“Leave! LEAVE!!! Get the fuck outta here! Yo, get the fuck out of here, motherfuckers!”
Guess who said the above:
A five-star restaurant’s maitre-d yelling at a bum for entering the fine dining establishment to panhandle? A beleaguered female exploding at her ex-boyfriend who she has a restraining order on but who nevertheless keeps coming into her office? Perhaps a furious shotgun wielding homeowner barking at a cat burglary he caught rifling through the family valuables?
Nope, not even close. I’m talking about bouncers kicking people out of the bar at night’s end.
And I’m fucking sick of it.
I live in New York City so you got to drink really motherfucking late to get actually kicked out of a bar at closing time. Something that I can recall happening to me less than a handful of times. I’m sure Manhattan has “last call” laws but in a town full of scofflaws they certainly aren’t followed. And the rare times they are heeded at least the bar’s employees have the decency to casually infer you should leave, to kindly back pat and “See ya’ later, bud” out of the bar. At like 5:00 AM.
But this doesn’t happen in podunk towns. Like Syracuse, where I was last weekend to see my beloved alma mater whip up on the most despicable university in America. In a place like Syracuse or Kansas City or Tulsa here’s how things go:
First of all, you’re not drunk because you’ve only been in the bar for an hour or two and they, of course, don’t have high ABV beer and pour really watered down whiskeys. At 1:15 or so, some bartender will shout out, “Last call coming!” before slowly filling those orders. 1:30 will mark the “official” last call. At 1:40 the harsh overhead lights will come on, blinding you before your dilated eyes adjust enough to see that the girl you’re talking to is pockmarked worse than Edward James Olmos. At 1:41 some cheesy closing time song like…uh, fucking “Closing Time” by that shitty one-hit wonder band will start playing, the drunken local rubes swaying and singing it.
Then, at 1:45 or so, a mere fifteen minutes after you got your last call cocktail, some pituitary case bouncer will shove you in the back, herding you to the door like cattle while rudely shouting the lines that opened this post.
Let me get this straight. My friends and I just spent several hundred dollars on drinks at your place and you treat us like this? We chose your crummy bar over all others in town and you treat us like this?! Even in a small town like Syracuse we didn’t have to choose your bar, it offers nothing sui generis, but we still chose it. It has the same subpar tap selections, the same shitty iPod mixes, surly bartenders, mediocre women and annoying men, overpriced drinks, filthy bathrooms. I’m fine with that all, it’s a party of the nightlife lifestyle. But treat me with some fucking respect around the time the Semisonic starts playing. (In fact, I would say playing Semisonic is enough of a push to get me out the door. Good lord that song sucks.)
Can you imagine another industry where you’d be treated this poorly?
You’ve just enjoyed a nice meal with some friends and just as you put the last bite of dessert in your mouth, several waiters lift you from your chairs and start strong-arming you to the door. “Finish up the chocolate mousse and get the fuck out of my restaurant!”
You’ve just enjoyed a nice movie when seconds before the credits roll the lights go up and the ushers sprint into the dark room. “Get the fuck out of this theater you shitheads!”
You’ve just enjoyed a nice, sensual massage and are still quivering when the masseuse upturns the table, spilling you onto the floor, and “Get the fuck out of my illegal massage parlour, you asshole!!!!!!”
Look, I know all the excuses, most of which are quite phony. Shit like your bar will get fined if you don’t have everyone out of it and the place locked up by 1:59:59 EST. Like you got to get the place cleaned and closed post-haste. You just want to get home to your girlfriend. Fine, I sympathize with you. I’m sure bouncing can be a shitty job some nights. But many jobs, both blue and white collar, suck. And if you don’t like dealing with people, especially drunk people, maybe you shouldn’t work in the service industry.
Why would I ever want to go to your bar again if you are going to treat me like a huge fucking asshole come closing time? The answer is, I wouldn’t. And I won’t.
So go fuck yourselves Mulrooney’s (”Mully’s”) on West Fayette Street*. You’re lucky I didn’t throw my fucking pint glass through your bar mirror like I was playing a carnival game to win a giant plush toy for my favorite steady girl.
I think, from now on, I need to restrict my drinking to New York City. Where we may all be fucking assholes, but at least us assholes treat people with respect.
Likewise, why do I continue to let the Jacob Leinenkugel Co. rape my taste buds? You might first recall their Sunset Wheat which nearly gave me fluoride poisoning. Then there was their Honey Weisse that caused a sleepless week as I waited for my STD test to come back**. Oh, and who can forget their Summer Shandy which tastes like an Arnold Palmer that’s been used as a colostomy bag. Finally, there was their Craptoberfest which tasted like that of a public swimming pool on a hot, late-August day.
You’re probably thinking, these beers surely aren’t that bad, you’re just being a funny man. I can assure you I am not. If I was truly overstating Leinenkugel’s awfulness, accusing them of poisoning me and giving me venereal disease, do you not think Jacob would sue me for libel? Or slander?!*** But they never have, which is ipso facto proof that they know the horrificness of their own product. (Though it doesn’t prevent a Minnesota message board from getting all up in a tizzy about the Vice Blogger.)
Since we all know I’m such a self sadomasochist that I make the Marquis de Sade seem like Mother Teresa, I have an odd desire to keep trying all the Leinenkugels I have yet to. Luckily, my friend Derek keeps finding ones for me. Like their Red Lager which I expected to be utterly horrific. So much so that I drank it in the bathroom.**** I especially expected it to be garbage being that I tippled it, perhaps unfairly, after having just shared three asskicking stouts which I scored an A+, an A+, and an A-.
Sadly friends, I am disappointed to report that this beer ain’t bad. In fact, it’s a fairly competent macro beer, better than most lagers available. I can even say I kinda enjoyed it, drinking the whole thing down fairly easily and even kinda wanting another.
Oh well, there will be more Leinenkugels in my future that will surely lead to my ultimate demise.
*Two further things, Mully’s:
1. Your website is comically terrible.
2. And, you, the grey-haired guy that owns the bar, girls are only hitting on you–correction, letting you creepily flirt with them and touch their backs–because you were comping them all night. Did you happen to notice at the end of the night that none of those women even kissed you on the cheek goodbye?
**Fun fact: apparently you can’t get chlamydia–or gonorrhea! or any other STDs!!–from a beer, no matter how heinous it tastes. They didn’t teach me that in public school sex ed, we only looked at a carousel of slides of inflamed genitalia. And I don’t mean the genitalia was inflamed as in hopping mad at someone or something. The genitalia was, like, inflamed as in burning and shit.
***Can never recall which one is for the written word as opposed to speaking. I went to public school, son.
****I’ve been doing far too much beer tasting in bathrooms lately. I have a problem.