Craig Bitches About Everything: Bars

I hate bars.

I mean I really fucking hate bars.

Any one of my best friends knows how sincere I am with every word of that statement. If I could gauge my experiences in bars in a spectrum of 1 through 10, with 1 being "absolute loathing" and 10 being "mild annoyance", then I'd rate my experiences somewhere around... negative 2. Notice I colored the word "negative" red to emphasize my hate.

By this point, some of you naysayers are probably thinking, "Aw, if you'd loosen up and have fun, then you wouldn't hate bars so much." Well, nothing personal, but I think I may hate you for saying that almost as much as I hate bars. First of all, when someone is in an uncomfortable situation, they can't just "have fun". The act of having fun is not relegated to an on/off switch in the brain. You either enjoy something, or you don't. "Fun" is too subjective a concept. Some people think dancing is fun, while others would rather have their doctor lose his watch while giving them a prostate exam than dance.

The best way to get across why I hate bars is to describe a typical bar experience for me. A night at the bar usually starts late, which is already annoying, as I generally hate staying out late, because I love sleeping too much. If I stay up really late, I always feel groggy the next day, and that's just not going to be good for anyone. So, I'll drive to the bar, and usually end up circling the block for 15-minutes before I find a place to park. Then I walk up, and find that I have to pay a cover.

By the way - fuck cover charges. These places don't make enough money on their overpriced drinks? You have to be charged a fee just to get entry into the loud, overcrowded shithole? Fabulous. So, reluctantly, I pay the cover, mentally tallying that the night has started with me $8 in the hole, and I haven't even bought a drink yet.

For the sake of giving you a full blown, sucky bar experience, let's say the bar is packed with people. This mean, just to get a drink, I must squeeze by people, who stand there like cows, completely immobile and unwilling to move in any way that will allow you to get by easier. So, after stepping on five feet, nearly spilling the drink of a person who looks just like Ogre, from Revenge of the Nerds...



...and doing that thing where you have to squeeze really close to another dude, to get by, but you're desperately trying not to be make "crotch-to-ass", or even worse "crotch-to-crotch", contact with him, because he and his douchie, frat buddies look just like type to feel the need to reinforce their heterosexuality by beating anyone they perceive as the least bit "faggoty", despite the fact that they're all wearing pink in their wardrobe, and regularly engage in homoerotic activities like sticking their balls in their passed out buddy's mouth as a charming "prank".

So, after navigating through the pool of humanity, or cesspool, depending on the bar you're at, I finally get to the actually bar part of the bar. Now I'm standing there, like a chode, waiting for the bartender to notice me, and every time he walks by, I hesitantly stick my finger up, like I'm hailing a cab, only to be ignored for the pretty blond in front of me, or the hot brunette to the left of me. Keep in mind that now I'm the immovable object that everyone is brushing by, and I'm trying my best to stretch my body in an almost Yoga like fashion to accommodate everyone who needs to get by me, because I'm a pretty big guy, and I'm used to being in people's way. I'm the kind of guy that always feels slightly guilty to sit in front of someone in a theater, so I unconsciously watch the movie with my head hunched low for the sake of the entire audience behind me.

I finally get the bartender's attention, and the conversation usually goes something like this: "WHAT'S YOUR DRINK SPECIALS???" (all caps to because I have to scream to be heard over the unrelenting shitty music they usually throb in most bars).

Bartender: "We don't got no specials."

Me: "OH! UH... WHAT'S YOUR CHEAPEST BEER?" At this point, the bartender rolls his eyes, dusts off the laminated menu that nobody ever uses, and hands it to me. I don't take long, because what I need is usually right on top - cheapest beer: Paps Blue Ribbon. After I order it, I imagine a hipster tipping his ironic trucker hat and saying, "PBR - always a good choice!" Of course, I also imagine Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet:

Of course, by “cheap”, I mean that it costs $4.00 per bottle, whereas if I were to go by a gas station, I could probably pickup a six-pack of PBR at that price… hell, maybe even a 12-pack! I hand the bartender my debit card, and he asks if I want to start a tab. I say no. He says, “Sorry, but we have a ten dollar minimum if you’re going to use a debit card.” I say maybe I don’t want to spend ten dollars tonight. He suggests, in that case, I should visit an ATM. I point out that doesn’t make much sense, because an ATM only lets you withdraw a minimum of $20. He gets agitated, and points out that he has other customers to attend to, so I finally give him my card, resigned that, no matter what, now I’m going to be most definitely dumping 18 bucks (including cover charge) into this misadventure. Fuck.

I navigate through the crowd again to reach my friends, who are waiting for me on the other side of the room, right next to the speakers for the sound system. Lovely. Oh, wait, I’m sorry, did I say friends? Cause I meant two people I actually consider friends, and then half a table of people I’ve never met in my life. I try to muster enough goodwill with which to greet my friends, but it takes so much of my will to do it, I have next to nothing left for the strangers at the table, so I just give them a slight nod. I sit down, nursing my nasty tasting beer, surveying the bar, and feeling boredom almost immediately setting in. Fuck.

My friends try to engage me in conversation, but due to the loud music, it goes something like this:

Friend: “So, how’s the stand-up comedy going?”

Me: “WHAT???”

Friend: “I said, how’s the stand-up comedy going?"

Me: “I’M SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU BECAUSE WE’RE IN AN INCREDIBLY LOUD BAR!”

Friend: “I know, this bar is incredible!”

At this point, I shrug, and return attention to my beer. My friends, having decided that communication with me would be futile, turn their attention to the others at the table. I’m left staring wistfully at my cell phone, wishing that I hadn’t gotten rid of the internet service on it, as posting my misery on Facebook would do much to alleviate my suffering. I do the next best thing, however, and text every person on my contact list to get their sympathy. Half of them don’t respond, because it’s so late, or they could care less, while the other half give me the sage like advice to “have fun”. This irritates me enough that I put the phone away for the night, and now I’m left with literally twiddling my thumbs and thinking about how far I am from finishing Assassin’s Creed II for X-Box 360.

Suddenly, a shot is sat in front of me, and my friends are goading me to drink it. I ask where it came from. Some dude whose name I don’t even know has bought the table a round of shots. While I certainly feel grateful about the gesture, at the same time I’m kind of pissed, because now the obligation to buy the table shots will eventually move around the table to me, and I can’t be a dick and not reciprocate the gesture. Goddamn it, at this rate, I’ll be in the hole for 50 bucks if I’m lucky! Not only that, but I didn’t want to get very drunk in the first place, because I want to be able to get back home. I’d rather not crash on my friend’s couch, which is half my size, and is usually slept on by a cat, who makes it her business to let me know it’s her couch by sticking her puckered asshole in my face at every opportunity. I also didn’t want to have to call a cab, because I was already spending enough money as it is. Still, I couldn’t turn down the drink, as it would be rude, so I drink it.

Ugh… fuck… I hate shots… there is nothing fun about drinking a shot whatsoever. It’s about as fun as swallowing a pissed off bumblebee. My nasty ass beer is hardly much of a chaser, so I just sit there, choking, and desiring more fervently to go home more than ever before. My friends begin taking my silent sulking as an affront to their good time, so they begin to wish I’d go home as well. I finally strike upon the brilliant idea of getting my round over with and going home on a high note. So, I swim through the crowd once more to order a round of shots, close my tab, writing “Eat the 10 dollar minimum, asshole” in the Tip bracket, plow through people with a newfound total disregard for human courtesy, serve up the shots, and I get the fuck out of there.

That pretty well sums up my bar experiences. If I could surmise what bugs me so much about going to a bar, it’s that it feels like a lot of work for little to no reward. It’s kind of like paying to get into Disney World, but not being able to ride the rides, because of long lines, or because of malfunctions. Some people go out to bars to pick up girls, but I don’t function that way. I’m not very smooth even in the most casual environments, nevertheless when competing with a booming sound system. Some people go to socialize, but once again, I refer to the sound issue. Unless there was a high school lip reading class I wasn’t aware of, than socializing seems out of the question for me as well. Others go to bars just to get shitfaced, but I don’t drink very much – in fact, I don’t like to drink. I hate how it makes me feel the next day, no matter how much I’ve had. Also, I don’t like having no control over my faculties, especially in a public place. So, with all of that being said, you can well imagine that I much prefer a place that is about as opposite of a bar as one can imagine – that’s right: coffee shop. However, even those can be annoying in some ways, but I’ll save that for another bitching session….

Fuck bars.