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Tuesday January 10, 2006

My First Day of Bartending School

One morning last week, after waking up and still having quite a bit of liquor in my system, I decided to enroll in bartending school. This particular morning was also marred with getting an angry phone call from my bartender lady friend who I had sent MORE harassing text messages to the night before, but that's another story. I paid $250 for a 40 hour, one week course in bartending covering absolutely everything there is to know about bars and drinks, and today was my first day of class. For a full week of otherwise having nothing to do, $250 seemed like a bargain to pass the time and have a TON of good stories to tell. Hell, maybe it'll even land a bartending job.

I walked into the bar (how COOL is it to say that about a school?) and took a good look around. At first I thought I had accidentally walked into a halfway house, or perhaps a state mandated government service event. Tattoos and piercings abounded. There was one utterly stupid cute girl I discovered to be a few deep breaths away from brain dead, who could barely string together a coherent thought. I will probably still hit on her tomorrow if I get bored. Among the All-Star cast were also two kids in the military who wouldn't stop talking about flying helicopters, and one fifty year old crack head woman who came and sat next to me.

The day started out with me getting a 'textbook'.... in the loosest sense of the word possible. I went through and corrected the majority of the grammar, then asked where the missing pages were. This thing covers some really important stuff, like:

1) How to work a mechanical cash register:



in case I decide to work in the 1920's,

and 2) Who's on the $10,000 bill (not joking) in case someone decides to pay with one.

So we get divided up into pairs and, of course, the instructor pairs me with the crackhead since she's sitting right next to me. This lady looked like a wrinkly old handbag with tits that sagged so low I wanted to kick one through her knees like Pele and yell "GOOOOOOAAAALLL." She didn't have the raspy voice with a New York accent, nor smoke Virginia Slims until the ash was two inches long like I thought she would. I got in a discussion with her and the two military boys next to us about where we'd end up bartending. The two military guys were disillusioned enough to think they were going to walk straight into bartending positions at nightclubs with zero experience, and not being hot girls with fake boobs. The crackhead had Red Lobster written all over her, maybe even Denny's.

The worst part about today was finding out that the liquor was actually colored water, and that there was no alcohol on premises. Do you know how hard it is to pour drinks over and over all day and not be able to taste one? Shit. I just realized that's exactly what bartenders do. Still, I think I'm cut out perfectly for bartending; I look like an asshole, and act like I'm better than everyone else. From the plethora of bars I have been to, this seems to be the only skill set required by male bartenders.
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