A Sigh Of Relief (Repost)

In an effort to retain readership I'm posting every god damn weekday, holiday or not. This week it's a wobbly effort because I'm simply reposting one of my favorite posts from last year. A classic if you will, and while it's no Dickens, I defy you not to laugh.... Okay if you don't laugh then just find another blog to follow. Hooray for no babies!!!!!!!


Originally posted on Oct 9th 2008:

I remained on top of her for a few seconds with my head resting on her shoulder. The combination of her hot apartment, the early morning sun streaming through the window and a bed without sheets was making my forehead and my body damp with sweat, which at the moment didn't matter because her entire body was clammy too.

I slowly pushed myself up and looked down as I pulled out. The condom had blood on it and I noticed that my thighs also had some little traces of red.


Me: "Well I have some great news for you."
Her: "What's that?"
Me: "It turns out you're not pregnant after all!"
Her: (she looks down and smiles) "That, or you just killed our baby you murderer!"


I held myself up on one arm and we gave each other a high five, and with that we both collapsed in laughter.


Me: (giggling) "It's still super early. We can catch McDonalds breakfast!"
Her: "This day just keeps getting better."


Sometimes it's the little things that tend to make you smile the most.

Chopping Cats For The Soul

"Heeeeeeyyyyyy, it's my wittle Sydby widby....You so cute....aren't you?! aren't you!?"


Last night I caught myself baby-talking... to a small furry dog. The comment above is not the only thing I said. The dog and I had an entire conversation as we rolled around on the living room floor. Yeah, I was a little drunk, but that's no excuse. I've become that person who says things to animals and then uses ventriloquism to make it talk back. You know that person. It became clear to me last night that I am becoming a little bitch... a little bitch that gets laid... but a little bitch nevertheless.

The first person to come to the bar tonight and slap the living shit out of me is entitled to a free shot. Seriously.

After you take the shot, we'll go out in the alley. There we will crush up 5 Adderalls and snort them all. After the Adderall releases every bit of serotonin in our brains and we're whipped into an out of control frenzy, we will find a stray band of cats, befriending them with the warm jug of milk that I'll steal from the bar. You will distract the cats, earning their trust through baby-like coo's and gentle pats on the head. In the meantime I will be constructing some sort of conveyor belt/ chopping mechanism. Once my cat-chopping machine is functional, we will chop some cats.

Nothing short of the above actions will restore my manhood to it's normal, prisoner of war mentality-like state.

I get to work at 6 PM. If you know of any free, recently birthed, litters of kittens. Bring them with you.


*Cat chopping idea taken from the greatest show on television, "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia."


UPDATE: A bar patron slapped the hell out of me tonight, and yes, he received a free shot of Van Gogh Double Espresso Vodka. Although much to my chagrin, no cats ended up being harmed...

A Tipping Stereotype Broken?!

It's been unreasonably long since I've railed against or championed the tipping habits of my customers here in Richmond Virginia. I guess I really haven't been receiving many outlandish tips lately. I could always write about the cheap mofos who stiff me, but I've long since tired of complaining about these people. They will continue to drink and I will continue to harbor the secret urge to slip a shard of glass in their Midori sours. Nevertheless, I came across a tipping situation last night that I thought you guys might find interesting.

An African-American couple in their late 20's comes into the bar. It's semi busy and they sit down at the far end of the bar. I spot them and get to them quickly. We exchange pleasantries and they seem like two intelligent, cordial young people. The male orders a Grey Goose and Pineapple, the female- a top shelf Long Island iced tea, "heavy on the booze"- she says with a smile. I make the LIT using Tanqueray Gin, Bacardi Rum, Absolut Vodka, and Jose Cuervo Tequila- which means, this will not be a cheap LIT. I also make sure to damn near fill the glass with straight booze, using a minimum of triple sec, sour mix and coke. I notice the Grey Goose bottle is almost empty so I pour it out into a shot glass, it's half a shot, and hand it to the male. "This is on me." I collect a credit card from the girl to hold their tab and then proceed to check on other customers.

A few minutes later I return and they seem happy. I ask them if they need anything, they don't, so I move on. A few minutes after that I notice both of their drinks are empty and I make my way over. The girl has a pained expression on her face.



Female Patron: "That was the weakest Long Island I ever had!" She does not say this jokingly. "I want some more booze in my drink!"

Me: "I apologize, but I'll have to charge you for the extra liquor."

Female Patron: "What?! Fuck this. We're out of here. Give me the check!"

Me: "Right away ma'am."



I run her card for the tab. It's 22 dollars. I hand it to her without saying anything, fully expecting to get a big fat zero on the tip line. Do I expect to get stiffed because the couple are African American? Or do I expect diddly because she was disappointed in her drink? Well, I won't lie, but I see it every night. I unfairly believed I was going to get shafted because it happens more often than not with the African American race. I have had many glowing exceptions to that rule. I've even had long conversations with African American patrons who sometimes feel that they have to over tip, to compensate for their breathren's lack of gratuity. Now let's continue...

The girl storms out of the bar, while the guy follows behind. He sort of looks back and shrugs. I do the same. I think he was embarrassed. I wait until they leave and then pick up the check. She left me 8 dollars on a 22 dollar check, a very high tip for two expensive drinks.

Let's face facts, I'm an asshole. I wasn't in the wrong for my actions, but I was in the wrong for presupposing that this couple wasn't going to tip me because they got upset...and because they were black. It shows you that while many stereotypes ring true, it's foolish to pigeon hole anyone you've never met. Black, white, blue, orange, etc. Yet we all do it, all the time.

I'm making a pact with myself. I won't judge a single customer based on appearance for the rest of the week... Well, that is until Friday, when the chin-strappers and Affliction tee meat heads start rolling in. But they don't count right? I mean, I KNOW they won't be tipping shit on their Long Island iced teas...That's fact, not stereotype.


Haha... God damn chinstrappers....

A Bartender Goes To The Country

*Anymore "Roadhouse" references and you may as well re-name this blog "Gay Over Swayze". Which isn't entirely untrue.

• "You want some blow? This stuff is like rocket fuel, boy. It'll make you shit rainbows." -Some redneck offering me drugs in Deltaville Virginia, this weekend.

• I declined. Taking free drugs from a guy who just told me about his last 6 motorcycle accidents and then showed me the protruding plates in his head just didn't seem prudent at the time. Plus I didn't feel like shitting any rainbows.

• If you ever want to enter a bar that is basically an exact replica of "The Double Deuce" from the film Roadhouse- Go to "The Sunset Grill" in Deltaville VA (a small town in the country, on the Rappahannock and Piankatank Rivers). Their bouncer could probably even kick Dalton's ass. Okay, their bouncer could kick the 2009 cancer-ridden Dalton's ass. (Sorry Swayze, you know I love ya.)

• I felt like the villain Brad Wesley (Ben Gazzara) from Roadhouse. If only because I had a blond with fake boobs at my side, who I probably could've gotten to strip after another orange crush or two. Now if I only had my own human weapon to kick everyone's ass with a pool cue and/or a badass white fedora....

• After drunkenly texting a buddy back home about the correlation between Roadhouse and The Sunset Grill, he texted this back: "Dude, please keep your mouth shut. You're not in Richmond and those motherfuckers will definitely take a swing if you get all uppity with them."

• Once you're out of the city you can expect all bars to not have any of your favorite liquor. What's Rumblemint (Rumplemintz)? What's Too-ca (Tuaca)? What in the hell is Three Olives Grape cityboy???

• Just order Jager and shut your mouth. Be sure to buy a round of Jager for whomever is near. I thought this was wasteful at first, but considering the fact that Jager was 2.50 a shot and I ended getting about 6 shots in return from total strangers, it was worth it.

• Always cover your tattoos in a country bar, lest you want 10 different conversations with drunken rednecks who insist on showing you all of the portrait tats of their kids, or the classic- "R.I.P.- CKW 1981-2008" tat.

• "Yeah man, this is for my brother. He died while drunkenly operating a wheat thresher on my daddy's farm."

• It doesn't help when you have literary themed tats like I do. You try explaining why you have the original cover to The Great Gatsby on your arm. Hell, try and find a single person in the bar who doesn't think that the Great Gatsby is some magician who used to "escape locks and water tortures and shit".

• I can say with confidence that the anti-smoking bill that goes into effect on December 1st with all bars in Virginia, will not be followed in Deltaville. The 50 people in the bar were singlehandedly keeping Phillip Morris afloat. Actually I'm fairly sure that most of the bar patrons were tobacco farmers anyways.

• Health concerns raised by cigarette usage are still a very urban thing.

• Please don't take this post as anti-redneck. I was, at various points in the night, in the middle of the dance floor, smoking Marlboro Menthols, drinking Bud Light and Jager, all the while doing a goofy ass white boy dance to whatever country jam the band was playing. It was a nice change to the Ed Hardy/Affliction, too cool to dance, meathead poseurs I have to endure on a weekly basis in Richmond.

Blogging And Bachelorhood

"For better or for worse, I think that the romantic status of a 20-30-something blogger has a profound effect on their work. For some, the angst of being single fuels their muse. For others, there are simply fewer stories about doing lines off a stripper’s ass and waking up next to a dead hooker in Tijuana once that special someone enters their life." -"Single Bloggers Are Better Bloggers"- BadAtLife



I woke up today in the same bed as someone else. For my regular readers, the fact that I woke up next to a woman will probably not come across as some huge revelation, or at least to the regular readers who actually believe what I blog about, it shouldn't. But trust my word or don't, it happened and I didn't have to use any date-rape drugs for once. No, the revelatory fact in the above statement is that the woman I woke up next to is the same one I've woken up next to for about a month now. Yeah... I know... Jack Goes Forth has gone soft (figuratively).

Uh-oh.

I don't mention this because I'm particularly concerned about sacrificing my past promiscuity or losing certain areas of my independence--like taking a loud dump with the bathroom door open anytime I want, or using all four pillows and the comforter to create a Jack-burrito at night while I sleep (This girl likes to get in my damn burrito!) I'm more concerned about this blog and my other writing becoming a bunch of boring, less bitchy, relationship-infused.... shit.

Okay, okay. It's not like this is uncharted territory for me. I've dated a few girls during my 18 month run as a blogger. A few knew about this blog and one sort of dumped me because of it (although I gave her a few other reasons to shitcan me as well). My situation is a bit different this time though. This new girl knows full-well about my blog. My boss knows about my blog. Almost everyone I know, knows about my blog. Starting in a few weeks, the readers of a 50,000 circulation, weekly newspaper, will know about my blog on a regular basis. The stakes are higher now than when 70 people clicked on my page everyday and I wrote with reckless abandon about throwing soiled condoms at some VCU girl's cat.

What's a blogger to do?!? Do I maintain my street cred and continue to write about having bloody period sex, beating up hobos at my bar and other interesting, albeit, private matters? Do I scale back operations and not whisper a peep about things that I feel may hurt my non-blog life?

In an effort to help you understand my predicament, here's a helpful guide to young men, bachelorhood, relationships, and blogging:


Young, angry, single, male blogger-
Has edge.
Writes about whomever and whatever he wants.
Uses his blog to get invited to parties and to shamelessly promote himself (and to get laid).
Drinks like Mickey Mantle in a Whiskey distillery.
Eats a nutri-grain bar from 7-11 on his way to score some Adderall.
Blogs 7 times a week, with hundreds of spelling errors.
Writes from a bar while swigging coffee, chain-smoking and occasionally taking a shot with the cute bartender.
Doesn't like to use condoms.


Young, a bit more cheerful, "dating someone", male blogger-
Edge couldn't cut through warm butter.
Writes in fear that his girl may see, so he tones it down and writes about some mundane crap that happened to him at work.
Uses his blog to send thinly veiled love notes to his girl ("she likes to sleep in my damn burrito bluh bluh bluh." )- See above for an example of this.
Drinks less.
Eats sit down meals that include at least one vegetable.
Only has time to blog twice a week because "it's movie night".
Uses spell-check.
Writes from his girl's bed with a Sprite at his side, while occasionally stopping to pet his girl's little yappy dog, which is nestled in one of his thighs.
Doesn't like to use condoms.



Clearly you can see my concerns. Do I really think that my situation is that dire? Nah, but this new ballgame will test my mettle and my willingness to push the envelope on the blog. Now if you would excuse me, the pasta is almost ready and we're about to snuggle up and watch a few episodes of Law and Order....


....upon hearing that last statement, Jack Goes Forth from 2008 scowls as he disdainfully punches a puppy while simultaneously holding down his own vomit.

Style Weekly Bar Guide Articles

"Watch as bartender Jack Lauterback (right) bravely fends off the relentless phalanx of cute girls who assail him at Cha Cha's Cantina. He slings so many drinks even the camera got drunk." - Style Weekly June 24th

Style Weekly included two of my pieces in their annual bar guide. Click on the links below to check em out:

Down,Simba! -A bartender reveals life on the other side of the screaming hordes.

Barhopper Don'ts (and a do)

Bartender's Weekend: Some of my favorite bars to hit in Richmond.

Of Vice And Men

--It's a truth we hold self-evident that there's nothing wrong with a little something to take the edge off. "Pot had helped, and booze," he writes in his memoir, "maybe a little blow when you could afford it. Not smack, though." In that last part, it's as if he's anticipating our next question—he knew that was where to draw the line, and that's where the rest of us should too. On the campaign trail, Obama could be seen chewing Nicorette ("strenuously," as he put it) in place of the Marlboros (and not Lights or Mediums—Reds) he'd smoked for so long. Before he quit, the future leader of the free world accepted banishment to the porch, because he wanted nicotine as much as he wanted to respect his wife's wishes. The Marlboro Man would never have stood for that, but the new archetype of American masculinity is much more willing to compromise, especially when trying to balance hedonism and harmony at home.- "Are You Becoming Barack Obama?" - Details, July 09'

UPDATE: I just saw that Obama signed an anti-smoking bill today. God damn turncoat!

Show me a man who doesn't gamble, smoke, drink, or abuse the occasional drug--and I doubt you would give me much to look at. Certain aspects of a man's character are built in the experience of the vice, not in the absence of it. Now, would I ever disrespect someone who declined a drink or a smoke with me? Of course not. Would I disrespect them if they acted haughty and as if they were above any of these iniquities? Yes.

I'm assuming a straight-edge existence is not an easy one. Denying wickedness from one's life must suck, so I won't dishonor such herculean self-control. On the other hand I'd rather not catch flack for openly talking about drug use on this blog or in person. For these people who keep deciding to lecture me via email or in person, do me a favor-- Work on your own life first.

If Obama took an occasional nose-pop, and up until recently was an unrepentant smoker...Well...I don't feel that bad about my (much worse) transgressions. Neither should my readers out there who share some of the same inclinations as I do.

So, anyways, it's Monday. Anyone looking to get shitty later? :) A little birdie told me about the 6.99$ all you can eat buffet at Richard's Rendezvous (a low-tier strip club) tonight....

- I joke, I joke. That would just be too sad, even for me. I'd be better off picking up some crackhead streetwalker from Jeff Davis Hwy. and taking her to Sheetz.