neighbor who now want to fight Wilbur. "OK LETS GET INSIDE DUDE," as we grab him in and lock the front door. So I made some garlic toast and watched MTV jams for another half hour and then went to bed. BUT THE STORY IS FAR FROM OVER. This next part is second hand, but confirmed by multiple sources.

I went to bed around 3:30, but Wilbur had other plans. Two hours later around 5:30, he is in Thaddeus's room downstairs trying to pee into a red solo cup on Thaddeus's nightstand, and missing horribly. Looking at the scene the next morning, I was sure that some of it had to have gotten on Thaddeus's head just from the proximity. Thad wakes up confused, "Wilbur what are you doing, why dont you just use the bathroom its right there?"
"hholdon man, im allmost done"
"dude, go use the bathroom"
"nah, i think ima go outside" (Thaddeus's room has an external door to the backyard)
So Wilbur goes outside and finishes up. He doesn't show up for another half hour, so Thaddeus decides he must have come inside and he locks his door and goes back to bed. Wilbur is outside in just his boxers now at 6am and its no more than 40 degrees outside, so he really wants to come in now. He starts banging on Thaddeus's door to no avail, so he looks around in our backyard. Our scooter neighbors were recently painting so they have a really long, probably 6 foot, aluminum paint roller sitting on their back patio. He picks this up, holds it butt end forward and proceeds to use it as a battering ram on the back door to THEIR townhouse.

I forget how he got back in but it wasn't much longer after that, I think he may have gone around front and somebody let him in. But yeah, anyways, pretty ridiculous night. It took like a solid week of diplomacy to get the non-scooter-owning neighbors in that house to not hate us, and the scooter one still does (this was probably in October or so)

I fear for the naming of your children.

[gran guerrero]

ok so here's a story about my cousins (i'll make american names for youse guise to not be like wtfz)

Steve is a getting drunk kind of guy with pete always keepin him out of trouble. Steve's a tall guy, pete's a bouncer at a strip club.

Steve use to do some shit like throw a hissy fit at cafe iguana for not having enough napkins, then proceeding to throw the stack of napkins he had at the bartender repeatedly before being kicked out. Pete apologizes.

Steve says a racial slur (like fucking n**gers) while passing by a group of black guys. Luckily Pete immediately says out loud "Oh yeah I remember that episode from Chappelle's show!"

Steve punches at a window from a moving taxi cab. The driver wanted to fight steve, but Pete calmed him down.

Steve was going to hook up with 2 old ass bitches at pete's strip club, luckily Pete cock blocked him.

Steve pissed in Pete's garage. Pete cleaned it up. Steve pissed on Pete's television, Pete beat up steve.

[Cops]

puke, crack heads, coke heads, k heads, bloody leg, and no fucking public transit available for me to get the fuck out of this situation.

So I'm in downtown Toronto for my best friends brothers birthday, a lot of his friends show who I've never met. The night starts off pretty good, we're slamming down cheap pints until we end up at a little bar called The Labyrinth. The place is a total hipster bar, but to my delight jack and coke is $3. With no time at all I'm emptying my wallet and getting completely fucked. My friends are all pretty timid, we're not the type to pick fights at bars or be complete cunts out in public. On the other hand my best friends brother is an alright guy, he's just into a lot of different drugs so the people he associates with are sketch at best and deviants at worst. He also plays online poker, which he's successful enough to support his habits and pay his rent with.

Some of the dudes friends are fucking loaded too (As in rich from online poker). One dude showed up and bought everyone 2 shots of Grey Goose Vodka, not exactly the cheapest shit in the bar. Vodka is fucking grouse but free shots is free shots. Basically our group started turning into a shit show, people are dropping glasses, swearing, basically being the center of everyones attention. My buddy takes off to the bathroom, shows up 30 minutes later and looks awkward. Several minutes after he showed up a girl that was with us stumbles down a flight of stairs to a bathroom, suddenly she slips and yells as she went head and hand first into a pile of vomit. Laughs soon follow, my buddy secretly confessed to me later it was his puke. That puke set off a chain reaction that turned my night from weird into fucking bizzare. The bouncer told someone we were with he puked on the floor and he's got to get the fuck out of the bar, at that point some dude we were with yells to one of his friends "Hey Liam, they're kicking us out!".

All of a sudden the dude flips a fucking table and says "What, they're racist?!". Glasses and bottles smash all over the floor, glass is fucking everywhere at this point. People start yelling and freaking out, the majority of us just up and walk away before the fists start flying. Thankfully we got shit canned and not our asses handed to us, we start the search for another bar. As we're walking around in Toronto we see a guy laying on the floor with his entire leg sliced open from a bottle. Apparently the dude slipped on the ground and cut his leg open on some glass. The cut looked like a shark bite, his frigging leg was mangled. Being drunk and seeing this almost made me up chuck. An ambulance shows up and the dudes carried away. After many more hours of bar hopping we end up in some dudes car who obviously shouldn't be driving, later I found out the guy wasn't hitting the bottle he was hitting rails of coke. On our way back to one of the guys apartments our car breaks down in the middle of a homeless shelter at three in the fucking morning. The entire neighborhood looks like a god awful ghetto with drug deals on bikes happening around us constantly, all I can say is have you ever seen The Wire? All I'm thinking at this point is 'please god, get me the fuck out of this place'. A homeless guy tries to grab one of the girls we're with, which results in someone pushing the dude away. The next thing I know the dude that was trying to assault the girl ends up trying to fix our car! At this point crazy mc fuck fucks across the street start to notice we're a group of people that consists of a) 2 girls b) 1 skinny cokehead, and c) 2 moderate sized white kids. I'm like 'let's get the fuck out of here, now', so we start to walk out of the crack den, as I turn back I notice a large group following us out. Thank god they stop following us as we hit a major intersection. We start to call a tow truck company that hangs up on us when we tell him where the cars located. The second tow truck says he won't get the car till at least 6-7 am when it's not completely dark out, so I'm like 'great, what next'.

We start the trek back to someones apartment, we end up in the living room of some shit hole. I end up taking a seat on a couch and within two minutes of being there large glad bags of ketamine is being passed around and sold. I tell my buddy, 'I want to leave, this is too fucked up for me'. I'm thinking to myself, I should really just spend the $80 on a cab home or cough up the $100 to get a room for the night away from all this crap. My buddy eventually convinces me to wait until the guys car is fixed so I can get a ride home. Several uncomfortable hours later I leave a house with several people passed out with white powder on their upper lips. I end up in a car with a guy who does a line of coke right before we get on the highway. I ended up home, eventually, but this night was not fun nor was it enjoyable.

[Liquid Blue]

fuckkin a+++

at that point some dude we were with yells to one of his friends "Hey Liam, they're kicking us out!".

All of a sudden the dude flips a fucking table and says "What, they're racist?!".

The entire neighborhood looks like a god awful ghetto with drug deals on bikes happening around us constantly, all I can say is have you ever seen The Wire?

hank god they stop following us as we hit a major intersection. We start to call a tow truck company that hangs up on us when we tell him where the cars located. The second tow truck says he won't get the car till at least 6-7 am when it's not completely dark out, so I'm like 'great, what next'.

I end up taking a seat on a couch and within two minutes of being there large glad bags of ketamine is being passed around and sold. I tell my buddy, 'I want to leave, this is too fucked up for me'.

top quality shit, broseph

[fLaReD]

i've got two

on new years night a few years ago (right around when xbox 360) came out, me and my buddies were all drinking at a friends house. i got blackout drunk and don't remember this, but apparantly i started pissing in a plant that the guy had in his basement. he saw me and pushed me over, but i kept pissing onto my friends xbox....suprisingly, it didn't get the red ring or anything

my other one...one of my friends (the same one who's xbox i pissed on) was walking home from a party with me, my gf, and another friend. he thought it was funny to fake pass-out on the corner of the street several times. anyway, one time he fake passed-out, and when he got back up he darted across the street in the middle of traffic. a black charger was coming down the street and slammed on the breaks and laid on the horn. my friend got pissed at this guy's attitude so he stopped in the middle of the street, flicked him the birds, then pounded on the hood of his car. all of a sudden we saw blue and red lights flash on from the inside of the car. it was an undercover cop. he got arrested.

[apt]

ok so here's a story about my cousins (i'll make american names for youse guise to not be like wtfz)

Steve is a getting drunk kind of guy with pete always keepin him out of trouble. Steve's a tall guy, pete's a bouncer at a strip club.

Steve use to do some shit like throw a hissy fit at cafe iguana for not having enough napkins, then proceeding to throw the stack of napkins he had at the bartender repeatedly before being kicked out. Pete apologizes.

Steve says a racial slur (like fucking n**gers) while passing by a group of black guys. Luckily Pete immediately says out loud "Oh yeah I remember that episode from Chappelle's show!"

Steve punches at a window from a moving taxi cab. The driver wanted to fight steve, but Pete calmed him down.

Steve was going to hook up with 2 old ass bitches at pete's strip club, luckily Pete cock blocked him.

Steve pissed in Pete's garage. Pete cleaned it up. Steve pissed on Pete's television, Pete beat up steve.

You live in FL Gran? There's a Cafe Iguana in Miami.

[gran guerrero]

yes you mook i've told you before. I live in South Florida (ft. lauderdale)

[Mr. Peanuts]

I puked down the side of a taxi once.

[Liquid Blue]

found this on SA, it's great-

My First Day

Winter 2006

So there I am sitting on my porch in Denver nursing a beer with five others keeping cool in the snow beside me.. The sales from my book have stabilized, my father’s health problems are once again manageable, and my then girlfriend has moved to New York for school without me. John Q Law had even deemed me fit to re-enter society un-tethered and ended my probation. I had something I hadn’t had in quite a while. Freedom. So what now? Well I did the only sensible thing and sold everything I owned that didn’t fit into an Army duffel bag and bought a one way ticket to San Francisco. I had no job prospects, no place to live, no plan whatsoever. It felt great.

Upon arriving in San Francisco I get a bunk in a hostel and immediately begin looking for a place. This turns into a process of going to open house interviews for two months until I find a room with five stoners in the Sunset. To call it a room is generous. It’s a 8’x3 ½’ laundry room. One of my roommates, Reece, is a bar manager at a local catering service and has heard of my book. I quickly find out that he’s the person in the house I get along best with and when he asks me what I plan on doing for work I explain that I just planned on writing and living off my savings and royalties. He tells me he needs a bartender with a lot of experience to help out part time. I told myself I was retired from bartending. I told myself I was going to concentrate on being a serious writer. I told my self that I’d killed that drunken monster that got me famous in the first place. Yea well I also told myself that that rash was probably psoriasis.

All I had to do to get hired was show up to the office and say “I’m Reece’s buddy.” And they handed me my W4. The company did most of its business at two of the fanciest art museums in the city. All the clients were high profile and all the events were insanely overpriced. My first day was later that week and was an exhibit opening that would feature a very prominent fashion designer for her and five thousand of her closest friends. There would be celebrities, socialites, and dilettantes all getting blind stinking drunk next to priceless works of art. Sounds like my kind of party.

I show up the day of and the museum has been closed so that we can prep for the event. By the time I get there Reece is already running around like a chicken with his head cut off ordering people around and chattering into a secret service style walkie talkie. This is a funny sight because Reece looks like he’s about fourteen and had the physique of a pre pubescent girl Up until then I’d only seen him in his street clothes. He was one of those bicycle hipsters that this city seems to churn out faster than new ways to give a reach around. His typical modicum of dress is an extra small t-shirt heralding the indie band of the month and seemingly spray on jeans with one pant leg rolled up. Now he’s wearing a designer suit and ordering people around like a Gestapo Commandant. Despite all this he would become the one and only superior I have come to respect

Reece informs me that I’m going to be in charge of the VIP room and introduces me to the two other guys I’ll be working with. The first one, Shitski, is fresh out of bartending school and has never really bartended a day in his life. The other, Brad, has been with the company for years but this is his first night bartending. So now I have two hours to transform a mural gallery into a VIP bar fit for the stars woth a skeleton crew of amateurs. Never say I don’t like a challenge.

In just the nick of time we manage to get the museum ready for the party and before I have time to figure out whether or not I remember how to make a Cosmo the people come rushing in to drink themselves to the gills. At this point it had been a couple months since I’d bartended and I was weary of getting back in the saddle in such a dramatic fashion. As it turns out it took all of five minutes and I was flipping bottles, swinging my church key like a greased ninja, and pouring shots eight at a time. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks but you better have a strong arm and a claw hammer to break an old habit.

Once I get into the rhythm its smooth sailing. I’m deep in the weeds all night but I handle my orders and put on a good show in the process. Like all fashion events in San Francisco, this one attracted the city’s most prominent drag queens. Around here these people are local celebrities and seem to make a living just “being” places. The most famous of San Francisco’s Queens is here with her entourage and is sticking to the VIP room like many VIPs tend to do. I can’t remember who it was but I read about an old bar owner in NYC who after having three different echelons of VIP rooms in his bar opened up a dirty rat infested store room as the penultimate members only area. The place was filthy and held about ten people tops but the New York elite were willing to give up their first born to get in there. And Andy Warhol sold an empty can of tomato soup for thousands of dollars. The lesson being that exclusivity can be a powerful narcotic.

So The Queen pulls up to my station and “her” assistant tells me she needs a straw for her drink so she doesn’t mess up her geisha lipstick job. After being slammed for the last four hours we’re out of things like straws, napkins, and cocktail olives but I was prepared. Reece, having been doing this for a while, knew a thing or two about how to prepare for certain crowds. He’d given me a stash of colorful bendy straws for just such an occasion. I make the drink with perfect presentation and pull the straw out of my coat pocket and tell the assistant that I was saving these just for her. I got a fifty dollar tip and learned an important lesson in this line of work. People who are used to getting their butt kissed like to feel like they‘re getting their asshole licked.

Once my drink orders die down a little The Queen makes her way over to the bar and begins flirting with me while I make drinks. At one point Reece walks by to check on things and she says “Hey honey! Are you the boss?” He tells her yes. “You need to be nice to this one.” She says massaging my shoulders and bending down from what must be seven and a half feet in the heavens to give me a kiss on the cheek. “He’s the cutest one.” The things I do for money.

It’s not long before Rock Star shows up. Rock Star is a singer for a popular Indie band who’s been giving me trouble all night. He was my first customer of the day and was obviously three sheets to the wind and an eight ball in when he first saddled up to my open bar and accused me of under pouring him. I’d been reluctantly serving him all night but I made a decision a while ago that he wasn’t getting shit in here for the rest of the night. I informed the other bartenders that he was done and he seemed to disappear for a couple of hour but low and behold he’s back. “Gimme a fuckin double scotch.” I inform him that he’s cut off and that I’d be more than happy to give him a bottle of water. He slams his fist on the bar and says “Gimme a fuckin drink you cunt! Do you know who I am?” as he grabs my coat sleeve. The Queen is still standing nearby and takes his hand from my arm and says “Don’t mess with him honey he’s the cutest one!” and slaps him. Rock Star replies by spitting in her face. A bad move. The Queen proceeds to kick the ever loving shit out of him like she was possessed by a junkyard dog. The other bartenders and I don’t even have the where withal to call security because we’re so dumbfounded by what we’re seeing. Eventually security shows up just in time to stop The Queen from planting the business end of a stiletto heel in Rock Star’s ear and he is thrown out and she goes to the bathroom to fix her makeup and comes back looking as grand as ever. At that very moment I realize why I got into this line of work to begin with.

At the end of the night Reece and I are leaving the museum after doing cleanup and inventory and we share a beer in Golden Gate Park and watch the sunrise. “What did you think?” He asks. I tell him that it was fun but this is only part time till I get along with my writing. “Yea.” He says taking a long pull off his beer and putting an arm around my shoulder. “Sure.”

[Liquid Blue]

got another one for ya

"It pays to tip well and know the bartender"

I use to be a bar tender years ago in Austin and San Marcos when I was going to college. I know how to take care of a good server when I see one and having been in the service I am quite typically a drunk. I'm not on the level of Earnest Hemingway quite yet but I figure I'm a few years from drinking anything that's set in front of me if will get me nice and tight. I'm generally a beer drinker and when I dip into the liquor it's nearly always straight up or on the rocks. Unfortunately I can't really ever rationalize paying 7 bucks (and I'm a drunk so let's up that to 14 for a double) for a Maker's Mark. It's at better idea to get drunk on 2 dollar pints and just relax over the course of 6 beers. Usually my tab is hilariously short (4 bucks when I know I'm 5 beers in?) so generally I'm leaving a 3-500% tip.

I've been frequenting this place near my home for a couple of months and made pretty good friends with the only bar tender in there that seems to know what the fuck he's doing, is generally interested in taking care of his better customers, or isn't a tribal art skirt chasing sports bike riding for the sake of doing wheelies down the street douche bag. The place isn't really my typical type of place, it's a little too nice and they seem to be trying to cater to a snobby crowd that for some reason think it's tits if their bar can also serve them a 20 dollar steak (seriously). Also to bring in the young club crowd (this is Addison for those of you familiar with Dallas) the damn place starts blaring awful pop/dance music around 10pm which is when I generally decide it's a good idea to tab out and get lost. I don't fault them for this as it seems to bring in a good crowd and business but it's just not my scene.

So anyways they are doing a 'grand reopening'. I find this promotion sort of hilarious in its falsity as the place has never closed, the decor is the same, the menu has not changed, and it's the same staff. I'm convinced maybe they fired a dishwasher and a manager and decided to run this false promo to try and stimulate something in this fucked economy. Being that I've been unemployed for a month now and have about the same job perspective as a blind man driving a race car I decide I'm not gonna go to this 'reopening' as I've now gotten down to drinking Natural Light from cans to stretch the remaining funds. Most of you at this point would ask 'why not just stop drinking?' to which I reply 'try taking a needle from a heroin addict'. Leave it to an old co worker of mine to call me up there anyways and bitch and moan until I grab my keys and go out. I arrive to find them thoroughly drunk, a free buffet, and a server so far in the weeds and only a week on the job that I'd have better luck signaling in a plane to land on the deck then to end up getting a drink. I decide to just chow down on some free food and watch the friends run game on anything moving and breathing within 'HAAY GIRLZ' distance; this turns out to be a life saving decision.

Round about midnight with the place full and only standing room left we are parked near the entrance outside on the patio sitting at a table. My friend is sitting in a chair and has his feet up in another chair whilst our drunk friends were either out carousing or going to the bathroom. A twat with long Hanson/wanna be surfer boy blond hair walks up and without a word snatches the chair out from under my friend's feet. My friend tells the douchey 'hey my friends are sitting there' to which the kid replies 'go fuck yourself ****'. Hmm, this is not a choice line to use on someone who is Asian. I think the rudeness was enough to possibly warrant a good dick slap but outright racism pretty much demands it. In a single fluid motion my friend stands up and shoves the kid over. I see someone coming in from his blind side and in a feat of dexterity likely only possible from not being drunk I manage to hurdle our table and sack the guy over a knee high planter. Given that we are two steps from the doors we are immediately swarmed by cops and bouncers. A small riot nearly ensues as I go back to get my keys off the table and a nearby table accuses my friend of having 'hit a girl' and loudly insisting over and over in a voice only drunks and deafs can manage that this is simply something that is not done (tip: if your hair is so long and silky that when you get shoved in a bar you are mistaken for a chick it's time to grow a pair, get a pair of jeans that don't fit as tight as your girlfriends, and get a fucking hair cut) and not believing me when I said it was a guy or at least what passes for one around here.

I can see the cops have my friend and only my friend outside and the dickfaces are back inside somehow. Looks to me like the cops are shaking my friend down for an arrest and I figure if he's going down these clowns are going to come sit it out with us. Knowing I can probably set things off with a choice word I pull a remaining chair out and ask the kid 'Well here you go douche bag, you can have a seat now'. Right at this time the bar tender I know walks up as this kid is running his mouth at me (but conveniently standing BEHIND his girl friend and group of 5+ friends including the guy who went over the planter) and asked what happened. I tell him the story and the bar tender grabs the bouncer and says 'these are my boys, kick these fucks out' so out we all go into the waiting pile of cops. The cops are trying to administer intoxication tests but I jump in front of my friend and the douche bags and offer to saddle up to a breathalyzer. After blowing a 0, getting my story, and having the bar tender come out and repeat the same my friend is released to me with the promise I'll drive him home. I ask the blond kid under my breath if I give him 15 bucks can we go in back and i can pull his long hair while he gives me a blow job. The dip shit actually tries to come through 4 cops at me and is promptly arrested.

I hate fighting, never get in fights, and HATE making a public scene in a bar having worked in one for years. But above all else you have to back your friends and I absolutely can not stand rudeness. Ask for a chair and you probably get it, snatch a chair and be a racist and you'll very likely also get it. I'm going to take my last 20 bucks now and go out and see if my friend is working. I need a beer and I need to drop a tip on the guy for helping save our asses.

[Liquid Blue]

The Shit Storm

This story takes place a couple months ago when Tim, the new manager who was brought in by corporate to baby-sit our division, asked Reece and me if we could do him a favor. Tim was formerly the manager of one of our other contracts at AT&T Park where the San Francisco Giants play and they had a huge all day country music festival coming up and were short on bartenders. Tim begged us to go over and help out and at the time we agreed due to us wanting to make an ally out of him and the promise of “Piles of cash”. Had we known what we were in for we would have told him to shove that favor straight up his ass.

The day of the concert comes and as soon as we get off the subway by the ballpark we know we’re not in Kansas anymore. There were Wrangler jeans and Stetsons as far as the eye could see and the parking lot was jam-packed full of pickups the size of jumbo jets. All the bars surrounding the stadium were packed with thousands of these mutants from the sticks and they were already three sheets to the wind before 2pm. They had murder in their eyes and looked like they half expected a gang of homosexuals to jump from the shadows and sodomize them. “Does this make you homesick?” Reece asks. “Eat a dick Nancy.” I reply as we approach the employee entrance.

When Reece and I get to the gate we have no idea what to expect. All Tim had given us was a map written on a napkin and the name Gail, the woman we were to report to. At the employee entrance we wait for ages as security figures out who we are and who can bring us inside. Eventually Gail shows up and quick introductions are made and we’re rushed into the inner catacombs of the stadium. We’re given a place to change and once we’re geared up are given the curtest orientation possible. She basically tells us that we’re going to be working a station by ourselves and that we’ll only have five different kinds of liquor; Jack, Smirnoff, Jose, Capt. Morgan’s, and Triple Sec and that all drinks will be ten bucks each. That is literally all she tells us before ushering us back into the tunnels and eventually out onto the floor where thousands of rednecks are already mobbing the various concession stands. She hands us each a jigger and a walkie talkie and tells us that our station is about a hundred yards through the crowd on the left, that we open in half an hour, and that we should call her if we need anything and runs off to other business. Reece and I look at each other, toss the jiggers over our shoulders, and head out into the unknown.

After a bit of walking we find what we think is our station. All it is is two portable bars boxed in by big metal cages containing cases of liquor and a couple of registers. Behind the bar is a guy unloading our supplies for the night. We ask him all kinds of questions like how the registers work, what to do if we need to use the bathroom, and when we close, but all he says is “Nigga I just drop this shit right here and that’s all I know.” We would soon find out that this level of organization and professionalism was the status quo.

We take inventory of our stocks and while we’re flush with booze we only have one twenty pound bag of ice each and two cases of each mixer. Now Reece and I have to crunch the numbers on product consumption on a daily basis and know that with a full line, which has already developed despite us not being open, we will run out of everything but warm liquor in less than an hour. If that weren’t bad enough we had no idea how the registers worked as in nearly twenty years of bartending experience between us we’d never seen their make before nor did we even know if they had money in them. Another pressing concern was what we would do with all the tons of trash we would inevitably accumulate. There were no trashcans in the station so for the time being we set up all the empty liquor boxes between us and hoped real cans were en route. We voiced all of these concerns over the radio and were assured help was on the way and we waited as the clock ticked to opening time and a mob of rednecks began pounding on the bar screaming “When you queers gonna open?”.

Less than five minutes before we’re supposed to open a huge black woman pushes through the crowd and makes her way behind our station and says “You boys the bartenders?”. Reece and I look at each other and I know we’re both trying to come up with some smart assed thing to say but decide against it and just teller her yes. “Well I got some money for yall.” She shows us how to open the registers but admits that she doesn’t know how to ring anything up. Money in hand we give the registers a once over and find a button labeled “$10” and another reading “AT” which we assume is amount tendered. I test it by pressing the ten dollar button twice and then the AT button and low and behold the register rings a twenty dollar transaction and says zero change. We can now take money and will just have to do the math, albeit simple, in our heads and just say fuck it to credit cards. I give Reece the thumbs up to tell him that I got it and we blow each other a kiss and get to business.

We open on time but the rednecks are pissed and order drinks ten at a time and we serve them despite being instructed to only sere two drinks per ID. On top of being drunk and rowdy each and every one of these cocksuckers is pulling the “Can you give me a little extra.” bullshit and we soon realize why we were given the jiggers that we discarded earlier. These hillbillies are from that vast inland California wasteland where a bottle of Bud costs a buck and it’s commonplace to lose your virginity in a Walmart parking lot so the idea of a couple of citified faeries charging them a tenner for a single must seem like highway robbery to them. This is where the simple flair trick of the long pour can save your skin. Not only does the long pour look impressive but it gives off the illusion of more liquor if done correctly. This seems to placate the bitching about the price and once we find our rhythm we enter full on fuck you in the weeds time.

Now that Reece and I are a couple of managerial stooges we rarely get the opportunity to bartend together and the prospect of doing so again was half the reason we agreed to do this in the first place. When we work together we speak in a language all our own that consists mainly of grunting and broken sentences like “Where’s the thing?” “Over by the stuff.”. We eventually break into bottle flair less out of flashiness and more out of habit and start tossing bottles back and forth like the crazed juggling bar monkeys we are. We’re continually running out of supplies especially ice and it seems that just as we completely run out of something our screams are heard over the walkie and resupply trickles in but it’s never enough. Some random guy will drop a flat of Coke or a bag or two of ice but we’re forced to conscript any stadium employee we can find and get them to beg borrow and steal what we need from other booths. What also remains a problem is the trash situation. What started between us as a few cardboard boxes for trash quickly overflowed and grew to be a waist high pile of bottles that grew as customers started tossing their empties behind the bar as well. Now I don’t know what it’s like where you live but where I’m from if you tossed an empty behind the bar the bartender would shove an umbrella up your ass and open it. Not to mention that I’m busting my hump working at speeds worthy of legend and they have the audacity to complain about the wait. Theses inbred fucks are just plain rude and being as I don’t really work here I just abuse em right back. Don’t have your order ready when you get to the bar, fuck you, next. Complain about the pour, fuck you, next. Looking at me funny, fuck you, next. Some guy cuts in line in front of two chicks that have been coming up to my station all night and being polite so I tell him not only am I skipping him but he’s cut off. He threatens to go to my boss and I tell him to be my guest because it’s my last day and that he can fuck his mother while he’s at it. I’m getting years of pent up aggression from working fine dining out abusing these people and they keep coming back for more and they’re tipping like I’m throwing in free handjobs. We started off putting the tips in cups behind us but there was soon too much so we just started cramming handfuls of wet filthy cash into our bags. We’re breaking all the rules. We stopped carding, we‘re over serving, over pouring, all the shit we train our guys to never do we’re doing it. Then the bar gods get angry.

For hours people have been coming up and telling Reece and me all the crazy shit that’s going on in the bathrooms. Apparently all the women’s bathrooms got clogged up and became a knee deep shitswamp and the women were now squatting in front of God and everyone in the urinals. AT&T Park was formerly Candlestick Park and the plumbing goes back to the twenties and was never meant for this many people. Well just as we think we’re in the clear and things begin to slow down ever so slightly, Reece feels a little trickle on his head. He looks up and overhead a pipe is starting to leak. I ask him “Do you think that that’s the water from…” “Shut up.” The leak gets worse and soon enough he’s drenched head to toe and as the sun goes down and the fog rolls in he’s freezing his ass off. The leak grows and before long it’s getting us both wet but we press on until finally Gail shows up and sees us covered in booze and sewer water standing on either side of a mountain of broken glass and trash.

“Oh my God.” She says. “You guys can’t work like this.” “Funny you should mention that.” I say. “We were thinking the same thing.” At this point in the night the final act had started and Reece and I were getting only a couple of customers at a time so we tell Gail thanks for the memories but we’re getting the fuck out of here. She zeroes our tills and says “Ho-lee shit!” Each of us had done over ten thousand dollars in just six hours. We later found out that the next highest station had done only $3,500. Gail thanks us profusely and gives us each one of her cards and says we can come back any time. We say not to call us that we’ll call her. After we get changed and take a Mexican shower in the employee john we decide to just toss the work clothes we were wearing because not only are they soaked and smell like shit but we can’t fit them in our bags along with all of our tip money. We make our way outside and I roll Reece a cigarette. He doesn’t smoke but every once and a while at times like these I know he needs one and he accepts it without protest. We share our smoke in silence while looking out over the bay and eventually I ask him what time it is. He looks into his big bag of filthy money and says “It’s time to get really fucking drunk.”

[PaulOakenfold]

Who wrote that? Sounds like a Danny Maniac.