Benetton Douche Bags

It’s amazing how a day can change over the course of sixteen hours. Monday was cleaning day. I got there early, cranked up the tunes, and got to work. I was soon joined by my colleagues. I’ve mentioned before that cleaning isn’t my forte, and I don’t enjoy setting my alarm after working late, but it was a blast. Too bad that night had, and ended with, an international melange of douchery.

It’s rare that all five bartenders are together. It’s not something that crossed my mind until yesterday. It was actually a lot of fun. We hung out, chatted, sang, all the while beautifying the bar. We weren’t too far into the cleaning when I heard the scream. It was bloodcurdling. It came from Mary-Kate and my first thought was, “Oh, shit. We have rats.” A few seconds later she came in the room beaming. It turns out our little Mary-Kate booked her first national commercial. I don’t know what made me happier, the fact that we don’t have rats or that Mary-Kate will be on TV. I’m gonna go with the former, not because I don’t wish MK well. It’s just that acting is a tough gig. I kind of compare it to a toxic, malignant, bitch goddess of a girlfriend, who every year or two gives you such an amazing blow job that for several minutes after you’re still pulling the fitted sheet out of your ass. In any case, it’s an amazing way to start the new year. I wish her all the luck in the world.

Tim had lunch plans with his Dad and Kimi had to work, so Nicole, Gator, Kevin, Aoife, and I went to lunch at the Library Ale House. People love the Library. I’m not such a huge fan. First of all, I don’t care for beer bars. The Library has a lovely patio and some of their food is good, but I don’t seek it out. I ordered fourth and got the Jerk Chicken. Gator followed with the same. There was a time when I would’ve changed my order, because I used to believe that everyone at the table should order something different. It was part of my last supper mentality. If it were to be my last meal, I’d want to taste everything, but hours of therapy each morning has caused me to evolve into the semi-flexible curmudgeon that I am today. My jerk chicken tasted like, you guessed it, chicken. I buried my head in the plate, not speaking until Aoife asked, “How is your food, David?” I stopped chewing long enough to grunt. It was good. When we got up to leave, the place was packed, which caused me to remark, “So this is where our lunch business is.”

After spending the hot, sunny afternoon on the couch watching 24, I came back to work. My buddy Craig was there having a beer with his friend Joe. It’s twelve days into January and we’re sitting outside in jeans and t-shirts, living the dream. Lindsay, who works next door, joined us, then my friend Shari came by. I went to the bar to get us some drinks and Kevin was pouring a couple of shots of Zwack, something he found in the fridge. I asked if it tastes like Jaeger, because I’m not a fan of Jaeger. “No,” Kevin assured me and poured me a shot. I should’ve known Kevin was lying because his lips were moving. Yes, it tasted like Jaeger. Ugh! Chalk one up for Kevin. Shari and I went off campus for dinner. We drove all around looking for a place to eat and ended up two blocks from where Shari lives at Hurry Curry. Turns out our waiter lives in Shari’s building and he hooked us up with a couple of bowls of soup: corn chowder and lobster bisque. The corn chowder was good, but the lobster bisque was amazing. It’s not something I would’ve ordered at a place that specializes in Japanese Curry, but it blew me away.

Back at the bar, I was hanging out with a couple of new, regulars: Brendan and Bree, when the first of the international douche bags picked up Brendan’s drink and took a sip. My first assumption was that Brendan knew this guy, who sounded Israeli, but turned out to be Russian. Brendan said he didn’t really know him but it wasn’t a big deal. A valuable lesson I learned at Swinger’s was to deny service to douche bags. Something in me wants to give them a second chance, but usually they fuck up even worse later. I let the guy stay and he left soon thereafter without any incident. The rest of the panoply of foreign douche reared their nozzled heads at the end of the night. They were four tour operators from Ireland. It was way past last call and the bouncer was really lenient with them. At about four minutes til two, I said, “Sorry, guys, I’m gonna have to take your drinks.” I approached the biggest one who said, “You’re not touching my drink.” I don’t make enough money to forcibly remove a beverage from some mouth-breathing, knuckle dragging, third-world dwelling, neanderthal so I threatened to call the cops. When I realized that I didn’t have their number, I asked Kevin to use his charm. He informed the vaginal cleansers that we were closing up and they had to go. They had all finished their drinks, but one guy refused to leave. He claimed, “You’re treating us like second class citizens.” I don’t know what it is about landing at LAX that brings out people’s entitlement issues. Maybe he thought that since he was the same ethnicity as the bar that the rules didn’t apply to him. Personally, I don’t go into Jewish bars expecting different treatment. Oops, I almost forgot, the chosen people don’t institutionalize alcoholism. Now when Obama legalizes marijuana, I’m sure you’ll see a chain of Rosenberg’s Smokatoriums spring up overnight.  And I won’t care what time they close, but they’ll have to pry the bong from my cold, dead hand.

Monday morning I was loving my bar family, early Tuesday morning I wanted to take a lead pipe to the skull of some bar douche. What a difference sixteen hours makes. I went from hanging out with friends I love to hanging out with Benetton douche bags.