Listening to the cars outside my window by New York City

I am going to attempt a little bit of postmodern humor right now. It is 3:30 am on Saturday. I just lost an hour of sleep because of some fucked up rule that Ben Franklin made up about 2 hundred years ago, and I am delaying sleep after perhaps one of the most difficult work weeks of my life. Maybe not difficult, just long. The humor comes in to play when you combine the fact that I am running on very little gas to the fact that i could be sleeping but instead I am blogging away.
Put-put-put.
That's my little blog engine.
By the way, who's the person that keeps posting comments and then deleting them. It's a little creepy. If you want to say something say it. Otherwise just don't write anything. Unless it's you Polly. You can write whatever you want whenever you want.
My feet hurt. I think I made an empty promise to my brothers to run that damn 5K again this year. I don't know what i was thinking. I better start hitting that treadmill.
The triscuits I couldn't stand from the other day are rosemary ones. They are sitting on my shelf. They watch me when I walk past them to go the bathroom. Sometimes they speak. They say "Why don't you like us? Why won't you eat us? Why are you imbuing us with a collective consciousness?"
I can't answer these questions. I have had approximately 7 days just blur into one long messy beer and wine spill. The people don't bother me as much as they used to. I guess that I have just come to understand that I work at a place filled with assholes. I don't want to work there anymore. Well, that's not entirely true....wait....yes it is. It's not that I don't want to work there anymore, I just don't want to tend bar anymore. It's not exciting. It's not thrilling. It's sticky. And loud. And people are annoying. Oh - I know what I can do! I can list my top five least favorite bar customers. Maybe this will serve as some guidance to all of you who frequent bars.

1. This is the person who drives me the most crazy. I know that most bartenders might disagree, but I hate this the most. I hate really pretty women who come up to a packed bar and expect a drink (most of the time for free) simply because they are really pretty women. In fact, when I see a woman shoulder past her boyfriend to stand in front of him to get a drink, I usually approach the man and ask him if he wants anything. I see you, I'm busy, put your tits away. People who think they deserve something on genetic aesthetic merit alone are assholes.

2. A close, very close second, is the asshole dude with money who calls out for you. Hey prick - I see you. Don't wave a twenty in my face. Don't call me Jefe, or Captain, or Admiral, or Bud, or Pal, or Guy, or Bartender, or Man, or Dude, or Chief (NEVER EVER CHIEF). I will get to you. When I do just say, "Hi, I would like to order a ......." Now that we have established how to address me we shall move on to the next most annoying patron...

3. Nickel and dime dude. This is the guy (or woman - i have to keep it equal and fair because 51 % of the population are women and I just read about that in Susie's blog) that orders a drink, you go and get it, bring it back, and he has another drink he wants to order. You go and make that, bring it back, and he orders another drink from you. You go and make that, and, wising up, ask if he wants anything else, at which point he turns to everyone else in his party and asks if they need a drink. Clearly not recognizing the other patrons at the bar or the fact that you are beyond the definition of busy. He just simply believes that you are there to serve him and only him. FUCKING KNOW ALL THE DRINKS YOU WANT TO ORDER. I'M A BARTENDER NOT A FUCKING ROCKET SCIENTIST. I CAN REMEMBER 5 FUCKING DRINKS. IF I CAN'T THEN I WILL GO DIG DITCHES.

4. Okay - now that we have taken the order for the drinks comes another terrible patron. The "I-Never-Take-Out-My-Wallet-Until-You-Tell-Me-The-Total-Dude." You just ordered drinks, you know I am making them. TAKE YOUR FUCKING MONEY OUT AND BE READY TO PAY, ASSHOLE. It just makes my job easier.

5. Finally, never ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, order your drinks, turn around to talk to somebody or hit on someone or walk away. Unless you plan on walking out on your drinks, which is fine (unless it's a bottle of Krystal), DON'T FUCKING MOVE. STAY RIGHT FUCKING THERE. Because now I have to get out from behind my bar or hoot or whistle or yell while people are screaming at me all because you want to stare at the décolletage of some shifty broad behind you.

Oh - here is another pointer. Never whistle. If you want a bartender to never serve you, just whistle. I am not a fucking dog. I am a human being, just as you purport to be. Don't whistle. Just don't do it. Act like you're in a library. Stand silently with your money out. If it is busy then I will get to you. Be patient. They hired me to work in this busy bar for a reason. Hopefully it was not because of my skills at fellatio or cunnilingus. Patience is a virtue.

some other facts - Women are notoriously worse tippers than men. All of my friends are happy exceptions to this rule. But generally -about 75% of the time, women leave approximately 10% or less.

If you want to pick a bartender up, especially a male one, be discreet. Show up a couple times to the bar. Do not get wasted the first night you meet him and hang around the bar until closing. Not attractive. Bartenders sometimes come into the bars where they work to hang out. Ask them what other bars they like to go to. Again, be discreet. If you ask him if he has a girlfriend he knows you like him. If you have your girlfriend ask him if he has a girlfriend he knows you like him. If you ask him if you can buy him a shot he thinks your cool and assumes you like him. If you do get wasted and hang around the bar all night until he takes you home then you probably should not have gone home with him. Remember - it is his JOB to be nice to you. And if he is good at his job then he will be very good at being nice to you.
If you want to pick a female bartender up good luck. That shit never happens.

Don't eat out of the garnish tray. It's not sexy. Do you know where those garnishes have been? Neither do I. Do you see me eating them? No. And I work there. Don't even get me started on bar snacks. Unless you see that shit coming out of a bag into the container in front of you then it is undoubtedly covered with the urine from the dude's hands before you.

Wow. That was informative. This has been a little lesson in bar decorum here at Mr. R's Neighborhood. Won't you be my neighbor?