When I was asked to be a guest on this here blog by the Good Joo, I was immediately “in”, because I would finally have an audience for my flavor of humor (other then my wife and son, who have no choice but to be subjected to my daily shit show).
A little bit about me:
I’m tall, skinny, and devastatingly handsome.
I have been married for five years and last year my wife reproduced a mini-me.
I am awesome.
I work for the same large corporation that Good Joo’s husband works for.
I met GJ’s husband in the locker room after running. He too is a runner and we had an awkward first conversation.
Him: “Hey, you run?”
Me: “Um, yeah.” (Clearly changing out of running gear)
Both naked about to hit the showers – 5 seconds of silence pass
Him: “Can I come with you?”
Me: “To the shower?!”
Him: “No, on a run.”
He came anyway and that’s how I became friends with him and GJ.
So, last night my wife and I met her coworkers at a downtown hipster/artsy-farsty type bar for her office Christmas party. Food, drinks, shots, and conversation with dudes I know, but not very well commenced. All of the guys present are retarded for football (I’m not into football. I’m not into any sports, as the only purpose they serve is to give me a reason to drink). The conversation started from general NFL blather and quickly turned to the Colts. I don’t really know anything about the Colts, other then they are a football team. Intermittently, I would interject something I heard someone else say about the Colts or football, but was pretty well out of my element regarding the conversation. I can name two Colts players: Payton Manning and Who Givesashit. So, you can imagine how thrilled I was that we weren’t talking about things that interested me: music, my son, or how awesome I am. So after hearing about how the Colts' defense has stepped it up and what not, and listening to the girls on the other side of the table chatter on about unicorns, or princess, or whatever it is girls talk about, I was thrilled to hear we made the decision to leave and go to another bar. You know, because we weren’t already at a bar, and we should all get in our cars and go to another one to sit around a table and drink.
We ended up at an Irish Pub that recently opened up in Fort Stainonmypants, where things went south quickly. Two of the girls ordered an Irish Car Bomb (ICB). This is a shotgun type shot. Google it if you want to know how it works. Clearly out to get us, the waiter immediately brought the group down by saying that they didn’t serve ICB’s because they're offensive and it would be like, “asking for a 9/11 shot”. Um…wow. He did, however, manage to alert us not once, not twice, but three times that they had an identical drink that was named after the bar. He further exhibited his fantastic salesmen skills by commenting that the drink was pretty expensive. Now, we are all dressed up and did not look like a bunch of poor’s. The shots were $7. Not really cheap, but not really worthy of mentioning the price. And…what kind of moronic server tries to steer his clientele AWAY from the pricier items?! The higher the bill, the more the tip, dumbass. At any rate, the girls got what they wanted.
Girl A slammed hers down like a champ. Girl B took her time and drank it slowly. We made fun of Girl B, but that’s what happens when you order a shot and then sip it.
*I’d like to stop and say here that I was not doing shots and was very responsible. I believe I speak for both Joo’s when I say we here at youllearntokeephouse.blogspot.com do not condone drinking and driving. Also, stay in school and don’t do drugs.
Girl A was riding high after her cheering section died down and took it upon herself to order another IRISH CAR BOMB (I hope our server is somehow reading this – if he his he would do himself a favor and throw away the hemp necklace; it ain’t 1996 dude). The IRISH CAR BOMB round came and girl A and girl B both slammed ‘em down. We cheered them both and congratulated girl B for “bringing it” this time.
The time in between the last IRISH CAR BOMBS and the moment we were asked to leave are fuzzy. Not fuzzy because I was hammered or anything, but just kind of a generic conversation fuzzy. I had stopped the conversation to point out that girl A had been in the bathroom for a while and suggested that someone check on her. My wife did and came back and said she thought girl A may have thrown up. Girl A then came back to the table and just kind of stood there while we all continued to converse. About three minutes later the manager came by our table and politely (very politely actually, she could have been a real B but was cool about it) told us that our young lady friend had gotten all kinds of sick in the bathroom and that we should perhaps wrap things up and get her home. We obliged. It was at this point in the evening when girl A was standing next to our table waiting for us to head for the door when she decided to turn her head and throw up…right there in the middle of the bar…with the lights coming on…and everyone staring.
My wife and I just walked away. What else do you do? I don’t know this girl and don’t really need to be associated with her. I’ve got a reputation, you know.
Moral of this story: Don’t talk down to your patrons if you’re a waiter at an Irish Pub. And don’t wear hemp necklaces, they look stupid unless you're at a Phish concert. And Phish broke up, so there you go.
On a side note, please send me a friend request on Facebook.
My wife and I have a fierce competition going, and if I can get more friends, she has to dress up like a certain character for my birthday. If you want to find out what character, you have to befriend me on FB. I have accepted all friend requests except one, and that was for political reasons.