Incompetance within the fast food industry.

This rant is devoted to a friend of mine.

We were sitting in his car one day during college breathless, tears rolling down my face laughing so hard I nearly spilled my Ribena. We were discussing the fast food industry and more specifically how shit it is. Honestly my views on the subject haven't changed very much since then therefore I'll share them with you now.

 
What does a person want when they go to a fast food place? Really, have a think about it. Considering this is about me and not you, I'll put my thoughts down, I want:
    + Hot food
    + Freshly cooked
    + Served fucking yesterday, so lets say served as the name suggests, fast.
    + Cost effective

You could get more wanky and say impossible things like "Healthy" and "Tasty" but you have to understand these guys aren't Jesus, which is why I AM willing to wait longer for hot, freshly cooked food.

Some of the aforementioned list however still are asking a bit much, so once again, break it down to it's base roots, what do you want from a place that serves food?
    + Hot food
    + Served fast

The rest are, lets face it, direct opposite ends of the same/similar spectrum in some cases, meaning you have to sacrifice a certain level of one to obtain a level of the other:

Freshly Cooked Food	|-----|-*---|-----|-----|-----|-----|	Fast Serving Time
Hot Food	|-----|-----|-----|-----|--*--|-----|	Cost Effective
% Chance Salmonella Poisoning	|--*--|-----|-----|-----|-----|-----|	Prepared by trained staff over 17y/o
Healthy Food	|-----|-----|-----|-----|-----|----*|	Fucking Reality

                             
So yes, I want at the very, VERY base level, hot food quickly. Is that too much to ask for? Excuse the cliche. No, it really fucking isn't, but what is sad is the fact that apparently it is.

One day you go into your local imported American burger joint 'Drive Thru', you order your large burger or chicken wrap meal and then it happens. "Our designated burger flipper has obtained a case of cotton mouth and doesn't have enough saliva to suitably apply spit to your meal therefore there will be a 4 minute wait on the blah-blah-blah." Oh, you think, no problem, you continue, the meal will be hot, fresh and sufficiently spat on when I receive it in 4 minutes and with that you pull into the waiting bay supplied and your mental timer begins.

4 minutes pass and you're ok with it, Tool is playing a 9 minute metal odyssey in the car right now and you are too caught up in it to really care, I know the pieces fit.. I truly do.

9 minutes pass, you are now sans-music with which to sooth the savage and hungry beast within. Sans derived from the French for 'still without my fucking wrap meal.'

In your anger you wait til 15 minutes plotting that when the Emo who served you brings you your food you'll cut them with your words and then back over them with your car.

Sixteen and a half minutes pass and you crack it, you slip your uggies back on, pull your beanie down over your eyes, tuck your white wife beater into your navy going out trackies. While you realise how you look it only fuels your hatred because you thought you could get away with leaving the house in it thinking you didn't have to get out the fucking car.

Due to the nature of the clothing you have donned you begin to channel the god of Bogan, this worries you as you catch site of a horrid moose sitting with her friends inside the establishment, claw and scooping chips off the table into the slobbering hole between its cheeks and all you can think of is the baby bonus. ...I digress.

You reach the counter and there's a line, like you care, you approach the counter and no one says a word especially when you calmly gain the attention of the current Emo male servicing the bogan beside you by diplomatically saying, where's the manager? The Emo chick who served you comes out, and I'm not kidding, says "Oh, I forgot about you.." She brings you your food and you stare her and the other one down thinking the way you look, silence may actually be more terrifying than saying something. You walk out, kicking the door open. You get to your car and then shit gets real.

You mung into a chip and it's cold.. and seems to be suffering from a case of Foster's flop because you haven't seen a more flaccid object since looking down when you mistakenly discovered midget porn. You open your burger wrapper and they've given you the furthest thing from what you ordered. In this instance a single patty burger with the lot instead of a chicken wrap with no mc-fucking-mayo and added tomato.

You walk back in and the manner in which you enter the building gives you the ability to part people like Moses and the Red Sea because everyone looks at you and sides up. You don't talk, you wang the limp chips back AT the unkindness of Emos behind the counter in the hope of moving their mopey fucking fringe out of the way so they can then witness you open the burger and systematically pull each ingredient off and lay it out on the service desk. You say: "I fail to see the chicken, the wrap and the added tomato. Your service is shit, your food is cold, I will see the manager now."

Anyway so maybe not everyone has the same level of contempt I have for such incredibly bad customer service. It can be a difficult job too, dealing with whingey, bitchy customers. I think you have to have worked in the industry to fully appreciate how difficult it can be. Dealing with difficult customers is a skill you acquire, you're not born with it. Having said that, we as customers have to stop putting up with bad service.

Companies in general don't care about you, they don't give a flying fuck about you, and this sometimes seeps down through to the customer service level. Stop being a walking wallet I say. Be a nest of vipers, make them handle you with care. I say give credit for good service, smash people for bad service as high as you can get, go to managers go to their manager's manager if you can. Classically condition the mc-shit out of customer service reps. Quarter-circle forward + Punch = Pavlovian Reinforcement Smite, learn the technique and smash them with it.

Having said that, don't go the other way and be a shit customer before the service begins, and you know who I'm talking about, we've either got a dad or maybe a mum like it, or a rich uncle, family friend, or you've been in the vicinity when a douche bag customer has just been a prick about nothing. Don't be that guy/girl. Cause clean food is hard to come by when you are THAT person.

Live it up, take no shit and be a fun and happy person, the important people will love you for it.

Holy Bartender
    xx

P.s.
Once the restraining order lapses I'm going to get my fucking chicken wrap.

GetzTFO

Ok children, gather around, Holy Bartender has a little story to tell you.

They're all coming to Getz you!

Once upon a time there was a dashing and heroic bartender. Men and women alike swooned over the mere rock pool reflections of his visage left deep in the cavern of their memories. One day our glorious hero was driving around in his Holy Bartendmobile when he came upon a chump faced cleft rash driving a Hyundai Getz. Now I know what you’re thinking, why would our beloved champion do something as dangerous as knowingly drive behind a Getz? Instead of doing what my dear angels? That’s right, pulling over quickly and registering the number plate with ASIO. For as we all know, Getz drivers are terrorists disguised as douche bags, as much without the cognitive capacity as they are the motor skills required to safely taxi aforementioned death traps around our fair state.

It was because the mighty bartender feared not Hyundai Getz drivers; for he knew that he could count on his own incredibly honed, finely tuned skills and reflexes to save him in the event Getz driver passed out at the wheel because it forgot to breathe, or something equally as fucking dense. 

Children, what happened next was a surprise to all but our amazing, holy ragamuffin. Insufferable chode aka Getz pilot slowed down all traffic to 15kms a mc-fucking-fortnight for two city blocks. Then, before turning right slowly and without indication, Getz fuck-wit felt it necessary to disallow others from overtaking it by moving closer to the left side of the street. 

Well, wasn’t our hero lucky. If it were another kind of car our bartending protagonist may have been forced into a position where he’d have had to last second flip his Bartendmobile over the offending car so as not to smash and obliterate both parties, the wreckage left to catch alight and explode taking out all bystanders and setting fire to local houses, burning people alive and causing millions of dollars in damages. Yet it was not the case in this instance. Due to our champion's knowledge of the Getz driver psyche, danger and damage were avoided with a simple application of the brake and horn, accompanied by a releasing of the middle digit and loud shouts of insults and curses.

So my lovelies to bring us to the end of our story time, the Holy Bartender managed to live to bar tend another day. Nimble like the mongoose, he swiftly dodged the insufferable simpleton Getz driver, in turn saving a good portion of the streets of our states capital from an inferno so fierce it'd be matched only by our hero's absolute and unwavering contempt for incompetent fuck wits.

A side note, to the obtuse, face roller in question: Thwarted Getz driver. Thwarted. If you wanted to cause an automotive apocalypse, like the rest of your auto-anti-Christ kind would lead me to believe, you could have just pulled over and started systematically shooting on coming cars with a high calibur weapon. It seriously would have been more effective. Where ever you are, you will slip up again, and by the power of Grayskull I will be there. I will be there with my man the pipe hittin, gang bangin possum. It and it's passel are going to mess you up. ...Not in a romantic way.


Holy Bartender

Forgiveness is a brick in hand..

 I write long posts. Allow me to dot point this next one for you.

    + I break up with my ex.
    + My friend comes to my aid and discusses his break up. 
    + I learn that unlike me this happy, loving & caring guy is having trouble letting it go even now.
    + The conversation got heavy and I asked him for the first time to do me a favour. I asked him to forgive his ex for the things she did to him. It is easy to see that her venom circulates his veins in different ways even now, one year later.
 
    + I got him drunk one night, and decided this was it. He needed to fix this once and for all.
    + I drove my drunk friend to the lair of the ginger minge who his girlfriend cheated on him with and subsequently left him for.
    + I had each of us put on medical grade, white surgical gloves.
    + Parked my car 50 meters from the house in question and left it unlocked.
    + I went to the boot of my car.
    + Procured a brick
    + Stood my friend in front of the GinGa's BMW and handed him aforementioned obtuse implement of retribution.
    + I said to him, "Forgiveness is a brick in hand. You can do two things here, you can keep it with you and have it be a weight you carry everywhere. Or, you could let him have it. It'll make you feel light as a feather again I promise. I know it's hard to give someone who took something from you your forgiveness, but its not about him, this is about you. The choice is yours. I say forgive him and move forward."

Holy Bartender's forgiveness WAS given

    + My friend didn't brick the beemer, much to my absolute disappointment, but I knew he wouldn't. I counted on it actually because it wasn't even the cheater's beemer. It was some random BMW in the area the cheater lived near. My mate being to drunk to tell the difference didn't know better. Thing is, BMW drivers love their cars so much they insure the McSHIT out of them so I figured no harm, no foul.
    +The important thing is that it seems my friend understood the point of the exercise, he's asked out a girl he studies with and hopefully it goes somewhere.

With love,

Holy Bartender

Kengo Zero < Poo.

Shit out a sequel will you?

Kengo Zero; a Japanese term: "to wank out a game worse than anything on any game console.. ever."

Seriously, I played Kengo, it's predecessor, on the Playstation 1, and while it wasn't the best game ever it did have fun potential and replay value. You could create your own character, then go from dojo to dojo, learn moves that you could then use to create your own string of attacks. In addition to this you could also improve your character's base stats such as speed, strength and health. Which is more than I can say for the liquid that ran down the crack of its predecessors arse and was left as a stain on the mattress (Hartman, G. Sgt., Full Metal Jacket, 1987) aka Kengo Zero.

I think loyal fans have been cheated.

Kengo Zero is like Kengo's demented, dumb ass little inbred cousin that Kengo doesn't like admitting it knows. I bought this game under the blind faith that with the X-Brick's superior everything, the creators of Kengo could have a hearty crack at making my inner-gamer FAP. The pile of West African monkey vomit presented gamers in the form of a game disc, elicits from me a strong want to return the game to the company with a large envelope of powder. While it wouldn't be ANTHRAX I feel it would adequately return the favour of presenting something that pretends to be something it isn't, the difference being; I will be providing it to them for free.

Kengo Zero starfishes in the virile, sexually dynamic world of console gaming. Offering you all the cool stuff like sexy exterior, and the hot older sister who baby sat you as a child. However unfortunately you get the kit off, you play around a little and you realise you're just not compatible in the boudoir.

The game is slow, repetitive, and boring. It's black and white with difficulty; what isn't easy to kill is insanely difficult. There is limited opportunity to grow and customise your character, it's style and attacks. There is some semblance of a mini-game area, however they are basically like Mexican food; the same ingredients just folded differently and called something new.

If you buy this, punch yourself in the tit and cry for your mama, cause aint no way cho munnies comin back. ...bitch.

With love.

Holy Bartender

All parking spot thieves should drown in a house fire.

Back and angry.

Whom ever removeth the sword from my skull shall be crowned king.

C*NTSLAP TROGHAMMER, this is the name given the pond scum that recently slimed its way into the apartment block my newly ex-ified girlfriend lives in. I do not live in the apartments, however I was staying there for a prolonged period of time. There is enough parking for all the apartments. The apartments have 'allocated' parking spots in front of the building and are marked on on dark bitumen in large 'FUCK-ME-there-it-is' white paint. The spot marked "1" is for apartment 1, so-on and so-forth.

While staying with my ex I parked in the spot allocated for apartment "3", the one marked... 3. I did this for some time. Cock-slap-testicle-merchant moves in and systematically parks in every tenant's spot, each person kicking him out with a nasty letter. Aforementioned dick-sneeze parks in my spot and I figure I should go confront him about it in a diplomatic and civilised manner. I shouldn't have.

Had I have left a note saying "move or there will be knifings", desired results may or may not have been achieved sooner. However, not afraid to confront and discuss things with people, I knock on his door. The bogan that stood before me was of a shit kicking ilk I was yet to encountered; the prepared, excuse filled diplomat bogan. I know, impossible I thought, rubbish, I continued.. This guy doesn't exist. This 45-ish year old dick tab is not actually standing in front of me smiling in a douche bag way knowing that there is nothing I can do to remove him from my spot. He tells me that he spoke with the body corporate person and the numbers on the ground mean nothing.

I promptly left his place feeling like I should kick his door in and stake him, ridding the world of this day walker. However, what is wrong with me.. I can't justify doing anything about the spot.. because I'm moving out in a week to live in my own spot. So now I'm stuck in a position where I feel my honor needs upholding, a dangerous position I know, however there is no reason to do anything about it because it doesn't affect me any more.

Okay, I will admit, I over reacted.

The river of consciousness cascading over the rocky edge of my honour, gaining speed and crashing hard on the stony bed of my pride were thoughts of having his car towed.. maybe just keying it? Slashing the tires perhaps. What about writing on it in flammable gel, lighting it to permanently scar his hood with 'douche bag'. Personally, having him come out in the middle of the night to a flaming message on the hood of his car has a certain level of artistic flair about it and is a favourite of mine for this reason. Even just taking a dump on the windshield and smearing it all over, I know what your thinking, but, a small price to pay to smite one's enemy. What can I say, a vato turns primal with regards to territory, I realise I can be a mean vato ey.

Yet, all talk no substance so far because all I do is nothing, I sit back and have the heavy darkness fester and evolve inside. Maybe a walnut cake is required. With macadamia nuts inside, smothered in Nutella, garnished with desecrated coconut in the hope that he has a serious nut allergy.. Hmm yes.. deviously delicious.

Holy Bartender

P.s.
I know it's desiccated.

Kyle Sandilands...

"I've seen one up close five times, ok. Clearly not a virgin.."

Kyle Sandi-douche-cock-McLoser-fail has been the highest echelon of prime knob-end cockery since I witnessed the hideous chode on Australian Idol.

Don't look at me like that, I don't know why I was watching it either..

He's famous for being a 'Bad Boy' critic.. Basically thinks he can justify ripping on people in a overly cruel manner for ratings.

While I realise the irony that I make the man more famous by aknowledging his existence, I can't help but say that I hope an item of clothing he really likes catches on fire. Seriously, he should have a big steaming cup of shut-the-fuck-up.

Holy Bartender

Applications Rant

Ever applied for a job anyone could do? I mean, the job description has all the hallmarks of your usual job;

    + We're looking for an over qualified, intelligent person with confidence issues willing to do the work of a barely breathing, mindless chode.
    + Must be able to adapt work output levels to adhere to whatever the person/s above you desire at the time, subject to change without notice.
    + Successful applicants would be willing to be dominated by in house politics.
    + Must successfully wear a smile at all times, even when their career is greased up over a barrel with management aiming for penetration. 
    + Must be able to take orders and accept blame quietly.
    + It is essential that applicants work unpaid overtime of a minimum 10 hours per week to be considered.
    + It is essential that applicants have ambition to succeed, exceed and move forward within the company, this will be useful to management when crushing your spirit.
    + Previous applicants are welcome to reapply, our HR  staff take great pleasure in laughing at your attempts to gain stability in your little lives.
    + Previous experiance as a leather-clad gimp an advantage, but not essential for fulfilling this role.

...you know anyone can do it, but you really want that holiday in Europe, and the 50" LCD TV on your wall, and Nissan 350z in the driveway. You apply anyway cause you're internal monologue has turned into a Detroit rapper screaming: "CREAM, GET DA MUNNY, DOLLAR-DOLLAR BILL Y'ALL"

Naturally because you rock the shit, you get to the interview stage and are given front row tickets to the freak show that is, the highest of management from the floor you'll be working on. A pack of people so self important that you struggle harder to keep a straight face than when you were a kid in school and your mate farted loudly during silent reading.

I don't know about you, but I've always had a morbid curiosity for what size stick is wedged firmly up the arse of the head manager. Working for a leading telecommunications company I'm unable to name because they will SUE my ass, has revealed the answer to me. That manager, the poor self-blindingly important manager, has to walk around all day with not only the floor manager, but each of the floor team leaders wedged so far up their ass that you don't know where one ends and the others begin. Sometimes it looks like a kind of.... fucked (for lack of a better word) corporate octopus of self-importance, sliming its way around the office, belaying leave entitlements and general other forms of corporate bastardry. A good friend of mine; writer, editor of www.write-thing.com and from what I hear, cunnilinguistical virtuoso Pip has spoken of the theory that: incompetence is promoted to a level where it can’t do any harm, I am a subscriber to this thought and believe I've seen it in practice. I swear it's rife within the telecommunications industry.

I digress..

You sit there in the center of their pentagonal interview pannel, suited up with positive open body language and posture. You deliver yourself with witt and intelligence. Providing a smooth sales pitch, you answer the questions they fire at you with finesse and lets face it, a certain high level of guile. You even manage to rotate your head 360 degrees to make eye contact with all parties. You all smile, shake hands, leave and wait. An e-mail arrives.

Dear sir/madam,

We at Chumpface, Buck-pass & Fukkingkustomas Telecommunications are writing to you regarding your recent application to the position of Call Centre Monkey.

We received such an overwhelming response to this position and we regret to inform you that you are too good to work with us and are therefore unsuccessful. We fear that one of us will be replaced by you on your way up to becoming regional CEO, a position we believe that a non-chumpface like yourself would obtain within the early hours of your first day.

We wish you good luck in finding a position elsewhere. Anywhere but with us. We cannot have you making us look bad.

Sincerly,

HR Team
ChumpBucknFuk Telco.
Australia
"ChumpBucknFuk Telco., bringing you closer to drastic, violent outbursts."

I'd write a reply asking for more information, threatening law suits on grounds of un-fair practices. The equal opportunity employment act allows people of any gender, colour, background, level of unfathomable awesomeness to have the same opportunity to work.

What do I care, women tip me to see if they can sneak a peek at my tip anyway. Business is GOOOOD too!!

Holy Bartender

Holy Bartender for Tazering Nuisence Children

So there's an elevator at work. It's compliant, it does its job well. In fact, as far as elevators go this one is my current favourite, it hasn't let me down.. atleast not at a speed where you'd have to pick me up with a sponge afterwards.

Children shit me off. Not all kids. Just most though. Three of which have been coming into work with family the last 3 weeks, they are roughly 8ish, 9ish & 10ish respectivly. They are mouthy little rodents too, they always backchat and screem no when told to do something. I think they need a good beating. Just putting it out there. Like our dads gave us on occasion, like their dads gave them whenever they fucked up, and like their dad's dads gave their dads as an alternate form of communication after a long day at work. I.e. whips with a jug cord in morse code .... .. / -... --- -.-- --..-- / .... --- .-- / .-- .- ... / -.-- --- ..- .-. / -.. .- -.-- ..--.. / .. / .... . .- .-. -.. / -.-- --- ..- / .- -.-. . -.. / - .... .- - / - . ... - / .-- . / ... - ..- -.. .. . -.. / ..-. --- .-. --..-- / .. .----. -- / ... --- / .--. .-. --- ..- -.. / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-
(Go here to decode if you care: http://www.qbit.it/lab/demorse.php)

Seriously, my dad would say "Do this" and you'd do that cause you'd get as far as "N-.." before you tasted blood and teeth, but not now, oooooh no.
Child:
"I want skittles!"
Beautiful mother with long well kept hair, flawless understated makeup, fashion sense to die for, dutiful housewife, amazing lover, out shopping for the family, focused on balancing their dietary needs while keeping costs low:
"No Eva." 
Little shit replies, stamping her foot:
"GIMME SKITTLES!!" 
Now even more beautiful mother due to the slight look of annoyance, still trying to just get the shopping done:
"I said no Eva." 
Little shit, screaming loudly through tears:
"SKITTLES!!!!" 
Exceptionally gorgeous mother looking embarrased trying to avoid making a bigger scene whispers loudly:
"Here take the shit and just shut up, people think I've smacked you. Mummy can't have others think she beats you because then the government will take you away and give you to another family where you'll be mis-treat..... FUCK YOU AND YOUR SKITTLES!! Petulant little shit!!" *wha-pap across the face*

Ok so maybe I added my preferred ending to that one.

I mean I wouldn't say the three children in question deserve a spanish snap-kick to the squishies, but I wouldn't protest too hard if these particular three were given gloves and made to go a round with Mike Tyson. Just one. Tyson would be all like: "Yieh scream 'No!' now bitch!"

I'm not saying I'd watch it, cause that would be sick, but I'd be there by the door as they were stretchered away, bruised and broken, perhaps borderline comatose to say "Now keep the FUCK OUT OF THE ELEVATOR!!"

Holy Bartender

Possums

Ever heard the noise that occurs when a cat and possum face off?

Take... a cat. Grab a white hot flaming poker and simply treat the feline's rectal cavity as though it were a golf club cover to the heated iron rod. I swear to you, this was brutal. I didn't want to look outside for fear of gross emotional scarring.

My reason for raising this is due largely to the fact there is a possum outside right now. To needlessly dump clichés on you, it is the biggest, single most ghetto gang banging possum I have ever experienced. This thing is sporting bling man. I'm talking gold plated skulls of other animals chained around its neck. When it makes that shit noise they all make, the territorial one that is supposed to tell all other possums, cats, bats, children and really weak guys of the raping that will ensue if it's territory is encroached upon, that noise, it sounds like a drive-by outside. Little 'cleft' has me hitting the ground holding my head and shit.

I walked from the car to the front door, past the tree it was just chilling in, the fuzzy testicle called me 'bitch'. I swear! There are people whose job solely revolves around the capture and relocation of nuisance animals. That'd be like watching an episode of Cops. Possum running through the brush screeching "Fuck you pigs!" *gat-gat-gat* Imagine if it was injured? You'd know if it was this one too, in all its ’escapee-Brazilian-wax-strip’ looking glory. It’d be the one with the bandana in gang colours with the gunshot wound screaming PIMP DOWN!!

Possum is out for me man, I can tell. Looking like that tuft of excess hair hanging out a budgiesmuggler. I park my car outside my house at night, I wake up and it looks like a prehistoric animal has shat on it. Excrement bigger than the neighbour’s chihuahua.

My friend from the States said to just get rid of him. Shoot him. Firstly, we laughed at the fact that as an American his first answer to a nuisance was to shoot it. Secondly, this possum looks like a gunshot would just piss him off, but finally, I don’t know if attacking him is a one on one affair. That, to me, is a pretty sizable variable right there. This could be seen as a gangland assassination. You just do not know. Last thing I need is packs of these things messing with me everywhere I go.

Holy Bartender

To Feign a Coy Regret (subtitle: Bitching about Fifties)

Anyone who has been in the business of receiving and dispensing small sums of money can attest to this; if you work in hospitality/direct point of sales positions long enough, you begin to get pissed off at fifties. I am at the stage now where I merely see a glimmer of that bastard yellow plastic and I subtly begin reaching for the role of coins with which I intend to bludgeon the customer unconscious.

It would not be a problem, not a problem at all, if it was only one customer who dropped the fitty, or god forbid the hundy when purchasing something worth 'a buck fit'.

Customer comes to the bar:
“I’d like an OJ please.”
Nondescript, unbiased bartender happily supplies and replies:
“Sure, that’s a dollar thanks.”
Customer hands over fifty, feigning a coy regret:
“Sorry, I haven’t got anything smaller.”
Nondescript, now somewhat biased bartender states:
“That’s ok.. Not a problem at all.. but see that guy there... He’s thirsty, but unless he’s feeling generous and wants to pay $20 for his cup of OJ, I’m now unable to give him change you hideous chode, you knew you were coming here! I see you and your fifties every week! Did you just ASSUME we were a bank? I'm surprised it's in AU$ considering you obviously heir to the throne of Dumbfucklund! Take your drink before you need it to salve your wounds."

A trend is forming, the customers are adapting. Bastardry, it seems, evolves at an alarming rate. Patrons at my workplace are learning that once the drink is opened or poured, there’s little the bartender can do but waste the drink unless we sell it to them. This puts bartenders in the uncomfortable yet expected position of putting up with a certain level of shit to ensure payment is made and reduce stock wastage.

This includes but is not limited to:
+ Waiting until all the fucking 5 cents are counted and re-counting them,
+ Accepting barter such as watches, jewelry, livestock & ex-wives
and
+ Conjuring EFT machines from thin-fucking-air without proper reagents or consideration to the level of wizardry of the bartender.

Some bar clientele have become magicians, masters of the sleight of hand, when it comes time to pay. Folding the fifty up really tight, hiding it in their hand, crinkling the shit out of it. Some customers palm it to me like a bribe, others saying “what’s that behind your ear?” Others leave it in their wallet/purse until the very last moment then fuckin-tadaah!

I await the day, and it will eventually arrive, when payment is requested from a customer and I will be handed green origami. While knowing full well, the forced question will be; “What the shit is this?” the words already vividly haunting my dreams; “It’s a swan.” Then it begins, the familiar feelings of the deep, slow draw of cold air, my chest expanding to accommodate. The ambient commotion little by little fading out, sights haze to a dark blur. All the usual hallmarks experienced momentarily before the screams.

Look seriously, be nice to your bartender. If it’s a busy night and you’re waiting to be served, have your twennies or less ready. Count your change and know how much you have prior to service. Take any coins below fifty cents and PUT them UP your arse. If the bartendress has a nice ass and/or a great ‘rack’, please don’t tell her, she knows, silently smile, thanking her for the view and move on. If you’re single woman with a current proof of legal age and the bartender catches your eye, don’t write your number on the money, because he will have to take it, and that’s stealing. You will like him more when you’re both basking in the afterglow as employed friends with benefits.

Holy Bartender