Ehren And Friends Enjoy (And Possibly Get Banned From) A Bar

When a new bar opens in town, it’s a big deal. If you’re really into Christ, I imagine you’d get all tingly in your bottom when a brand spanking new church opens its doors. Well, I’m into Alcohol not Jesus. So bars are as close to a place of worship as I have. With that in mind, I set out last night to scout my town’s newest cathedral to carousing and to do some serious "praying." I woke up this morning with the distinct impression that I may have already been excommunicated.

Two friends and I went in and took seats at the end of the bar. It was a nice a joint: many large TVs, comfy looking booths, a huge, highly lacquered bar—and best of all, it was new enough that the local skanks hadn’t yet discovered it and whored the place up. You all know what I mean: one minute you’ve got a respectable, chill hang-out spot, the next, it’s over-run with girls wearing glitter and the place is blasting songs by Ludacris.

But the best part about new bars is that the bartenders haven’t learned not to encourage me or my friends. This was apparent when our server approached us. Actually, I think her breasts arrived about 5 minutes before the rest of her. She was so top-heavy, I was afraid she was going to fall over at any minute. Had that happened, of course, I would have been obliged to be a gentleman and help her up. With my cock.

After about 4 drinks (one Magner’s, one Yuengling, two pint classes of vodka and soda), I hit on one of my more brilliant ideas of the night. Calling the bartender over, at this point beyond caring whether I was making eye-contact or blatantly staring at her nipples, I began to question her.

Me: Excuse me. Do you have special arrangements for diners with infants or small children?
Her: Umm…I guess. You mean like high chairs or booster seats? Why do you have kids?
Me: Not yet, but the night is young. Do you have those special cups for infants that don’t spill? The sippy cups?
Her: Yep.
Me: Bring me vodka and ice in a sippy cup.

Think about it: how often have you been drunk at a bar and gotten really involved in a story you’re telling and then spilled your drink down the dress of some girl you’re trying to impress? Or been staring down the tank top of your bartender so intently that you knock your drink directly into your lap? Sippy cups are the natural solution. Plus…it’s vodka…in a sippy cup. It’s so wrong and yet so right.

Unfortunately, the bartender was not amused and refused my request. When she returned with my drink in an ordinary glass, I said, “No sippy cup??? You could have at least put a nipple on my drink.”

“You mean rubber ones?”

“That,” I responded “Depends on how well you hope to be tipped.”

Two drinks and zero sippy cups later, the same girl came by once more to take our order.

“What can I get you?”
“I want you to look deep into my eyes.” I said, not yet sure where I was going with this.
“OK…”
“Good. Now I want you to look at me, really look and bring me a drink that you think is appropriate.”
“Umm…well, what kind of drinks do you like? Do you—“
“No, just look and use your woman’s intuition.”

She set off looking bewildered and returned, 10 minutes later carrying a glass, which she dutifully set in front of me. I looked at the contents doubtfully and took an experimental sip. It was the pinkest, sickly sweetest, most vile concoction I’d ever had.

“You are possibly the worst judge of character I’ve ever met.” I declared. “This is who you think I am? I think you just called me a homosexual.”

“No, I think it’s really good. I invented it just for you.”

I narrowed my eyes into a glare and allowed a beat of silence.

“You’ve hurt me, Kim.” I declared somberly. “You’ve hurt me in a way only sex can heal.”

I’m not sure if that was the line that will get me banned from the place for life. What I am sure about, however, is that my friend, Jack Saddle, did not help our cause. See, at some point during the evening he decided that he was going to check out the V.I.P. section—invite or no. His exact line as jumped the velvet rope was, “NO ROPE CAN STOP ME!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Ropes might not have been able to stop him, but apparently managers can. Or can at least try. Unfortunately for the proprietor, however, my friend saw him coming and made a mad dash into the men’s room, narrowly and temporarily eluding capture.

So there Jack was: locked in the bathroom while the manager pounded on the door, demanding Jack’s neck. Jack then proceeded to urinate, lengthily (as drunk people are apt to do), while yelling, “You can’t come in—I’m peeing.”

The manager continued to knock, so my friend, irritated that the existence of his urine was being called into question, decided to prove the issue in the only way possible: he started to open the door, midstream.

There he was: legs planted, one hand holding his cock, while the rest of his body and the other arm twisted and flailed at the door, which he somehow managed to unlock. As it swung open, the manager’s brief victory quickly turned to defeat as the half naked man continued pissing in full view of him and a table of VIPs. At this point, I think my friend’s only hope for re-admittance is the slim chance that everyone’s eyes were so riveted in horror to his cock that they completely missed his face.

Oh well, I suppose that there will always be other bars. There isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to make people forget that they live in Rockland County.