Dumb Things Boys Do at the Bar – Part 2

Let me preface this post by admitting something that will shock most of you who know me personally (and no, I didn’t say that just because I wanted to use the word “preface” as a verb): I have stopped drinking.  I know.  I KNOW.  It’s not for health reasons or to better myself, it’s merely a personal choice I’m attempting to make right now.  And it’s not like I’m going to be all, “No, I can’t have that margarita at TGI Friday’s because I AM NOT DRINKING!!” it’s more like, I’m not going to drink for the sole purpose of getting drunk.  Please keep in mind I am a gigantic party girl.  I didn’t live in dorms at college, so I’ve done most of my partying as a legal adult.  Am I done partying?  No.  Am I done marking shots on my arm with a sharpie?  Yes.  Everyone I’ve spoken to about it really doesn’t know how to take the news because I’m always the one who channeled her inner P!nk and got the party started.  I can’t cook, so my hostess gift at housewarming parties and graduation fiestas and probably baby showers has been three trays of Jell-O shots.  Now I don’t really know what to do with myself.  If nothing else, being the DD at bars will provide me with more fodder for this blog because I’ll actually remember all the stupid shit that boys do while they’re drinking 34 bottles of beer.

On the other hand, going to the bar is not nearly as fun when you’re sober.

If you don’t drink and still party, please, please share your tips with me on what to do other than to pretend I’m wasted while everyone else actually IS wasted.  I don’t want to be one of those adults who goes to wine bars and sips things for flavor while having a scholarly conversation where I discuss Chaucer or something.  I want to go see my damned friends’ bands play and learn how to flirt without having a vodka and Red Bull in my hand.

Now that that’s out of the way, onto the moronic things I witnessed when I went out on Black Wednesday to my usual haunt.

 

Dumb Thing #3 – Refusing to be of Any Help Whatsoever

Okay, look, boys.  I am at the bar with two other girls who are tall and gorgeous.  We’re not tiny women, so it’s not like you can’t see us.  And I realize the bar is crowded.  You all want your beer buckets while we are trying to have a single person order two vodka and cranberries and a Red Bull on ice.  Why the fuck can’t you move out of the way once you have your drinks so this girl who wears size zero pants can place her fucking order?  Legit.  You now have 24 beers between the four of you.  And you’re all gigantic.  You take up this giant space at the bar.  There are no stools.  You’re not sitting there, enjoying your foam.  You’re standing there, taking up valuable real estate, blocking anybody else from ordering drinks unless we yell over your goddamned heads.  Here’s the kicker: if you all took just three steps to the front, we could get past you in order to scream at the bartender because it’s so fucking loud in here.  Just three.  They don’t have to even be large steps.  Maybe even one.  Take one foot, put it in front of the other while carrying your buckets, and FUCKING MOVE.  It’s not rocket science.  It’s common courtesy.  When we finally are able to get our plastic cups, we will be bolting away from the bar just to get away from clusterfuck central.  Why do you feel like you have to make it another circle of hell for people who may or may not be claustrophobic?  It’s not like we’re asking you for your first born, or even a body shot.  We just want to order our own drinks, goddamn.

Let me add to how worthless you are with this: you see me half dragging, half carrying one of my friends out of the bar to my car because she’s so fucking wasted/exhausted she can barely stand.  She doesn’t even have her eyes open at this point.  She’s not heavy, but attempting to maneuver another person who can’t fend for herself while following another who also wants to leave is next to impossible when you won’t take a jump to the left or a step to the right and clear a path to the exit.  Now I know how Moses felt when he was parting the Red Sea, except he actually had a shot at that one.  No, no, I have to drag this girl wearing spike heels through three different rooms before we can even get outside.  You’d think, if there were any gentlemen, they would see that a gorgeous woman is about to face plant on the floor and would be chivalrous and try to help her, swinging her arm around their shoulders or something, but no.  It’s just me, literally having to shove people out of the way so my girlfriend doesn’t puke on anyone’s shoes, while my other, just as beautiful, just as drunk friend goes through her wristlet in an attempt to find my car keys.  What a mess.  You can’t move AND you can’t help?  Come on.  What is this world coming to?  I’m not asking you to slay a dragon for a damsel in distress, I just need to get my friends to my car in one piece.

 

Dumb Thing #4 – Being “Too Cool” to Participate

The band at the bar on Black Wednesday was the shit.  They played cover after cover after cover without a break, and with the exception of one Dave Matthews song (I hate DMB, you will never change my mind about this), every song they performed was great.  I mean fuck, they busted out “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid and it was like they had opened their mouths and sang a calypso version of “Gangnam Style.”  EVERYONE was dancing.  Well…almost everyone.  You’ll always have that group of guys who refuses to get into the samba and just stands there, drinking beers and rolling their eyes while everyone else is having a great time.  You know that song from Beetlejuice?  I know you do.  It’s this one.  It is meant for a conga line.  Even in a crowded past capacity bar, there is going to be a conga line, and if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to jump in.  Everybody else jumped in and people were making their merry ways from one end of the stage to the other, snaking through the room.  But oh, no.  Not you guys.  You were just standing there LOL-ing at how “lame” all the other people were, kicking your legs out to try to trip the line as it went by you.  Stop being an asshole.  You can roll your eyes at the crazy shit drunk people do all you want to, but when you’re drunk and you think you’re too cool to do something like jump in a freaking conga line, get a clue.  We’re all here to have a good time.  Are you here to just rip on people having fun?  If so, go up in VIP where no one can see your sorry asses and you don’t have to interact with anyone but yourselves.  Just be warned, if you only hang out with the people you came with, your chances of hooking up with anyone at the bar (because we girls know that’s why you came in the first place) are zero to none.  No one likes a buzz kill, especially when you’re trying to actually kill someone by tripping them and seeing if people will start a stampede.  Just have a good time with everyone else.  No one is going to remember you sang along to “Call Me Maybe” anyway in the morning, but we will remember that you acted like an elitist shit while everyone else was pretending to be on “Dancing with the Stars” while ballrooming it up to “I’ve Had the Time of My Life.”

 

That’s all for this time.  Don’t forget to leave me comments with your sober party tips.  Lord knows, I need them.

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