Before I tell this story, it’s important for you to know that I’m not a bad guy. I recycle, I’m a good tipper, and I don’t act like we aren’t eons closer to finding Kony–thanks, in large part, to my advocacy efforts. While I concede that I may have accidentally written “Kony” in the “Pay to the order of” line of my #KONY2012 donation check instead of in the “Memo” section, I’m certain that the amount of money I sent him won’t help out too much. You’d be surprised how little money a lemonade stand run by a 21-year-old on the side of a rural highway makes. So yeah, I’m not a bad guy. Remember that.
A few weekends ago, I decided to go on a bar crawl with some friends. The theme was “weird bar crawl,” wherein we went to bars that the majority of the people in the crawl group had never been to before. The theme of this bar crawl brought back bad memories for me, however, because as a pledge, I had an identically themed event where my pledge brothers and I had to crawl on all fours, naked, on top of the bar in the basement with Nutella spread on our solar plexuses and a maraschino cherry in our–well, I’ll spare you the details, but just know that “weird” doesn’t even begin to describe it.
We got to the third stop on our crawl. I’d been to this bar once before, and it is by far the jankiest bar I’ve ever been to. It smells like shit, I’m 99 percent certain all the furnishings are made out of driftwood, and, worst of all, when you pay for a game on the foosball machine, it doesn’t give you enough balls for either side to claim victory if the two players are evenly matched. Seriously, that was some bullshit. First off, you obviously know I won, Taylor. Don’t pull that “that was a draw” bullshit. Secondly, I don’t respect any foosball-hosting establishment that doesn’t display a “no spinning” sign in a prominent location somewhere near the foosball playing area. Respect the game, assholes.
While we were all drinking our drinks and planning our next move, I could hear the distinct sound of somebody puking. I was sure I knew who it was, as there is one guy in my friend group who is a huge pussy and always pukes. However, I looked down and saw that it actually wasn’t me this time (I saved that for three stops later) so we were all pretty perplexed as to who it could be. We were the only other people in the bar at the time, so we had no idea who was the culprit. Then we figured it out: the bartender.
It was beautifully ironic; the bartender’s puking was preventing her from serving us alcohol, and thus preventing me from puking. It all sounds very noble, if you don’t really think about it. After one of the girls went in to check on her–only to receive the expected “I’m fine” response–I went to talk to another member of the crawl. We started wondering who the bartender was going to be now, as the only other employee there at the time was the bouncer. After I jokingly said I was going to bartend, she replied, “Yeah, you should ask to guest bartend.”
I have a rational distrust toward anything I say, so hearing her say my idea was a good one is what made me realize how brilliant it actually was.
“I’m going to do it,” I said.
I had the perfect plan. It was one of those plans that seemed like it would come prepackaged. I didn’t start at one and think of the rest of the steps in a flowing, logical order. No, the entire thing popped into my head all at once, like a perfectly shotgunned beer (I can only assume; I haven’t shotgunned a beer since I learned about the straightarm).
You remember what we talked about earlier, right? Me being not bad? Alright, cool. Just checking.
The first thing I had to do was throw Pukey McGee under the bus. There was no way I was getting behind that bar with her still in the building. She had to go.
The plan was to tell the bouncer that the bartender was puking, then inconspicuously segway that discussion into a brief synopsis of my bartending résumé and how I was willing to fill in as bartender in her absence. Now, I have no idea how to bartend; that was all part of the ploy. On the contrary, I’ve been told I’m an awful bartender. Last December, I was in charge of making drinks for everyone on the party bus that we rented out for my sister’s birthday bar crawl. I received numerous complaints that the drinks I made were too strong. It’s a TFM. Clearly my parents were at fault for that situation, because that’s obviously what you’re going to get when you put the 20-year-old college student on drink duty.
Ready to enact the plan, I walked over to the bouncer and told him the bartender was puking.
It’s important here for me to downplay this gesture. I could easily get away with saying I told the bouncer that the bartender was puking because I was genuinely concerned for her wellbeing and wanted to make sure she was okay. As I said earlier, this is not the case. Not even close. I tattled on a woman I did not–and still do not–know, because I drunkenly believed that it would cause an emergency opening at the bartender position, and that the management, in a panicked frenzy, would select me to fill the spot after I told them that I, a drunk guy in a Hawaiian shirt, was a bartender, and would thus be a viable replacement. You can’t argue with that reasoning.
Right after I told the bouncer that the bartender was puking, and before I had the chance to display my prowess behind the bar, the bartender calmly walked out of the bathroom and back to her post. The bouncer walked over to confront her. He sent her home. She started crying. I almost started crying. Mission aborted.
Long story frat, the bouncer ended up bartending and gave us all $1 Fireball shots before we went to the next bar, at which I proceeded to buy $43 worth of shots and then forget my credit card. I picked it up there six days later. MLIF (My Life Is Frat).
Like I said, I’m not a bad guy.
I’m an asshole. Way different.