Of Bars, Booze, and Bartending - Proving "Coughlin's Law" Invalid Since Feb '05

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Carry-Out

One of those things I'll never understand is the nightly guy, who, it never fails, around 2:00 am and pretty much crocked off his ass, implores the bartender to sell him carry-out beer. And not carry-out beer at the bar price, mind you, but at some mythical price of his own choosing. This kind of guest will negotiate and barter until he finally just gives up or his friends drag him out.

Arguing with drunk people is a very trying exercise, especially at the end of a long and busy night where the bartender has just about had her fill and the previously enjoyable customers are now to the point where they start commenting about your nice ass or ask whether your coworker is single while their date is in the bathroom. But it just kills me when they don't understand why you can't sell them a twelve-pack to go.

"Well, I can't sell it to you because we're not that kind of bar. You might be able to find that kind of bar, but even their cut-off is 1:00 am and you shouldn't be driving around pushing your luck anyway, so looks like you'll just have to make do with the buzz you already have. You'll thank me in the morning."

"Let's say you sold me a twelve-pack, c'mon. How much would you charge, you could do it, I've been a good tipper all night, you could hook me up." (Actually, he tipped $18.00 on a particularly annoying $132.00 tab of J├Ąger-Bombs, Miller Lite, Washington Apples and White Zin, so we all lost our patience at the precise moment he tabbed out.)


(Doing quick math in head) "$42.00. But I'm not going to sell it to you, and even if I were, would you really pay $42.00 for it?"

"You've got to be kidding me! You're ripping me off! Hook me up! Hook me up!"

"I'm actually pretty serious right now. But it's a moot point. No beer for you."


Here's the thing, party people.... you just gotta plan ahead. Make sure there's a twelve-pack of that crappy beer you've been drinking waiting for you in the fridge at home after a long night of drinking too much.

Isn't it funny... just when people get to the point where they've had one too many, they somehow feel an irresistable urge to drink twelve more?

I have cursed, bled and sworn
Jumped bail and landed up in jail
Life has often tried to stretch me
But the rope always was slack
And now that I've a pile
I'll go down to the Chelsea
I'll walk in on my feet
But I'll leave there on my back
Oh the words that he spoke
Seemed the wisest of philosophies
There's nothing ever gained
By a wet thing called a tear
When the world is too dark
And I need the light inside of me
I'll go into a bar and drink
Fifteen pints of beer

The Pogues, "Streams of Whiskey"

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