Vegan probiotic culture, kale and quinoa. Don’t forget the organic, fair trade coffee either.
Who’s shopping cart do I have? Why am I at Whole Foods at ten o’clock on a Saturday night?
Oh, that’s right. I’m living chapter #547 of my life, the chapter in which I cleaned up and got my shit together.
I scored some big kid problems and regulated chaos. Packed planners and a juicer.
Hugs not drugs and a cupboard full of vitamins.
Is that face wash and eye cream in my bathroom? Who’s yoga mat is that and what’s with the Ganesha statue in the bedroom? Does that shelf contain all “How To” books?
Yes, I guess it does.
Currently I’m writing my own “How To” book. A, “how I got clean” book. The fucked up prerequisite is done and in the process of being morphed into one of those new high tech e-books I know nothing about.
Below is an edited except of the e-book coming late this year in which describes my asshole antics in full. Below is one of the milder tales.
*******
The Cuntinental
What a shit-hole, that bar.
My first bar gig in the City was at an old punk rock venue turned douche bag, college kid hang out. The owner couldn’t afford to put on shows anymore so he started making deals with the Devil. Low priced drinks and insane deals on shots - 5 for 10 bucks. What the fuck? He was asking for trouble and he got it. Each and every fucking night.
Most college shits can’t hold their booze. The classic “binge drink and purge your wretched insides out all over the floor” routine. Well tequila shots, 5 for $10 and Beast on tap, plus college jerks, will make for a serious mess.
I took the job because it was the one bar that didn’t require prior New York City bartending experience. I needed a job. Of course in my initial interview I didn’t really grasp what I was getting myself into, I thought I was just signing up for a gig in a shitty dive bar, my preferred hidey-hole. I’m not the friendliest bartender out there and my customer service sucks. “The customer is always wrong,” sign behind the bar at the Cuntinental was what sold me.
The owner turned out to be real elitist prick that had no idea, actually, of how to run a bar. It seemed he ran the place in order to bag underage chicks, which is most bar owners, I guess. But really, who can resist underage pussy?
He hated everyone that came into the bar; sad and regretful that his dream had been shit on by the economy tanking forcing him to sell out. He took it out on us. In rapid succession he’d fire off back-handed compliments and bark nonsensical orders all in the same breath.
Remarkably, I lasted close to a year. On my final night I had had enough of his unwarranted shit, punched the back of the bar, sent bottles flying and told him to go fuck himself. Not the classiest exit, but whatever. I never said I was.
Leading up to that scene, it had been a trying week. We had gotten into it because I wouldn’t serve an already hammered girl more tequila so he’d have a chance at fucking her. I have some morals. The end of the week brought Halloween: People in costumes, especially ones that covered their faces and identities, filled the bar. I swear people dress up and wear masks in order to anonymously get out of control and act like dicks. An extended douche bag pass is issued, just because they’re hidden.
The night started off with the usual pack of undesirables, getting their freak on and drinking their faces off. But after about ten, shit started to get weird.
First, a girl dressed as Little-Bo-Peep kept falling on her ass and a man (?) in penguin costume kept trying to hump her while she was on the floor, which actually, she didn’t seem to mind. They ended up making out, her face jammed into the giant beak of his costume. Not far into it, in one swift motion Bo-Peep’s head was ejected from the penguin’s beak and he projectile vomited all over the bar. He was kicked out and she ran after him, running headlong into the glass door she apparently didn’t see.
Not long after that, Where’s Waldo called me a fucking asshole for refusing to give him free shots. This dick didn’t need anymore and he was out of cash. Again, principles. He reached over the bar and helped himself to a bottle of gin. That didn’t go over well and he had to be taken down. The problem was, there were five of these Where’s Waldo fucks in the bar (were they together? Was it that year’s throwback costume?).
All five Waldo’s were rounded up and led out of the bar, single file.
To top it off, out of nowhere the Hamburgler appeared at the bar with a nun and a large mouse. A surly looking lot for a fast food cartoon character, a woman of the cloth, and a fuzzy little animal. For reasons unknown the Hamburgler decided to take the garnish tray off the bar, (which was nailed down, mind you), and hurl it across the place, olives and maraschino cherries raining down on everyone. He then snatched up a tray of shot glasses and hurled that. It was complete mayhem. Everyone had gone batshit. Mad to the point where the Hatter seemed like a tame beast. I leapt up on the bar and cried for help.
“Get the fucking Hamburgler!” I wailed. A sentence I never thought I’d say. Ha! Jokes on me, Bubba.
He was captured and as expected, thrown the fuck out.
I’d had it after that and decided that Jack Daniels was the only thing to get me through that evening, so I slugged the shit down in spades.
By the end of the night I was vicious. I had become one of the over-saturated assholes. I was no better than the jackass clientele and my shit-head boss - violent and raging drunk. Tough times at Debauchery High.
After all this, I was strung out and sick of it all. Sick of the kids, sick of the shitty tips, sick of the puke and sick of the puke-bag owner. I don’t even think he said anything that untoward the night I quit, a couple of days after Halloween. I think he told me to do something I didn’t feel like doing, and I lipped off, causing him to spout back at me.
And then, well, like I said, the punching and swearing ensued. Adios, Muchacho. Good luck with the little girls.
Maybe I needed a new profession that didn’t involve hard alcohol and people.
*******
And yes there will be more previews to come, all more vicious than the last…if you’re interested.
Check out the blog on it's home site @
www.hihaveyoumetme.com for previous writings and more.
Don’t forget to stalk me further at https://twitter.com/#!/hihaveyoumetme orhttp://www.facebook.com/authorkatemonahan
Who’s shopping cart do I have? Why am I at Whole Foods at ten o’clock on a Saturday night?
Oh, that’s right. I’m living chapter #547 of my life, the chapter in which I cleaned up and got my shit together.
I scored some big kid problems and regulated chaos. Packed planners and a juicer.
Hugs not drugs and a cupboard full of vitamins.
Is that face wash and eye cream in my bathroom? Who’s yoga mat is that and what’s with the Ganesha statue in the bedroom? Does that shelf contain all “How To” books?
Yes, I guess it does.
Currently I’m writing my own “How To” book. A, “how I got clean” book. The fucked up prerequisite is done and in the process of being morphed into one of those new high tech e-books I know nothing about.
Below is an edited except of the e-book coming late this year in which describes my asshole antics in full. Below is one of the milder tales.
*******
The Cuntinental
What a shit-hole, that bar.
My first bar gig in the City was at an old punk rock venue turned douche bag, college kid hang out. The owner couldn’t afford to put on shows anymore so he started making deals with the Devil. Low priced drinks and insane deals on shots - 5 for 10 bucks. What the fuck? He was asking for trouble and he got it. Each and every fucking night.
Most college shits can’t hold their booze. The classic “binge drink and purge your wretched insides out all over the floor” routine. Well tequila shots, 5 for $10 and Beast on tap, plus college jerks, will make for a serious mess.
I took the job because it was the one bar that didn’t require prior New York City bartending experience. I needed a job. Of course in my initial interview I didn’t really grasp what I was getting myself into, I thought I was just signing up for a gig in a shitty dive bar, my preferred hidey-hole. I’m not the friendliest bartender out there and my customer service sucks. “The customer is always wrong,” sign behind the bar at the Cuntinental was what sold me.
The owner turned out to be real elitist prick that had no idea, actually, of how to run a bar. It seemed he ran the place in order to bag underage chicks, which is most bar owners, I guess. But really, who can resist underage pussy?
He hated everyone that came into the bar; sad and regretful that his dream had been shit on by the economy tanking forcing him to sell out. He took it out on us. In rapid succession he’d fire off back-handed compliments and bark nonsensical orders all in the same breath.
Remarkably, I lasted close to a year. On my final night I had had enough of his unwarranted shit, punched the back of the bar, sent bottles flying and told him to go fuck himself. Not the classiest exit, but whatever. I never said I was.
Leading up to that scene, it had been a trying week. We had gotten into it because I wouldn’t serve an already hammered girl more tequila so he’d have a chance at fucking her. I have some morals. The end of the week brought Halloween: People in costumes, especially ones that covered their faces and identities, filled the bar. I swear people dress up and wear masks in order to anonymously get out of control and act like dicks. An extended douche bag pass is issued, just because they’re hidden.
The night started off with the usual pack of undesirables, getting their freak on and drinking their faces off. But after about ten, shit started to get weird.
First, a girl dressed as Little-Bo-Peep kept falling on her ass and a man (?) in penguin costume kept trying to hump her while she was on the floor, which actually, she didn’t seem to mind. They ended up making out, her face jammed into the giant beak of his costume. Not far into it, in one swift motion Bo-Peep’s head was ejected from the penguin’s beak and he projectile vomited all over the bar. He was kicked out and she ran after him, running headlong into the glass door she apparently didn’t see.
Not long after that, Where’s Waldo called me a fucking asshole for refusing to give him free shots. This dick didn’t need anymore and he was out of cash. Again, principles. He reached over the bar and helped himself to a bottle of gin. That didn’t go over well and he had to be taken down. The problem was, there were five of these Where’s Waldo fucks in the bar (were they together? Was it that year’s throwback costume?).
All five Waldo’s were rounded up and led out of the bar, single file.
To top it off, out of nowhere the Hamburgler appeared at the bar with a nun and a large mouse. A surly looking lot for a fast food cartoon character, a woman of the cloth, and a fuzzy little animal. For reasons unknown the Hamburgler decided to take the garnish tray off the bar, (which was nailed down, mind you), and hurl it across the place, olives and maraschino cherries raining down on everyone. He then snatched up a tray of shot glasses and hurled that. It was complete mayhem. Everyone had gone batshit. Mad to the point where the Hatter seemed like a tame beast. I leapt up on the bar and cried for help.
“Get the fucking Hamburgler!” I wailed. A sentence I never thought I’d say. Ha! Jokes on me, Bubba.
He was captured and as expected, thrown the fuck out.
I’d had it after that and decided that Jack Daniels was the only thing to get me through that evening, so I slugged the shit down in spades.
By the end of the night I was vicious. I had become one of the over-saturated assholes. I was no better than the jackass clientele and my shit-head boss - violent and raging drunk. Tough times at Debauchery High.
After all this, I was strung out and sick of it all. Sick of the kids, sick of the shitty tips, sick of the puke and sick of the puke-bag owner. I don’t even think he said anything that untoward the night I quit, a couple of days after Halloween. I think he told me to do something I didn’t feel like doing, and I lipped off, causing him to spout back at me.
And then, well, like I said, the punching and swearing ensued. Adios, Muchacho. Good luck with the little girls.
Maybe I needed a new profession that didn’t involve hard alcohol and people.
*******
And yes there will be more previews to come, all more vicious than the last…if you’re interested.
Check out the blog on it's home site @
www.hihaveyoumetme.com for previous writings and more.
Don’t forget to stalk me further at https://twitter.com/#!/hihaveyoumetme orhttp://www.facebook.com/authorkatemonahan