I hate to be a traitor to my gender but if there was a theme at the bar last night it’s that dudes have no game. Any time I make a blanket statement like Venetians don’t bathe, Silverlake breeds hipster douche bags, or Brits and Aussies don’t tip, I’m invariably proven wrong. (Not with any of those three examples, but I’m waiting.) I’m not saying that no dude who walked in that bar lacked skills to charm a lady, but in general, the only dudes getting laid last night at my bar were date rapists and roofie prescribers.
I knew this shift was gonna blow just by looking at the weather. A storm was coming to Los Angeles and planned to touch down one hour before I clocked in on Friday and it was scheduled to end when I clocked out on Sunday morning. One of the most demoralizing aspects of working on a rainy day is the drip coming through a vent behind the bar. It’s a form of Chinese water torture and coming from our roof I’m sure it’s as clean as the water in China. If I get skull cancer or cooties in my yarmulke region, you’ll know where I got it.
Not expecting anyone to walk in the door, I was pleasantly surprised when a family of six sat down. You can kind of tell when people are from out of town by the look of them (the parents looked like first cousins), but it was confirmed when the father asked, “Is there a normal grocery store around here?” I went out on a limb and asked, “Is Whole Foods not a ‘normal’ grocery store?” He shook his head. I told him, “You can stock up on pesticides, chemicals, and trans fats at the Ralphs on Lincoln and California.” He seemed pleased. My least favorite customer was the Irish woman who led with, “Are there any real Irish people working here?” I said, “Does Mexican count?” She wasn’t amused. Her next question was, “Are the fries made from fresh potatoes?” I replied cheerily, “Not a chance.” She mumbled, “What kind of Irish Pub doesn’t serve fresh potato fries?” I’m always fascinated what Irish people feel that a “real” pub needs to be a real pub. My friend Danny was in Italy for St. Patrick’s Day and the Irish pub he was at didn’t sell Guinness. Now I get that he was disappointed with that because I find that Guinness is somewhat iconic, but fresh potato french fries? I’m not on board with that one. She ended up ordering a bottle of Heineken. I wondered if a “real Irish” person would’ve opened it better than I.
My first glimpse of the gameless knuckle heads populating the pub last night was when “B-Cubed” from Pepperdine came in. These two seniors are nick named, “Blue Ballin’ Bitches.” One explained that skeevy dudes grind up against them at parties and when they choose to walk away rather than be dry raped, the guys say, “You gave me blue balls.” Lads, if you have to rub up against a woman in public to get your nut, you shouldn’t complain about blue balls, you should be grateful you haven’t been kicked in the balls. B-Cubed was at the bar when a couple of playahs decided to creep. I could tell it wasn’t going well when one of them looked at me like someone just fucked her cat. Turns out when the ladies told the dudes that they were from Texas, the dudes decided to shit all over Texas and people from there. Now I’m sure this method works for some guys, the ones with roofies, but Lads, if you want to get laid, try listening.
Two other female regulars, the Sabol cousins were in for Friday Night Pints. They were having a great time until one of our creepier looking customers decided skeeve Jamie. Lauren said, “This guy is creeping Jamie out and we’re gonna leave.” I trailed them out and apologized for my Midwestern friend. They explained that Creeper Creeperson felt that touching Jamie was the way to her heart. Nothing is better for business than attractive women sitting at the bar. It’s too bad that one gameless dude can change that.
One regular, Greg Weber, who has a ton of game, was privy to a painful first date. There is nothing better in a bar then hearing a first date conversation that has a better chance of leading to suicide than a second date. One of this dudes lines was, “I may be a Stanford grad, but I’m no genius.” Why don’t you wear a Stanford sweatshirt and carry around your diploma, you douche bag? Because truth be told more women are interested in geniuses than Stanford grads. The pretension express rolled on with, “What’s your favorite book?” She must not have been a Stanford grad cause she said, “What about movies?” The King of Cardinal said,”Alright, my favorite is Casablanca.” Maybe Casablanca is his favorite film, but that’s up there with a dude saying Valentine’s Day is his favorite holiday.
At the end of the night, one of our new owners complained to the cops about the food truck parked outside and the crowd around it. The cop replied, “It’s because you’re over serving them at the bar that they’re here.” Now that is about as specious as reasoning gets. I’m not saying that he’s incorrect about the over serving. (Keep that on the down low because over serving is not exactly street legal.) Now we’re gonna have to take an alcohol education class. I guess the class is all about over serving. If we stop over serving, what kind of game will these dudes have then?