Are You Pussy-Whipped? A Test

Since posting my "Relationship Readiness Test" in April, which at that time, I failed like a fat kid fails gym class, I've somehow managed to go and get myself into a brand-spanking new relationship. Now, instead of picking which bar to score drugs at, I find myself picking which brand of mango sorbet to pick up for movie night. I'm not really complaining because I still pick bars to find drugs at, just not as often. Oh and the constant sex is better than the inconsistent sex I got when I was single. We can all agree on that perk of relationshiphood.

Even with the sudden influx of intercourse, I can see the single, breezy, carefree Jack that we all used to know and love...changing. I feel like there needs to be a barometer for relationship newbies like myself. Something to let them know when they've officially slipped, and maybe, just maybe, this barometer can help keep people away from the dank abyss that is Sunday trips to Home Depot and Thursday nights spent watching Sandra Bullock/Ryan Reynolds romantic comedies (which was actually a lovely little film).

See, I'm already slipping...

At what point does a relationship change people into gelatinous, weak shells of them former selves? At what point can you officially point at your friend and say, "You're a pussy-whipped little bitch....Now get me a beer Nancy." ?

I've devised an easy test to help you determine which state of whipitude you currently reside in:


The Jack Goes Forth "Are You Pussy-Whipped?" Test:


1.) It's Thursday night at 7:00 PM and your best buddy calls and asks you to meet him for a few pops. You promised your woman you would be home by 8 because she's making dinner. You:

a.) Are confused. Best buddy?? What is this? College? Isn't my best buddy supposed to be my girlfriend?
b.) Tell your buddy, "Thanks but no thanks. The missus gets a lil testy when I'm late. Maybe next week?"
c.) Call your woman and tell her you're going to be 15 minutes late. Meet your friend, have two beers.
d.) Your relationship ends sometime around the 8th beer. It officially ends three days later when you finally get back from Atlantic City.



2.) Your girlfriend mentions that she is meeting her ex-boyfriend for an innocent lunch, just to catch up. You?

a.) Go into the bathroom and sob silently, eventually coming out and through tears, make her "promise to never cheat on me! I love you so much! Pleeeeaaassse promise!"
b.) Say that's fine and then say nothing else.
c.) Say okay but then casually mention that you ran into one of your exes and figured this gives you an excuse to meet her for a quick drink, ya know, "just to catch up".
d.) Show her the Polaroids from you fingering that girl at your brother's bachelor party last weekend.



3.) You and your girl haven't had sex in two weeks. She keeps giving excuses and tonight it's another "headache". You?

a.) Say, "It's okay. Sex isn't that important to me...You are."
b.) Say nothing and silently resent her.
c.) Say, "I'll get the fucking Advil, you spread em."
d.) Say nothing. After only two days of no-sex you dropped her like a bad habit.



4.) Her cousin is getting married in Bumfuck, Utah and she's insisting you take off work and spend a ton of money to attend a wedding for people you've never met. You:

a.) Cancel all meetings and withdraw two thousand dollars from savings for the trip. After all, money is supposed to be spent on your loved one, right?
b.) Say, "I'll go, but either you or your jerkbag Dad is paying."
c.) Say, "Not gonna happen sweetcheeks, now spread em for even suggesting such a foolish venture."
d.) Mail homemade packages containing explosives to her cousin, her dad, her mom, her brother, her pets and all of her friends. A complete genocide of everyone closest to her is the only way to ensure your absence from any future weddings, bar mitzvahs, family reunions, etc...



5.) It's Superbowl Sunday. Your team is in it and they're about to kick off. You are ensconced on the couch with six different Dorito flavors, and what can only be described as a veritable cornucopia of meats and cheeses. She tells you that she really needs your help moving some stuff around the house before her Mom gets there the next day, and that right now is the only time you have to do it. You:

a.) Turn the TV off and get up to help. Relationships are all about sacrifice.
b.) Keep the TV on and dash back to check on the game every 5 minutes or so.
c.) Laugh in her face. "Baby!!! It's my Cowboys in the Superbowl! Get serious. "
d.) Beat her about the face and neck with the remote controller. You then chase her out into the yard, winging full, unopened cans of Milwaukee's Best at her head.





Results:

You answered with mostly "d's" : Congratulations, not only are you not pussy-whipped, you could be in a federal prison. The crime? Five counts of Badassery. You are a bastion to men everywhere. A shining example of strength and virility. Other men cower in your presence. You probably have a huge, Poseidon-like beard. Your testosterone smells of fine Italian leather. I have only one thing to say to you: "Please don't kill me sir."


You answered with mostly "c's": You're certainly not whipped, but you are sometimes scared to upset your girl. You keep your girl in check with subtle, somewhat insulting comments. Never quite pushing the envelope too far with her. You are a man that is to be respected and you probably are in mid-management somewhere with at least 3-4 people underneath you. Someday you may be in the rarefied air of the alpha dog above you.


You answered with mostly "b's": You have never been in a fight with another human being. You sometimes raise your voice but mostly you are shot back down by your domineering woman. You played golf in high school. You will definitely get married by 27. You're wife will cheat on you at least once.


You answered with mostly "a's". I'm in shock that you're even alive. You shuffle around, head hung low, never making eye contact with anyone. The relationship you're in now is the first and only girl you will ever sleep with...that is, if you have actually slept with her yet. You're brow-beaten by your girlfriend, your boss, your peers, your mom, the drive thru guy at Wendy's, your pets, and most hobos you walk past on the street. Consider suicide by pills, as you don't weigh enough for the rope to snap your neck.

Jack Delights Her

Letter to the editor in this week's Style Weekly:

"I am delighted to see the new column that has surfaced in Style Weekly written by Jack Lauterback (“Punch Drunk,” Food & Drink, July 22). This publication has exceeded my expectations and I am very excited that it has embraced the enthusiasm that is Richmond’s younger generation......Perhaps in time, we can see the phallic symbols in all of our city’s greatest accomplishments and public figures." -Jen Woodruff, Richmond


All this time I thought my Mom and my Aunt were the only women in Richmond who enjoyed my work. And honestly, who doesn't want to see some phalli in all of Richmond's public figures?

Read the entire letter here. Also look for the second edition of my column in next Tuesday's Style.

A Case Of Mistaken Gratuity

"Here ya go, two lemon drop shots. That'll be twelve dollars."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of what appeared to be one dollar bills. Without decrumpling them or even bothering to count them, she hands over the fistful of cash, dropping a few stray bills on the bar. Mildly annoyed I scoop everything up and turn towards the computer, punching in the two shots and attempting to straighten the bills before putting them in the register. I come to find that she has handed me two twenties, two fives and 6 ones. Clearly this must be a mistake, right?

I sort out the collage of currency and slowly turn back towards her. She waves her hand at me with a motion that is almost always interpreted as "keep the change". I shrug and due to the ear-splitting decibel level in the bar, silently mouth, "are you sure?" She smiles and walks away with her girlfriend.

Now I know in my heart of hearts that this girl didn't mean to give me that much money, but what else do I do? Come around the bar and give it back? Buy her a round the next time she returns to the bar?

I'm not overly troubled by this situation because I like extra money. I like rolling around in piles of money while squealing like a little schoolgirl. I like lighting my Camels with burning Andrew Hamiltons. But still... I never like to cheat a patron. I may do drugs and drink like Dean Martin on a Lake Tahoe bender, but I'm anything but dishonest.

So what did I end up doing?

Regrettably, I did nothing. I took the cash and ran. I guess blogging about the scenario is my way of making amends with the guy upstairs.

We're all blogging bartenders in the eyes of God.



Satan, I'll see you at the gates in about 30 years...

Flaming Friday

Upon seeing me sauntering around Nations (local gay bar) for the finals of a drag show last night, a female bartender from another bar downtown came up, her eyes wide, mouth agape...

Girl: "Holy shit, this makes so much sense... Are you?.... Are you really?"

Me: (Adopting a serious tone as I got really close to her face) "Listen if you fucking tell anyone about this I'll wait for you to get off your fucking shift tomorrow night and then I'll use my waiter key to gut you like a motherfucking sea bass...do you understand?"

Like any good comedian I waited a solid 7 seconds for the joke to sink in before smiling and giving the girl a hug. It's all about the timing people...

Shortly thereafter a couple who are regulars at my bar came up and started to insinuate the same thing. That "thing" being the fact that walking around alone in a gay bar packed to the gills with men would have to mean that I'm a closet homosexual. I didn't attempt to correct them. No, this time I made a few swishy hand movements, kissed the male on his cheek and then did a flamboyant version of the jitterbug that would've made even the most effeminate twink in the entire bar blush. I tend to get a little weird when I'm drunk off Rumplemintz and Captain at a gay bar surrounded by drag queens who are taller than me (I'm 6'4) and who could easily kick my ass.

I was getting a lot of "are you gay?" last night. I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not. I am sure that I enjoyed playing up to it and acting gay, even going as far as to force my gf into only letting me use her "two hole" when we got home in an effort to recrea...... I'm kidding, I'm kidding... She won't let me... yet :)

Shout out to Nations, Absolut Vodka, GayRVA.com and WhineMeDineMe for the good times and for the multiple shots of whatever it was that we took multiple shots of.

Style Weekly Bartender Column

Came out today and I'm kicking the shameless self-promotion into high gear.

The haters have already begun crying via Twitter and email so I know I did something right. Go check out the short article (400 words) and leave a comment (good or bad). Big ups to Style Weekly for giving me a chance.

Click here.

Article Fallout

Since a few of my pieces ran in Style Weekly two weeks ago I've been catching some flack from other bartenders for what they consider an inaccurate view of our profession. Some people have told me that I'm treating bartending as some joke when in reality, it is a respected career that I shouldn't denigrate with viewpoints and observations that deviate from the norm. A couple of bartenders actually got really upset with me because I mentioned drinking behind the bar, which is a big no-no in the state of Virginia. For the record, I don't drink behind the bar. Read the article in question here.


My thoughts on the bartender backlash?: (me pretending to cry like a little baby) Waaaaaahhhhhh!


That being said, I have my first bartender/lifestyle column running in Style Weekly tomorrow. It will be in the Food and Drink section and it's titled "Punch Drunk". I have a feeling that more people will come bitching about some of the stuff I say as this column gets moving and hopefully this time they might actually put their name on the hate emails they send. I've made it clear where I work, so if you vehemently disagree with me and would like to discuss the matter, c'mon down and we'll hash it out over a shot of Rumplemintz, which remains number one on my shot ranking list for July.

Pick up Style Weekly tomorrow or read it online (I'll direct you to the column when it goes up). My editor just gave me the news that I somehow managed to reference "penis" 13 times in tomorrow's edition, which if you know me, should come as no surprise whatsoever.

I'm A Twatter

I caved and joined Twitter. Society wouldn't just let a blogger live his life. No, they had to know what I think about everything, where I am, how often I masturbate, and ideally, who I masturbate to.

I plan on being very forthcoming, very no-holds barred, and very repugnant with my tweets. I'm even considering some live-bartending tweets, although I doubt my employers would appreciate that.

Follow me at twitter.com/jackgoesforth

Don't Do This In A Bar

Do not, ever, under any circumstances, throw anything at the bartender. This includes the lime from your Corona. This includes beer bottles, pint glasses, and any other object that could potentially split open my face. And this definitely includes your fucking crumpled-up tab after you've refused to leave a tip or sign it.

If you aren't pleased with your tab because you didn't realize Red-bull and vodkas are 8 bucks a piece, and under protest, you have refused to add a tip, that's okay. Leave the slip on the bar, unsigned. I understand that tipping is an optional activity and even though you're a cheap douche, I'll maintain a stiff upper lip. Do not add insult to injury by flinging your cheapness over the bar at me. At that point my dignified silence will end. In fact, my dignified silence will transform into an ardent rage, during which I will mount a witty and voluminous attack on your lack of character. I'll then tell you to kindly vacate the bar, returning only when you have either become an adult, and/or have at least 100 bucks in your checking account. Should you not leave the premises, I may have no choice but to direct one of our huge bouncers to escort you out. Continuing to flick me off during this confrontation will not help your cause, and may endanger the safety of your ball sack as the bouncer and I hustle you out the door. The bouncers are relatively clean in their bar-removal methods as they are usually a bit more able-bodied than the unruly patron. I, on the other hand, will fight filthy. Fish hooking any open cavity within range and shooting knees and elbows in the general direction of your baby-maker.

Every bartender knows the customers who will react badly to a big tab. You see them every night, ordering multiple rounds of shots, Long Island Teas, Vodka Red bulls... Asking "for more liquor in their drink". Asking for you to "hook them up." They have no concept of how much drinks cost, and when that check comes.... Well...they'll balk before realizing that we already have their credit card info in the computer. So they'll sign the tab and then leave a big fat zero on the tip line, punishing me for being nothing but nice to them all night. It is what it is.

Again, tipping- optional. Throwing something at me- not recommended if you one day intend on having children.

Okay this rant is complete. Saturday night sometimes brings out the worst in human nature, thus bringing out the worst in me.

* Jack Goes Forth loves his patrons and does not endorse physically assaulting anyone.

Reader Mailbag: Getting Sauced

Email Received: "Hi Jack: My name is Al Malekovic (al@countrybobs.com) and I represent a very, very small company called Country Bob's, Inc. We are making a great sauce called, "Country Bob's All Purpose Sauce" and we would like to get the word out about our product. I know that blogs are a great way to get information to the general public. I conducted a google search for food blogs and your name came and after looking at your blog, I was wondering if you would be interested in trying my sauce and perhaps reviewing it for me." - "Country" Bob Malekovic

Quote Pulled From the "Country Bob" website: "Along the way we have been dedicated to offering our customers the best tasting and highest quality steak sauce or All Purpose Sauce, Barbecue Sauce, and Seasoning Salt available anywhere in the world. To accomplish this we have placed our trust in God and we believe that goal has been achieved."

My Actual Reply to the Email: "Yes, yes and yes. Bob, I want your sauce, I need your sauce. I want to explode your sauce all over my blog and get it in my reader's faces. If it's as delicious as you claim, I may need more of your sauce for my Mom." -Jack Goes Forth

Yes I'm an immature, possibly in the closet, jerkbag. But after reading Bob's website I'm beginning to think that Ol' Bob never actually read my blog and that he's simply spamming a bunch of sites in hopes that we'll slurp up his sauce and review it for our readerships. Why would you do that Bob? I can't imagine a god-fearing sauce man such as Bob, who has placed his faith in the lord in order make his sauce available around the globe, would ever want a foul-mouthed, libidinous blogging bartender who speaks of nothing but drinking, drugs and sex, to review his product.

Now, should a liquor, beer, condom manufacturing, birth control, at home abortion, ADHD medication, cigarette, coffee and/or medicinal marijuana company decide to contact me and send me free stuff to sample...Well, now we're talking about something my readership and I can get behind and really get into.... uhhh, I mean, something we can relate to.

My eyes are squarely on you, Trojan "Extended Pleasure" Lubricated Condom Line... Because I've found that desensitizing one's penis to the point of total numbness in an effort to delay quick ejaculations is never a bad thing. Am I right? Anyone?

Umm..... never mind.

He's A Bad Man

"Don Draper's Guide To Picking Up Women, Step 4:

Look Fantastic in a suit, look fantastic in casual wear, look fantastic in anything, sound good, smell good, kiss good, strut around with supreme confidence, be uncannily successful at your job, blow people away every time you say anything, take 6 hour lunches, disappear for weeks at a time, lie to everyone about everything, and drink and smoke constantly....basically... Be Don Draper."



It's official, AMC's "MAD MEN" has usurped "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" as my favorite show. I can only aspire to be a shred of the man that lead character and protagonist Don Draper is. The show is spot-on accurate in its assessment of 1960's culture, including the blatant lack of respect given to women in the home and the workplace, the chronic, and I mean chronic cigarette smoking, and of course, the heavy booze consumption. Mad Men captures a period when men were men and unapologetic about it. The feminization of western culture was a long ways away and Don Draper epitomizes a time and style that I'm sure many people my age only saw in their grandfathers.

Go pick up the first two seasons and get caught up before season three starts in August. Trust me.

Adventures In Condom Purchasing

Why is it, at 25, that going to the store and buying condoms is still just as awkward as the first time you went to buy condoms in high school? I'd say half the time I purchase condoms the cashier drops a lame comment or gives me a really sly look. Yeah, duh, I'm gonna have sex. It's gonna be safe sex too. What of it???

The reason I mention this is because I just returned from the ghetto Rite Aid on Hull St. I grabbed three cans of Diet Pepsi and a 12 pack of condoms and then took them to check out.

Mid-Twenties Female Cashier: "Ohhhhhh, you gon need all that Pepsi after you done having that much sex boooyyy!"

I smiled and gave her a wink. Should I have said something in this situation?

Jack: "Yeah I'm gonna go home and fuck a girl six times, rehydrate with some Diet Pepsi, and then knock her socks off six more times for good measure."

--or--

Jack: "You know what? You're right. Last time I banged your mom we worked up quite a sweat. Where can I find her tonight? The corner of Hull and Commerce?"

--or--

Jack: "Wait, I have a question for you. Will these condoms still work if I shove em in the butthole instead of the pee-pee hole?"

Shouldn't the cashiers at a drugstore be trained in the art of discretion? My sexual habits are my business, not Taneesha the cashiers business. You don't hear the people behind the pharmacy counter talking about a customer's nasty Crohns affliction and the medication he has to take in order to not shit all over himself 7 times a day, right? I mean, I assume that pharmacists practice discretion. They should at least. I wouldn't want the whole drug store knowing every time my herpes flared up.... uhhh.... hypothetically speaking.

When I get rich I'll definitely have an assistant who buys my condoms, my athletes foot spray, my severe hemorrhoid cream, my Loreal face moisturizer, my girly chap stick and any other gross and/or feminine products that I may need.

Related Post: Condoms, Condoms Everywhere!

Money Can Buy Love Pt.II

The guy's all-khaki attire combined with the pink tie certainly didn't scream "big tipper" or "generous soul", or even, "heterosexual male". But as I learned in my last tipping post, a book read by it's cover is a book that is grossly misjudged.

This dapper young man ran up a tab of 49 dollars and at one point I gave him and his lady friend, or possible beard, a round of free drinks because they were smiling and dancing and generally behaving in a manner that we expect from our customers. Actually if you can manage not to vomit, grope, and/or throw a fist...then we're pretty satisfied with you at my bar.

The lights came up (1:50 AM) and this guy asks for another round. Unfortunately due to house policy we can only serve shots and not drinks when the lights come up, simply because shots are consumed quickly, cocktails are not. He seemed disappointed so I poured him a short shot of Three Olives Grape Vodka and said, "It's on me buddy. Thanks for the business." I then proceeded to run his tab for 49 dollars and hand him the slips and a pen.

I come back to his area of the bar two minutes later and he hands me the slip. He says thanks with a smile and turns back to his girl.

I turn towards the register and open the book to put the credit receipt with the others, and that's when I see something that restores my faith in the bar business. Before I tell you what he tipped it should be mentioned that my faith in humanity is shattered and then ultimately restored about 45 times a shift. Our clientele tends to runs the gamut of mankind with everyone from Jesus to Omar Qaddafi ordering a drink at some point.

So the gent in question left a 100 dollar tip on a 49 dollar tab. I started dancing at that point and I imagine it resembled the little jig that Hitler did in 40' after the fall of France. I then walked around the bar, wrapped my arms around this kid and started faux-humping him. I'm not sure he enjoyed my penis pressed up against his leg, but to his credit, he was a good sport about it.

Was 100 dollars a completely outlandish, somewhat foolish tip on a tab of only 49 dollars? Yeah. Am I complaining? Fuck no.

A bloggers gotta eat too....




To read "Money Can Buy Love Pt I", click here.

Dear Drunken Groomsman

I wanted to write this billet doux and personally show my gratitude for you and your parties presence at my unassuming watering hole this past Sunday eve. As the only bartender, nay, the only employee of the bar that night, I was delighted by your good-natured tomfoolery.

The three smashed dinner plates and two broken beer bottles were a cinch to sweep up and I found myself chuckling as I played janitor to your shenanigans. I shall keep these band aids on my index finger and that hidden shard of glass as tokens of your undying affection for me and the pub.

It should also be mentioned that I enjoyed getting flicked off by the future bride-to-be when I refused to serve her anymore "shots of the cheapest tequila yuhs got." Although to be fair, the 63 shots of "cheap tequila", yes, you read that right, 63 shots, served to your party of 8 may have been the reason for her hand gesture and for her ensuing lack of co-ordination. Really it is I who owes you an apology for the apathy I showed as you tried in vain to find your car keys and "drive to another bar where the fuckers will serve us." The dark expression on my face didn't tell the entire story as I ended up manifesting much pleasure when that cab rolled up and you didn't end up in jail...or in the ICU having major facial reconstructive surgery.

Oh yes, let us not forget your humble largesse this past Sunday. The gift you and your friend left me in the men's bathroom urinal was too much...simply too much! I mean literally, it was too much vomit for me to flush down the toilet. I ended up leaving your benefaction for the morning cleaning crew, who I'm sure were pleased as punch with your contribution to the bar. Unfortunately for the morning cleaning crew, they did not have the pleasure of walking in on the groom and the bride-to-be, awkwardly consummating their love next to that same vomit-soaked urinal. Ahhhh, what gay memories!

I wish your young friends a long and happy marriage, and to you Sir Groomsman, I bid you adieu. Next time may I be the one quaffing rail tequila, breaking stuff that isn't mine and acting like a complete shithead with you.

Cheers!

This Is The End...

...Of my dating column Robot Hearts. I'm taking on a new weekly writing assignment (separate from the blog) and have made the decision to pull the plug on Robot Hearts. It was fun acting like a dating expert when I'm anything but and I also enjoyed being a complete ass to most of the people who wrote in. This last installment was no exception.

Special thanks go out to RVA NEWS.com for putting up with me for the past 7 months, and for sending me a check every once and awhile.

Click here to read the sixteenth and final Robot Hearts...

Click here to read the previous 15 columns...

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....