Best Bar Stories Ever
In light of actually seeing C.E. with a green rep bar, I'd figure that I'd post my recent experience of embracing a miracle as well:
So, last week Tuesday, I was at a pub-ish establishment and the 25 year old really hot niece of the corporate CEO walks in with her mother out of the blue and joins me and a co-worker for a couple of drinks.
A couple turn into 20 or so, and her mother and my co-worker leave and shit gets a little weird.
Anywho, after a good conversation about three ways with a stripper and "I'd be happy to take to to a Performing Arts Center for your first time" shit, I meet her back there the next evening with me and the same co-worker of the night before and lo and behold within 45 minutes this veritable goddess is sitting at the table right next to us by herself with a low cut sweater and huge tracts of land bursting.
For at least 45 minutes I make my best attempt to ignore her visually...go to the restroom and as I'm coming out, the busty goddess is standing in the hall waiting for me. (Seriously. I shit you not.) With nothing else coming to mind, I ask her to join us, which she does, and five or six tequila shots later we are all having a great time.
And the 25 year old is really, really, really digging her and vice versa and, well, my co-worker leaves and, yeah...
So, I'm wondering, is this my lottery ticket for life? Shit couldn't have gone down any more perfect and, so...what now?
And I mean, super hot. I ask my co-worker the next day, on a 1 to 10 scale how hot...and he says 11 or a 11.5.
So what the **** do I have to look forward to at this point? I can't imagine shit better. I still can't even think/focus/care.
What the **** am I supposed to do now?
Anyone have shit like this happen and what do I do with my life from this point on? I mean, guys buy Ferraris and yachts in the hopes of this kind of shit happening.
I'm a bit of a mess with this right now in terms of going forward.
And then the Wendler green bar.
If the Chiefs draft Geno, I'm thinking we all ascend.
Picks or it didn't happen
But I do have witnesses.
And I've spent the last two nights looking at phone numbers desperately not wanting to call them.
I'm in hell.
Order this. You won't regret it.
I actually got roofied last fall. No idea why but I was a couple beers in when I decided to check out a hole-in-the-wall bar near my house. It had only been open a month or so... So an employee and I stopped in there and had a couple more beers. This is 4 beers over 3 hours. There was a bartender and 2 very young girls in the bar. My employee went out for a smoke and I ducked into the bathroom. I always carry my beer with me but left it this night for some reason. Didn't give the girls or barkeep any reason to roofie me. In fact, I bought a round for everybody and we all joked for a while. On the drive home I started feeling blasted and could hardly walk/talk by the time I got in my house. Hurled in the toilet then passed out. The roofie story was tough to sell to the wife but it's not hard to convince her when I had receipts for the drinks and she knew we got off work very late.
Edit - employee didn't do it either. He got it too and was outside smoking for the entire time I was in the toilet.
Don't let her die of leukemia
I have a lot of bar stories but I only remember the first half of them.
I got so many they all blend together to be honest.
The thing I've written that's been published. All true, the only thing that isn't true is the fact that I omitted the copious amount of cocaine that kept me up until six. Anyway it was a pretty funny evening, and not half as exciting as quite a few other bar occurrences, but for some reason this is the one that gets published, go figure...
I am sick. I stayed up until six a.m. this morning. I am awake at ten because my new neighbor is moving furniture. As I open my eyes, the sunlight that drowns the room blinds me. The hideous scrunching, scratching sound of furniture feet across hardwoods and tile fill my ears. It is, for all my efforts to deny it, my time to wake. My stomach is rotten. Sitting on the toilet before the shower, after the shower and every hour for the next four isn’t my ideal way to work through a hangover.
The prescription for a cure? One, drink water all day. Secondly, eat what you can, prepackaged or leftover. Third, don’t waste time and energy cooking. You won’t like it once it’s done anyway. Finally, smoke pot, play video games, and watch movies. These are the rules to be followed and the rules I usually abide by.
By eight thirty in the p.m. I’m healed. Not entirely, but I am well on my way to recovery. The decision had been made that I would stay in. Staying in means less damage to the bank account, the head, the stomach and the liver. I am going to feel good on Sunday. I am going to feel like I can conquer the world. God said, and I’m paraphrasing, “Let Sunday be a day of rest.” Not for me, I’m going to be razor sharp. The phone rings. I cringe. I’m sure it’s ever present request for an outing by those who had been occupied elsewhere the night before.
It’s Scott, with the Moff assuredly in tow. “You going out?”
“Naw. I ****ing wrecked.”
“Come on man, were heading back from the most awkward of awkward weddings and we need a drink.”
He doesn’t have to be much of a salesman. I’m sold already.
“Hugo’s in twenty.” He says.
“Make it thirty.” I say.
I hang up the phone and wonder what I’ve done. Not only have I agreed to go out for a drink but I agree to have one at one of the swankiest joints in town. I am an idiot and I am not getting dressed up. A sock hat finds its way to covering my chaotic hair. Torn jeans adorn my lower body. My coat smells like stale cigarettes and beer. I am sure I look exactly like I feel and I don’t give a shit.
On my walk I enjoy three quarters of a Pabst Blue Ribbon but throw it down when I near a street with a few too many lights. It’s cold outside and I’m shivering because of the cold but funny enough, the beer tasted good. As soon as I toss the quarter of a can I wish I hadn’t. I see two lone men dressed in long black coats smoking on what must be one of the most frigid patios in the nation.
“Gentlemen.” I greet them.
“What’s happening?” Says the Moff.
“Hey,” replies Scott, “you look like a dog turd.”
We walk inside and I begin to enjoy my four-dollar beer. We banter, discuss the wedding and check out the scene. I am under dressed and these two look like they should be on the cover of GQ. I still do not give a shit. What has caught our attention is the mountain of tail that’s parading around inside this establishment. Breast exploding from blouse tops and long beautiful legs encased in knee high boots are everywhere. I especially cannot afford this scene. We all get one last eye full of all these lovely winter vixens and at my suggestion make our way out to the cold.
We stop at our usually dive. Zooloo’s is warm and smells of stale smoke. None of us are drunk, so there are no women here worth talking to. The bartender’s a nice girl but involved. Scott hates this place. It is a point of pride that he unabashedly bitches about this place at every opportunity. I try to supersede him.
“One beer and a shot. That’s it.” I say as Moff joins us with a gin and tonic.
He looks at Scott. “You not drinking?”
Scott simply shoots him a look like he should know better. He does know better and just shakes his head. It has been agreed that we should head to a bar that hasn’t been graced with our presence. The choice is Mickey Finn’s. An Irish bar with a reputation to play some well liked music and serve some reasonably priced beer. Not the cheapest, but reasonable is all we can ask for. Not quite the dive like Zooloo’s and certainly not the caliber of Hugo’s, we batten down for a couple more beers.
Then, there he is. Goddamn it! There’s one in every bar at sometime of the night. The guy that’s way too drunk, thinks he’s the funniest ****er in the place, and plays the air guitar. Yes sir, he’s here spilling beers and throwing coasters at his idiot buddies. It takes me all of five seconds to be annoyed. Scott and Moff are well aware of him too. I grit my teeth so hard I can feel it in my eye sockets. I see Moff cringe when he hears another full beer fall on the floor. Moff was a bartender in a previous life. For him, dropping a beer is an offense punishable by death. Next to the sickening retching of a good drunk puke, the sound of a full beer hitting the floor is the worst for a bartender.
I’m tired of this goon. I can tell the waitress is annoyed and something must be done.
“Lets buy him a shot of Jimmy Beam.” I say.
The two sets of eyes light up with the prospect of administering some justice and getting a good laugh. Scott breaks out his wallet and pulls out a twenty.
“Do it.” He says with more conviction than I’ve heard from anyone in along time. Moff and I each pull out a couple of bucks and make Scott put away the twenty in exchange for couple of George Washingtons. All in all, we have about twelve bucks.
“Are you gonna clean up the puke?” The waitress asks us.
Her words are against us but through her tone and her eyes we know she wants in.
Scott issues a request. “Tell him it’s from a chick or something.”
“No.” She says. “It’s from some dude who was in here, thought he was cute and just left.”
We all like this plan immensely. The shot arrives. The guy’s head is bobbing already but at the prospect of a freebie he is awake and ready. He smells it and shakes his head “no”. I hear our agent of liquor allocation say something about female genitalia.
We try hard to hide the anticipation. All our eyes are glued on this unwitting stooge. The shot hits his lips and his cheeks balloon. His face is pale. He begins to make his way for the door and a small spurt of liquid emits from between his pursed lips. He reminds me of a cherub on a fountain. His feet hit the sidewalk momentarily followed by a volcanic display of vomit. I feel something like joy in my heart. He is gone for several minutes before he returns and orders some water. Our plan worked like a charm. Put in the “V” file, “V” for victory.
My feeling of joy is slightly undermined with a feeling of pity for the bouncer. But as they say, there is no war without casualties. He looks like someone punched him in the stomach as he’s dragging a mop and bucket out to the sidewalk. We keep watching our newfound friend. He’s quiet and subdued. His face is pale and sickly. He’s no longer making an ass of himself. We’ve done him a favor. The waitress walks by and Scott slips a twenty into her hand.
“Spilt that with him.” He says pointing through the window at the bouncer.
“I will.” She says.
We know she will too. She has this look on her face like she’s a judge and the prisoner she’s condemned to death has just had his sentence carried out.
well….certainly not as cool as banging 25 year old hottie….but as far as “Best Bar Stories” go….it’s worthy….
Some may not think this is funny….but I do…..true story……
I don’t consider myself a homophobe, but I have a friend who is. (by the way….why do some gay guys feel the need to totally flaunt the fact that they are gay?? I don’t get it! I guess I should run around yelling “I EAT PUSSY!” all the time to flaunt my un-gayness? I don’t mind that you’re gay….I mind that you’re a ****ing IDIOT that thinks anyone else gives a rats ass that you’re gay. so shut the **** up already and stop talking like a retarded fairy! you don't really talk like that. you are making yourself talk that way. shut the **** up.
but anyways…so my friend and I are going to a concert at the joint on Broadway. We get there way early (before the doors were open) and waaayyy messed up (I was still young and dumb and thought the only way to see a concert is smashed…). So we park and run across the street into the first bar we hit. I gotta pee bad and tell my friend to grab me the biggest beer they’ve got and I’ll meet him in the back by the pool tables. I come out of the bathroom and he’s standing by a pool table with a huge frigging beer for me….and sure as shit….he’s tripping. “this is a gay place” he’s saying. I tell him he’s full of shit and I ain’t leaving a gallon of beer behind so shut up and let’s play pool. We played a few games when I noticed on an end table a muscle magazine and I chuckled because I realized…he’s probably right…it very well may be a gay bar. he heard me chuckle and IMMEDIATELY jumps all over it. WHAT! WHAT IS IT??! You saw SOMETHING didn’t you! I’m laughing now and telling him to chill. I get him calmed down and he walks to the end of the pool table to rack’em and then….after playing pool for at least a half hour or so…..I notice behind him on the wall……I shit you not…..this poster. This was a big sonofabitching poster! It was a poster of two nekked dudes….and they were at LEAST as big as life size…I think bigger…and they are hugging each other face to face with arms and legs wrapped around each other. And….did I say they were nekked?! We’ve been there maybe 45 minutes playing pool under this monstrosity and neither of us noticed it! I’m looking up at it and I’m like “OH….MY….GOD!” my friend turned around and just about shit his pants. It was HI-LARIOUS! He left a smoke trail heading outta that place. I was laughing out loud. I slammed the rest of my gallon-o-beer and moseyed on towards the door and as I come out of the pool table area into the main room there are several dudes now seated in there wearing boas and what not. Obviously gay. It was pretty damn funny. I get outside and look at the sign above the door…..it was called The Other Side.
This may just be one of those stories where you had to be there to appreciate it…..but it was hella-funny!
there's some good stories on this site fo sho.
This is why I don't go out late at night.
The bold parts are lame teasers devoid of details.
The underlined part doesn't make sense.
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