Earlier in February, the world stopped – gobsmacked – for the well documented “meteorite” that flew through the skies of Russia, broke a few windows, scared the shit out of some Ruskies going about their business selling Vodka, and exploded itself all over the place. Scientists scrambled to explain the phenomena, citizens feared some kind of war had begun, and the Government came out and reassured everyone that it was an aberration. Of course, NASA and all the other space agencies and rocket scientists are still scanning the sky to determine when – not if – the next big chunk of space debris is going to collect our planet and scatter our existence into oblivion; what they didn’t realize, however, was that the Russian Meteor Event wasn’t exactly all it seemed to be at first glance. Yes, it was spectacular, and yes, people were injured by exploding glass and vodka bottles, but the reason behind this meteor is elegantly simple, and I’m just as surprised as you that nobody else has figured it out yet. Want to know what it was, really?
Like many grumpy bastards my age (mid-30′s….) I like to have a rant against the world. Thanks to the internet, everyone can rant away to their heart’s content. Whether people listen… well, that’s another problem, but often, it’s less about who reads the rant as much as it is about just doing the ranting.
There’s a couple of things I’ve seen in recent weeks and months that have just made me weep for the future of humanity. As a grumpy old bastard, it’s my solemn duty to now proceed to berate you with what I see as prime examples of bottom-feeding pond scum living off the goodness of others.
Regular readers of my posts here at the Bar None might know that I’m a two-time dad. Not a two-timing dad, I mean I’m a father of two young kids. Having kids, as those of you who do will attest, is about the greatest joy on Earth aside from getting shitface plastered on a Saturday night and ruining your Manolo Blahniks. Becoming a father for the second time recently, to a baby boy, reaffirmed my appreciation of all that women do in the process of conception (my favorite bit), pregnancy (fucking emotional hell) and eventually childbirth (fucking emotional awesome!). Now, I’m not gonna sprawl here and pretend I understand how women feel, or find some way of appreciating their pain and agony during the laboring and birthing process, because I’m not an idiot, and my wife knows where I live.
This isn’t some kind of women-bashing anti-feminist rant, no sir. Don’t get all high and mighty on that score! Women reserve the right forever to be pissed at the folks who caused them to endure such agony – fucking Adam and that stupid bitch Eve, when they got thrown out of the Garden of Eden. Apparently, upon the casting out, God told Eve that forevermore women would have endure immense agony during childbirth thanks to her gutless nibbling on a piece of fruit, so we can all thank the pair of them for what women now have to go through each time that sperm slams into the egg. If you believe in that, of course. Darwinism would have you subscribe to the theory that it’s a part of nature, and that enduring childbirth is some kind of throwback to natural selection in that only the strongest will survive. Darwin was a sadist, wasn’t he?
There was no WAY I was ready for THAT!
Whichever theory you subscribe to, there’s no denying the power and force of will of one pissed off mother. I recently had to bear witness to a little tete-a-tete at my daughters 3rd birthday party, where the wife of one of my cousins – let’s call her “Eve” for the sake of argument and a kind of serendipity – let fly on a fellow member of the fairer sex at the local play-gym we were holding the party at. Eve’s young son, who is normally pretty docile, was being pummeled by this older kid (not too much older, I’ll be honest) and not really responding – he’s a lover, not a fighter. Cain – that’s what we’ll call this kid – decided to simply walk away; a not entirely unexpected response considering the non-violence conditioning his uptight mother had instilled in him. However, several minutes later, this older kid returned to start beating up on Cain yet again, and this time Eve had had enough. Marching over to the older child, she grabbed his arm and gave him a stern reprimand to stay the hell away from her child. Almost immediately, the mother of the offending child was upon them, berating Eve for daring to touch her child and threatening to do all kinds of bodily harm because there’s no way her darling fucking pip would ever harm a fly.
What Rod looks like while writing for The Bar None.
Minutes passed, with neither female wanting to stand aside, until cooler heads (ie, the men standing about all agog) prevailed. Unfortunately, there was no jelly or mud and there was no pit to fight in, so a perfectly good opportunity for setting the women’s lib movement back again was missed. Following this confrontation, there was all manner of posturing and aggrandized glaring across the room, as both mothers tried to kill each other simply with their eyes. If looks could kill, there’d have been a homicide or two that day.
Let’s set the record straight – the mother of the older child, who for the sake of keeping this miniscule narrative going we’ll call Abel – was completely in the wrong. She claimed her child had been provoked – he hadn’t. She claimed Eve had assaulted her child – she hadn’t, she’d merely stopped him belting her son again. She claimed that Cain had started it first – wrong again, because I saw it all and I would stand on a pile of Nazi skulls and declare my allegiance to the Justice League that Cain was merely an innocent victim of “older kid bullying”.
These guys would make awesome parents, right?
Rod, you ask, what the fuck are you trying to say? I’ll tell you. Sometimes, women are so protective of their kids and their precious little reputations that they’ll blindly ignore even the most obvious wrongdoing in order to escape persecution. This incident highlights how society tells us that our precious little darlings and their upstart, no-care attitudes, and the “softly-softly” approach to parenting we’ve adopted because we’re afraid of being sued for child abuse has amounted to naught for the good of us all. Spoiled, do-no-wrong children will end up running this world; perhaps they already do, don’t they, politicians of the world? I’m all for mothers being protective of their spawn, yes even the devil-spawn we see screaming in the shopping malls on Sunday afternoons, their undiagnosed ADD running rampant as their mother, who turns a blind eye to the discomfort of fellow patrons, continues her quest to obtain the next sale item faster than anyone else. Girls, you know you do it. For Christ’s sake, control your fucking children. And learn to realize that they are not innocent darlings who never do anything wrong – in fact, more often they’re cheeky little shits you’d want to slap silly if it weren’t a crime.
I’ll admit that my daughter has definitely turned a little bratty in her 3rd year, and has been known to throw things in a tantrum from time to time. But for fucks sake, my wife and I would never let her get away with that kind of behavior. A behavior reinforced by an ignorant mother too stupid to actually parent her child when she can simply avoid it by pointing the blame at someone else and hoping nobody notices. Perhaps she’d been drinking.
Women fighting in The Bar None.
With all due respect to mothers out there, sometimes you women can get a little crazeeeee! The above incident is really tame compared to some of the stories you could Google and read for yourself. I’m okay with a mother getting upset if her child is wronged, harmed or caused pain. That’s to be expected – as a father, I feel the same way. What I’m not okay with are mothers who fly off at the drop of a hat with little consideration for things like… oh, the facts maybe? Go fuck a pineapple, I say to them. No, you have a little shit for a kid, not a little angel. That snot running down his face isn’t cute, it’s a fucking geyser of putrid germs and a potential epidemic, yet you insist on letting this sick kid play with other (quite well) children so that you can spread the disease about just so the little fuckstick can have five minutes of playtime.Your kid’s right to have a good time should not impede my kid’s right to not get his fucking head caved in by your kid’s bullying tactics.
Christmas of Awesome!!
In order to own a gun you need a license. You need a license to drive a car. You need a license to do just about anything in this damnable world, and yet they’ll let anyone with a cock or a vagina become a parent. No course to study for, no test run first: just up-the-duff and away you go. And let’s be honest: there’s a whole lot of people out there who should be anything but parents. Perhaps it’s time to instigate the old sci-fi classic cliche… people need a license to have children. Damn, that’d work wonders, wouldn’t it? How do some of these imbeciles even get their kids past infancy, I ask? Darwinism will win out eventually, I suspect, but there’s a hell of a lot of stupid, stupid parents getting about with no clue as to how to adequately raise a child. Perhaps parenting should be a class at school? Perhaps some kind of University Degree that comes with an ability to recognize the difference between what’s socially acceptable and what isn’t. Like wearing shoes, for example.
Give people all the guns in the world, but in return they have to bring their kids up to know what’s right and wrong. It should be fucking mandatory. Blame shifting and lazy parenting should be punished like we do to child abusers – because not parenting your child properly is almost the same, really – not teaching your little bundle of screeching joy to read and write is signing their social death warrant. About the only job they have an opportunity is to sweep the dregs from the piss-trough at the Bar None, because folks who can’t read or write (and thankfully none of them will be reading this!) can’t become a fucking heart surgeon, can they? Denying your child the right to a good life is as bad as kicking a puppy across the street. Deny that, liberal dickheads!
Parenting for Dummies?
I realize I’ve got to the end of this rant and have had a singular dearth of booze-related humor, and for that, I apologize. I just wanted to get this stuff off my chest. It’s bugged me for a while now, this bad parenting thing, and yet it’s taken until now for me to put my thoughts into words. Albeit not very succinct words, I admit. I have every respect for mothers, especially those who have had it rough, but having it rough is no excuse for slacking off on what is actually one of society’s most important jobs. To all those who insist we coddle our children and wrap them up in cotton-wool to protect them from the pedophiles and sex predators lurking on every street corner, this is the whirlwind of fucked-upedness you’ve sown for us all.
Parent your kids properly, or don’t fucking have any.
You’re gonna need a pick-me-up track from the Juiced Box this time out. And for a genuine legendary pick-me-up, you can’t go past Bob Marley.
I know, I know, it’s been a while since I had anything to say here at The Bar None. Pull up a stool and I’ll ignore your whining. Normally, my kind words of comfort and sympathy to the lesser individuals amongst us wash against your tired, drunken brain like vomit swirling around the bottom of the toilet. I’ve left you all alone for a while now, safe in the warm, molesting hands of our favorite barkeep, young Al. But I’ve held my tongue too long, far too long against the oncoming tide since I last put finger to keyboard and delivered a rant like no other to those I see as betrayers of the human condition. Something’s been pissing me off for a long time now, something brewing bigger than a vat of German ale at Oktoberfest. Forgive me if this gets a little…. political… or “real”, but for fucks sake, don’t you just want to scream?
It’s pretty fuckin’ obvious that the world is damn near screwed. Not just one-night-stand screwed, I mean bang a bus full of football hooligans for a buck kinda screwed. Royally reamed, bent over and inserted with something sharp, solid, and cold. Yeah, you say, this is gonna be about that Kardashian slag, right? About how her IMDB bio got fucked with by some smartass with more balls than a bus full of women screwing a football hooligan. Wait, that’s not right. It’s wrong. That’s not what I’m on about here.
Apparently, money’s main weakness is lightning…
I want to talk to you about finance. Money. And how we’re all royally screwed. A rant about corporate greed, corruption and how that stupid Zuckerberg has the scrotum to put an internet company up for public float and make all his employees multimillionaires. I just want you to know, Zuckerberg, if I ever bump in to you on a dark night in a park somewhere, when the street lamps have blown and all you have for company is a wino sleeping on a bench covered with the sports section, I’m gonna fuck you up say some stuff that’ll probably make you cry. So you have a net worth higher than the GDP of India if the GDP of India was like a gazillion rupee, does that mean I have to swallow your damn arrogant smile as you make even more from conning the public?
We typed “Mark Zuckerberg” into Google and this is the only picture that came up.
Before I get off topic and into a Zuckerberg rant, let’s just say I’m a little pissed at how badly our world economy is traveling. And if this isn’t enough to make people take up boozin’ to get past it, then nothing will. Let’s look at some facts, okay? – I know, they’re a rarity round these parts, but let’s fucking look anyway. Europe, to clarify my earlier statement, is – for want of a better word – screwed. The bottom’s fallen out of the market in the majority of the major Euro players – Ireland, Spain, Portugal and Greece are all abso-lutely rooted. And by rooted, I mean that not in a supportive context, but the kind of context you’d find in a bestiality porno. Greece especially looks like dragging the world down into some kind of mega-depression, from what the news reports say. Now, I normally drink through the opening twenty minutes of our local news service, so I can spend more time finding the sporting highlight hilarious, but of late I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in those opening twenty minutes of whatever they normally gab on about. Greece, and a whole bunch of other Euro Zone countries (what, is that like the opposite of the End Zone or something?) look like they’re struggling to repay some kind of debt, and now they’re having to introduce something called “austerity measures” to keep the budget in check…. in other words, the Big End Of Town got a little loose with the cash, so now the Little People are gonna have to eat bread and chips for a generation to pay for it. Or something like that. So you have a bunch of Greek politicians being voted in… voted out… voted back in…. resigning…. being voted back in again… like a roundabout of folks who want to be in charge but don’t want to fix anything. Sounds like me on a Sunday afternoon when the wife tells me to get out and mow the lawn…. chuckle….
You wouldn’t like him when he’s hungry.
Then there’s America. Big frickin’ America, so proud of itself it can’t see where it’s stuck its own head right up its ass and is eating its own poo. Apparently, and I’m not just making this up, America owes like half of its firstborn children to the Chinese. Kid you not. Most of America is damn near owned entirely by China – a country who about thirty years ago couldn’t even keep people out of a square somewhere without needing to bring in the tanks. (Too soon?) America’s been fighting two wars at the same time (which, I admit, was pretty cool at the start but now looks stupid) and they’ve spent more on their military budget than they can afford – which brings us to their stupid “debt ceiling”. You mean, there’s a limit to debt? Holy Christ in a handbasket, does that mean we’ll see some fiscal responsibility from the Yanks in order to keep their budget and house in order? No siree, just fire up the good old Constitution and vote to increase the level of debt America can handle, and that’ll solve a world of problems, right? Instead, didn’t somebody ask the question: “if it doesn’t matter how much debt we have, why do we even have a debt ceiling?”. Good fucking question, man.
Tossing about new taglines for currency, we came up with this little effort.
Imagine if I walked into the Bar None and decided I’d rack up a tab which was more than I earned in a week. I couldn’t pay that tab, but I came back a week later and did the same thing again, increasing my debt to Al but still being unable to pay him back completely. And I do this same thing week in, week out. I’m pretty sure Al would back me up when I say that that’s a shitty way to do business, but if you wanna tie everything up in a pretty bow so the uneducated can understand it, that’s pretty close to what the US has been doing. Apparently, it doesn’t matter how much they owe to anybody, because they can simply print more money or something and make their problems go away with a war. It’s enough to make a poor guy drink, isn’t it?
Because whining about something will always get you what you want.
China and the rest of Asia (aside from Japan, who are currently the Switzerland of Asian finance on account of a fricking nuclear problem and some kinda earthquake) have strong economies, so strong in fact that the rest of the world is, very soon, going to have to rely on them completely for financial strength. Down here in Australia, about the only industry we have outside of Russell Crowe is our mining industry, chugging away selling our valuable minerals to a bunch of people who still censor the internet. Fuck you Google, they say, and Google says okay I’ll go get fucked. Stupid Google. The mining industry to China is worth billions upon billions to our national economy, much the same way call centers are worth the same to the Indian economy. So if China was to suddenly pull the plug on mining in Australia, this little Hot Rod might be typing his next post via the ankle of a carrier pigeon. The Western World has got itself into a pretty shaky position, it would seem, and yet young people are still going out drinking instead of learning Mandarin, which we should all know when the new world order begins in a few years.
The scariest graph you’ll ever see…
I jest, but seriously, has anybody in charge actually sat back and wondered if we shouldn’t just let it all go to shit? Let the Greeks stick with a financial system which is obviously working out so well for them? Let the Euro Zone collapse and plunge the world into a financial collapse so massive it’d make the Great Depression look like a smoko break out the back of work? Right now, there’s a bunch of banking tossers running between their multi-million dollar corporate offices wondering how in the hell they’ll keep their hedge funds and investment deals that allow them the pleasure of swanning about the Mediterranean on the triple-level yacht their wife wanted, smoking cigars and banging a bunch of low-level Euro-trash hookers. I hope they choke on their heroin caviar, because it’s those wankers who’ve got us all into this mess. Yeah, I could blame my need for a 50″ plasma or a six bedroom house when I only need one with three, and how my capitalist lifestyle has simply added fuel to the fire of the impending Western Collapse, but like any good capitalist, I’m gonna try and avoid blame by making it someone else’s problem.
I know where all HER debt is hiding….
So why not let it all go – let the world economy reset to zero like we all thought it would on Y2K? No doubt it’s because the missing-tooth brigade in America’s deep south might say it’s all Osama Bin Laden’s fault (because even in death, that fucker’s still screwing with us all), and then there’d be some holy war between the Westboro Baptist Church and the Islamic Religion like we all hope will happen (seriously, I’d pay to see that) ending in some kind of apocalypse. If we all did revert back to the stone age of economic ruin, though, I guarantee there’s one thing that would make it easier to bear.
We’ll find any reason to put a pic of Kim Kardashian sucking something up here at the Bar None.
Booze. If we all do end up circling the drain of banking misconduct, thanks to the sackless wonders currently running the financial markets, I wanna make sure it’s on public record that I’m gonna be stashing a whole bunch of booze out the back of my house. I suggest you do the same. It’s gonna make fantasizing about that stupid Kardashian cow a whole lot easier when the world ends.
There were a variety of choices for the song from the Juiced-box to accompany this post (high on the list would have been “London’s Burning”, but that would’ve been too obvious) and this was the one which pinged my twisted sense of humor. Enjoy a bit of Twisted Sister.
I haven’t had a drink – of any kind – in about a month. For me, this is nothing new: I’m not what you’d class as a raging alcoholic, nor am I really a social drinker in the true sense of the word. About the only time I’ll drink (with the exception of my pre-Christmas “I Quit My Job” booze-up) is at home with the wife and maybe a few good friends over a well cooked meal and some nice conversation. I go to the bar – I drink Coke or juice. I go to someone else’s party – I drink Coke or juice. I get home from a hard day at work – I drink Coke, and play with my young daughter and watch the children’s programming on TV. Only on the odd occasion do I pull out a bottle of cheap red from the cupboard and swig it like I stole it.
Ahh, now THAT was an awesome party....
If I was a cop in Britain right now, man, I’d be drunk off my gourd and slumped in a dark corner somewhere, waiting for the darkness of unconscious oblivion to swallow me whole. I’d be as far away from London, Manchester, Bristol and wherever else Sony warehouses are burning to the ground, hiding in a dark corner somewhere, my police badge conveniently left at home. I would be so smashed, the mere thought of entertaining a thought about joining the riot squad would begin with the line “An Aussie, a Yank and an Irishman walked into a bar…”.
What a typical Bar None window looks like after a big night...
We’ve all seen the pictures filtering through the poorly orchestrated media circus of Britons swiping, burning, smashing and stealing their way through most of Southern England. Fuck me if that doesn’t look like a wonderful time, eh? Skinheads, punks, skanks, slags and fuckwits just running about with abandon and destroying property and lives because it seems like a good time. I’m almost disappointed that I can’t join in and steal a few plasma TV’s and Reeboks as well – because if you’re gonna have a good riot, then fuck me, why not steal a bunch of shoes. Pansy ass, lowbrow, jut-jawed neanderthal faggots, if you ask me. No disrespect to all good faggots out there, but if all these feral stains can think of is flogging a few shoes, some jewelry and clothing, then England’s worse off than I thought. I trawled the web a little the other day, and not once did I see a bunch of hoodie-wearing fucksticks clambering out of a pub with a few cartons of beer under their arms, scampering away as the cops arrived.
Typical Bar None patron - focussing on the guy with the camera, not the explosion behind him...
For all that’s been stolen, it strikes me as an alarming statistic that (and I’m just making this shit up, now) almost no alcoholic premises were looted for the booze. There’s a fair bit of damage to property, from what I’ve seen, but nobody really thinks of booze as an expensive item to pilfer. I’m no criminal (at least, not that can be proven in a court of law) but I’ll bet some other rioting wanker will be sitting there next week, when all the shit’s died down, slapping his head mumbling something about stocking up on a nice set of Shiraz or Cabernet, instead of pillaging a quickfix of Harold And Kumar BluRays from Blockbuster. Priorities, guys. I’d rather a good drink than a too-small pair of Nikes.
None of these people feel the need to riot. All of them appear to be regulars at the Bar None.
Maybe if these dopey bastards (here in Australia they’d be called “Drongo’s” or some other colloquially cringe-inducing shit by the media) had bothered to flog some booze, go home and get fucked up, we’d have been spared the sight of London burning, people being killed, and vigilante groups arming themselves to combat the violence. A good riot never solves anything, but maybe a few drinks at the local could’ve.
Hi gang! Your semi-irregular tipple-toaster here, settling in at the end of this poorly lit Bar (seriously Al, ever heard of fluorescent lighting?) to castigate and castrate all the news, views and opinion of the last few weeks of… well, news. You’ll have to forgive my drunken rambling, thanks to Al allowing me such a large tab here at the Bar, but there’s a few things that’ve caught my eye over the last little while I just need to vent on. And when I say “vent”, I mean pull out the long forgotten soapbox here behind the Bar and stand on that fucker. Given the Bar None’s recent Dry Zone policy means I not longer filter the horrors of being human through a haze of Johnny Walker or Galiano, it’s brought things into sharp focus… hence the title of this post.
The worlds biggest chicken house?
Is it just me, or has the world gone a little more shitty than normal in the last month or so? America’s teetering on the brink of financial collapse, while a couple of dozen half-wits in Washington play a massive game of chicken with each other, and the rest of the world watches on wondering if the wall-to-wall coverage of impending catastrophe (really, America goes into financial meltdown…. would anybody else care?) is just a beat-up or actually factual. All of this makes the rest of the world wonder if America truly is the greatest nation on Earth. I tell you what, if they do go down, they’re putting up a fight. Debt ceiling? Really?
Bet you wish you'd gone to rehab now, eh?
Singer-songwriter-drugfucked alcoholic Amy Winehouse plays her last gig in a haze of booze, and then bows out in glorious, tabloid-fodder style, for which now we can look forward to decades of “unearthed new material” much like frickin’ Tu Pac or whatever that dudes name was who got shot, died, and then released a dozen albums of new material like he was saving shit up for a rainy day. Christ, they’re gonna hammer this crap until they’ve remixed, remastered and re-released the shit out of her back catalogue, unearthed some unfinished songs and added guest stars like Bono, Bob Geldof and fucking Bill Idol to make some weird “duets” style thing like they did with Sinatra. And we don’t even get any new trashy photos to counteract this oncoming Winehouse storm. Don’t get me wrong: she was an awesome singer, but every dick with a blog and an opinion seems to think she’s a tragic loss to the world. As a songstress, perhaps. As a person? Well, there’s a hundred LiLo wannabes waiting in the wings.
Jackie Chan should make a movie with THIS guy!!
Then there’s the cop in the UK who, after being hit by a fucking car, gets up and chases down the bitchslapper who sideswiped him. Don’t believe me? Watch this. Now that, my friends, is the very definition of TOUGH. Unless he’s a Transformer. In which case, Optimus Prime would upfuck his shitup.
I can hear my own sperm swimming around down there!
Also over in the UK, is a man who can hear his eyeballs moving. No joke (apparently), this dude suffers from some sort of weird scientific problem which means the noises inside his body are louder than those outside – he can literally hear his internal workings going on. You know that old phrase about “not being able to hear yourself think”? Well, this man’s got that problem licked. Makes you wonder if he confuses his farts with thunder.
In a few moments, there will be tears!
Far and away the most disturbing news of the week, though, at least not related to the US financial crisis, is this report about underage kids drinking to excess in the US. What’s most troubling to me is that the people drinking to excess aren’t even old enough for their balls to drop or their boobs to fill out – kids as young as 12 are getting blind drunk every weekend or so, and not only that, but also sitting back with a bit of pot to go with it. What. The. Fuck. This article/report almost speaks for itself in the question which would immediately form on most peoples lips: who’s buying these kids their booze? What’s scary is that I’ve no doubt whatsoever that this kind of thing is happening all around the world as well; Australia’s no exception to the youthfully drunk, and it’s a major, major social problem.
Will she blow? Will she?
The space shuttle returned to Earth after its last trip to the most expensive hang-out in the world (or, above it…) and the world paused for about, oh, three minutes to reflect on all the Shuttle Program brought us. Can anybody name the astronauts on that last shuttle? Without Googling it? Nope, neither can I. The fact that everyone’s lost interest in the Shuttle missions was probably the biggest factor in deciding to give it up. I mean, unless you’re going to the moon, or sending people to Mars, the whole thing just wasn’t exciting any more. So they packed up, sent the smart dudes home to their parents, and gave the private sector a mission to “capture the flag” – Richard Branson must be near-orgasmic with glee that now he’s got an excuse to burn up billions of dollars in research and development to send some poor sap up there.
Unspeakable tragedy.... impossible sorrow.
Almost overshadowing the news of Amy Winehouse’s death the other weekend was the news that some utter fuck-knuckle in Norway decided he’d had enough of behaving himself and went and a) blew up some shit, and b) shot a bunch of innocent kids at a political camp. What the news services couldn’t get over, though, was how White Anglo Saxon this dude looked – I mean, he wasn’t Muslim, wasn’t any kind of ethnic minority they could easily pigeonhole, and when pressed for his reasons, expressed himself in an articulate and deliberate manner. Sure, he’s a deranged psycho, but he didn’t go out with a bullet to the skull or blowing himself to whatever God he believes in (or doesn’t) with a few pounds of TNT. Goddamit, this guy seemed, on the outside, to be one of us. Which is scary. He had the self-belief to stay alive and hand himself into the police when they arrived on that island. No last-stand suicide, no blaze of glory run-at-the-cops-and-get-mown-down-in-slo-mo stuff. Personally, I don’t even think that fucker deserves to breath the same oxygen as we do – take him out the back, shoot him in the head and bury his corpse in some landfill somewhere, and forget about him. No trial, no fucking circus, just death and that’s it. I’m not a believer in the death penalty, but in this case, no amount of incarceration is ever going to do this stain justice.
BAM! Your'e owned!
The UK reeled after Sauron himself, along with his son Little Johnny Packer, wheeled himself into British Parliament to answer questions about the massive phone hacking scandal, and ended up being smacked with a foam pie by some “comedian” fellow. Rupert Murdoch might be a control freak undead walking corpse, but he didn’t need that. T’was funny as hell, though. In other news, I’m glad the wankers behind that phone hacking crap are getting taken to task about it all. Seriously, who thinks tapping into peoples phones is a good idea? There’s no justification at all for that, and those slimy dickheads thought deleting a few messages on some poor dead girls phone would be a good laff as well. Man, I’d skip the lawsuits and go hire an assassin, if I was one of the victims.
Just how much longer can this all last?
All this makes me ask the Big Question of the Week. What kind of world are we living in? Is it just me, or is shit getting worse? Perhaps those nutjobs gabbing on about the Mayan calendar ending in 2012 are on to something? Boy, I can’t wait until humanity enters some kind of Star Trek styled utopia and all crime is eliminated, or Roland Emmerich gets to actually destroy the world for real. I’m sure he’d love it.
Now, send down another bottle of Scotch, Al. I’m done for today!
Hot Rod is a guest writer here at The Bar None, but you can catch his more serious side over at his movie blog, Fernby Films.
You know that period of your youth when you think you can do just about anything, and get away with it consequence free? Well, now you can’t, apparently. Today, I want to discuss the truth of being an idiot and accepting a stupid, stupid dare, and getting caught. I had a laugh at this imbecile online today, and felt it was important to not only highlight yet another example of what happen when people with limited intellect are given a higher opinion of themselves by other imbeciles, but also to recognize just how awesomely cool this guy is for the world to see. Click the link below for the video…..
Yes, it’s a dude riding a motorbike through a supermarket. Full helmet and gear, so I guess he was trying to be a safe rider, but his major problem was the automatic sliding door at the other end of the complex – which he hits and is forced to walk away, rather than ride. Is it just me, or is there something hilarious about all this? I mean, sure, he put the safety of other shoppers at risk, and no doubt his own safety was a concern to the folks who tried to assist him in not getting away with it – at least until the fake family member arrived to berate those same people whom this superhero tried to mow down – but man, what a laugh. You can’t begrudge a man for taking on a challenge, a challenge most likely set up by his drunken mates around a pool table one night who no doubt bet him that if he lost the next frame, he’d have to scooter through a supermarket and make the nightly news.
Here's what you DON'T do in the Ukraine...
Haven’t we all?
No seriously, haven’t we?
Who's drunkererer? The horse or the kid?
Traditionally, the concept of the stupid dare (or bet) falls to the male of the species to execute – be it petty theft, jumping on, over or through something that wasn’t meant to be used to jump on, in or over, driving something fast somewhere truly imbecilic, or otherwise behaving in a fashion designed to shorten your lifespan or lengthen the time you spend in intensive care. I know, it’s a sexist argument, but look at the facts. Almost all the Darwin Awards are won by men, and the participation rate of women in said Awards is, not surprisingly, low. Of course, when women get drunk they tend to simply undress each other and fall into bed in a strange, Penthouse-style lesbian tryst – or is that just my overactive imagination? No, women don’t do stupid things like this, right? They just giggle, flirt and fall over a lot when they’re pissed, but men…. well, men take things to a whole ‘nother level. God, YouTube would cease to exist if they had to take down all the video’s of stupid people (men) doing stupid things – pissed or otherwise. That and those annoying cute animal/baby videos.
No express supermarket sprint-through for this dude...
The point I want to make is this, and I apologize for not getting here earlier – men, it seems, moreso than women, are predisposed to acting like infantile lunatics once they’ve had a skinful. Sure, we’ve all streaked naked through a public place, and who hasn’t spent the morning wondering how their car ended up in the pool of the next door neighbor? Men naturally behave like the cavemen we’ve developed from because alcohol causes our brains to revert to this behavior because it’s where we have the most fun. Safety in a booze-sozzled state seems ironic considering how many people have been killed thanks to an over-consumption of the amber ale, but that’s Man Logic for you. Don’t expect me to explain everything. But looking at the facts, and the sheer weight of numbers provided by The Internet as proof of mans stupidity, it seems to me that history in this area is, to borrow a phrase from the classic song, just a little bit repeating. Women get drunk, but men get drunk and behave like monkeys.
I can’t claim to have ever tried to ride a moving vehicle through a shopping complex, although a few screenings of The Blues Brothers during a drinking session at high school (yes, we drank in high school) tended to make us think we could do something similar. We didn’t, but perhaps the dude on the motorbike took it just that little bit further. For God’s sake, surely he was dared to, right? I can’t imagine anybody sitting there thinking “shit man, I think I’m gonna ride my Ducati through the express lane, pick up a dozen eggs, a block of chocolate and make it back home to watch reruns of Baywatch” and actually going through with it. No rational person, anyway. The only other excuse I can give him is that he got lost thanks to Google Maps and turned left instead of right when the voice told him to. After all, Google don’t fuck it up, right? So it must have been some sort of dare, a bet or other wager to which he either lost, or was in the process of winning. “Man, if you make it through there on your bike I’ll give you a hundred bucks”. That’s the ticket to fame, right there.
Man, are you SURE this won't end up on the internet?
Which leads onto my question for this post: what’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done on a drunken dare, or drunken bet? I just know many of you will read this and cringe with embarrassment, perhaps a little shame-faced at the lack of police activity which followed your night of misjudged deeds and the fact you got away with it – here’s the place to air your dirty laundry. After all, we’re all anonymous on the internet (except for me, because anybody with the slightest ounce of web-savvy could find out who I am – it’s no secret!) so let fly with your stupidest, most insane drunken bet story. We want some dirt people, and if possible, some video proof if you have it. For once, let’s celebrate the idiots we all become when we can’t control our impulses.
I’ve drunk to much, and now I’ve drawn a blank. I think this piece was going to be something witty, but now I fear it’s jus’ gonna be somethin’ about nothin’. And in the process, a complete massacre of the English language. Thank God I don’t know French. They hate massacres. Inevitably, the drunken, slurry speech about how your wife never puts out enough or the way your fav’rit football team lost on the weekend descends into a swathe of “blarggghargaaagh” and “musssshhhhinblaghreachhh”, before a big burly bouncer chucks you out on your drunken ass. Mention having an enormous penis (perhaps even in a more crude manner than I have here!) or a set of testicles that would make King Kong feel small and shriveled and watch the womenfolk at the Bar roll their eyes in disgust. Or, is it a come-on? In your drunken stupor, how can you tell? Groping lady-parts or pulling your pants down to dance along the bar isn’t considered acceptable behavior, and nor should it, yet each and every weekend around the world, people of all ages and physical abilities try to do just that.
You know how you go out for a night on the town and end up waking up looking like Jon Voight did at the end of Anaconda when the anaconda puked him up? Shit that film was cool. That’s how cool you’ll be if you end up in a river full of anacondas, but on a night in downtown Metropolis you ain’t gonna get very far with stylin’ up like LiLo after a bender. Puke and stained clothing, as well as a stench of urine and spilled beer, will make anybody approaching you retch in disgust, so don’t be confused if you think you’re Gods gift to women and all the women you meet just happen to be Lesbetians. They aren’t, and neither are you. We may poke gentle fun at those among us who get hammered and end up on the internet with their mugshot looking like a reject from Faces of Meth (Gary Busey, you fucking legend you!) but the sad hard fact is, man, you ain’t Gary Busey and nobody gives two cracks how cool you think you are while you’re pissed.
Gary Busey after a night at The Bar None
Pissed people are generally offensive, whether they mean to be or not. They’re inconsiderate, loud and obnoxious. Or asleep in the corner, but those types don’t come along as often as the potty-mouthed fight-seekers. They make good tabloid fodder, the ever-present security vision highlight reel on the five-o’clock-news will attest to that. Drunken fighting only looked cool when Jackie Chan did it. So don’t bother, because you’ll look like a right tool. And not the good kind.
I was out on my good mate’s Bucks Night (otherwise known as a Stag Night in more seppo sections of the world) and it was, I believe, quite late in the night (or early in the morning, I forget), when we stumbled past a hotel that was packed so deep with people they were falling out the windows. Now, our group (I think there were about a dozen of us) had enjoyed a night of strippers, booze and music; we’d successfully made our way down the nightclub district visiting almost every bar, strip-joint and club we could gain access to. Most of us were a little tipsy, and more than a few of us were absolutely fucked up from the floor up. So we’re walking -staggering- past this bar, with the Buck wearing a set of fake boobs and a hula skirt (and not much else) when some drunk dude lurches from the doorway and proceeds to face-off against my friend. The Buck, who stands about nine feet tall if he’s an inch, looked down to his nipples, which was about where our drunken interloper made it to, and laughed drunkenly. Note to self, never laugh at an angry drunk dude. This guy had taken offense at the Buck wearing a hula skirt, and wanted to make something of it. We didn’t know him, and he didn’t know us. And the hula skirt wasn’t that bad, honestly. For a moment, in a drunken moment of gayness, I thought about trying a move.
My kind of Bucks Night...
Now, I’d like to say that the dozen of us manned up and took this clown down to Chinatown, but before we could bear arms and send his testicles on holiday to his sphincter, the bouncer at the door made his move. Now, the bouncer was even bigger than my mate, the Buck. He was as wide as he was tall, and looked like he’d take on a bunch of Hell’s Angels and pick his teeth with their bone fragments. He grabbed this dude by the arm, and swung him around to face him. The drunk dude was about to launch an attach at the bouncer in retaliation when he suddenly he realized that he was physically outmatched. As the guy looked up into the face of the bouncer, I got the sense that his bowels had let go with fear, and piss began to run from his crotch. We just kept walking, and I don’t know how that little tete-a-tete ended up, but I like to think it involved a parking meter, several minutes of insertion, and a lovely amount of ass-banditry.
Allow me to introduce the Bar None's two bouncers, Fuck and You.
Mental note – always wear brown pants out for a night on the town: you never know when you’re going to shit yourself. If you feel angry about something, don’t start a fight at the bar. The bar-folk don’t give a shit what your problem is, they just want you to either buy more booze, or getthefuckout. No sense being there to be taught that lesson by some big hairy guy with more ink on his arms than a BIC employee. I’ve already written a short diatribe on the perils of being drunk out in public, but I wanted to reiterate it again specifically for the guys reading this. Guys, you don’t look good when you’re pissed. Unless you’re fucking Jack Sparrow or that guy from The Rolling Stones who looks like he died forty years ago and nobody told him. Don’t try it.
With enough time and energy, you too could look like this...
I only say all this because I’ve really got nothing more to add. I’ve blown my creative wad, so to speak, with my previous posts. So I’m just rambling. Rambling like the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons, ‘cept I’m not crazy and I don’t have any cats. That I know of. My original idea was to write something pithy (no, not pissy with a lisp) about drink driving, about my unfulfilled fantasy about having sex with Mila Kunis, and even a tentative prod at my inability to coherently form a sentence without brackets. I promise, my next post here at the Bar will involve the tale of the blowjob I got while on air at a local radio station. For now, I write this simply to pass the time. I’m here waiting for something to happen.
I'd go there. I'd even climb over your corpse to do it.
Wait, there’s a knock at the door. I’ll go see who it is.
Nope, it’s just the neighbor wanting to know if I remember borrowing his garden clippers. Do I remember? Nahh. I remember breaking them and throwing them in the trash, but I’m not gonna admit that to him. I’ll just let him think I gave them back and he’s forgotten. Time for a glass of wine. Might help settle my lying nerves. What have we learned today? Yep, don’t borrow your neighbors garden clippers. Buy your own you cheap bastard.
You know how you get drunk and start thinking that you have the sexual prowess of a porn star, before deciding to try acting on it and discovering that, actually, you don’t? I put this to the male members of the Bar None’s quorum of intellect, since they’re the ones most likely to try it on with the females in the joint…. it’s a broad generalization, I know, but are you really going to argue the point? It’s my experience that alcohol makes men randy, and women flirty – there’s a subtle difference I’ll get to in a moment; we all know a randy drunk man experience, right girls? Let’s face it: men, when pissed, think they have a 12-inch penis and a body like The Situation. Girls, though, tend to follow the example set by Cyndi Lauper: the Before looks stunningly hot, sexy and sultry, the kind of woman most men would lust after – the After looks like a cross between Sid Vicious and Sid Haig, a laugh like Fran Drescher on helium, and an exhibitionism mandate that makes Graham Norton look like a choirboy. Which is why Beer Goggles are a great invention.
From the Juiced Box: Kevin Bloody Wilson – Do You F*** On First Dates?
The greatest invention ever?
Beer goggles are often blamed for a multitude of facepalm moments The Morning After, as you roll off the bed and try escaping the clutches of whichever fat-best-friend you slutted yourself with to get into the panties of the girl you’re really into. Alcohol makes the brain process images in a different kind of way: the ugliest, fattest, most socially repugnant member of the opposite sex is suddenly transformed into (at least) an option for copulation, if not an outright certainty. Thoughts along the “well, he/she isn’t that bad lookin’” line start to bubble up, and before long, you’re playing tonsil hockey with somebody who looks like they’ve eaten a herd of cows. The speed at which this occurs is directly proportional to the quantity of alcohol imbibed.
Ye Olde Timey Sexing
All of which leads me to the topic of this post: the inexplicably amusing concept of Drunk Sex, and the journey we all take along the pathway to it. Most consenting adults have tried it at some stage, with varying degrees of success. Men find alcoholic courage allows them to try it on with a woman, bypassing the social conventions of meeting and getting to know a woman before trying to sleep with her. Women, on the other hand, get all flirty by steadfastly refuse to put out: drunk women are, frankly, a sexual pain in the ass. In every way imaginable. Most of the time, when the clothing becomes less restrictive, and more bare flesh is shown, and the louder the laugh and the wobblier the walk, the less inclined the womenfolk are to let a man…. well, you know. It’s my experience that woman become a giant prick-tease after they’ve had a skin full. It’s frustrating as all hell for the men, who’re only trying to do the most natural thing in the world by screwing their brains out in an orgy of lust and sexual release – like two positives, drunk women and men will almost always repel each other.
Fun? I doubt that...
That being said, there are exceptions. On the occasion when two people manage to get themselves into the position (ahem) of being intimate with each other, and both said people are a little hammered (or blind drunk, whichever you prefer), the act of procreation becomes something of a routine the likes of which will never make it onto Comedy Central. Limbs thrashing, sweaty skin and the slo-motion fumbling which feels like Basic Instinct but looks more like Showgirls, Drunk Sex is like trying to drive a bus through a rabbit hole. The man usually has a lack of ability to maintain his erection, and the woman is breathing so heavy the curtains threaten to open by themselves and expose all the goings-on to the rest of the world. Neither wants to admit they’re unable to enjoy themselves because they’re concentrating so hard on being the Perfect Lover and being not-quite-so-pissed, the sexiness of the fantasy is replaced with the cold, limp realization that sex whilst drunk is an event so replete with ineptitude it’s never gonna get a look in at the Olympics. So after the man fails to satisfy the woman, or himself for that matter, and both of them collapse on the bed/floor/pavement in an exhausted pretense of being “finished”, one of them will invariably mention the concept of “spooning”, and so they both fall into a slumber with the aforementioned unfinished business a rapidly evaporating memory.
An example of wooden things spooning....
However, the real belly-laughs come from The Morning After, when both parties awake to find that the person they thought was quite hot and sexy the night before, actually looks like a reject from Hoarders. The Lauren Hutton gap-toothed look you thought was modern and chic the night before is actually a Redneck-style cigarette-caused tooth decay miasma of proportions not seen since Faces Of Meth. If both parties wake up at the same time, that uncomfortable awkwardness of the realization usually results in a conversation along the lines of:
“Ugh. What time is it?”
“In the morning?”
“I have to get to work.”
“I have to get to work. I’ll call you.”
Hurried location of clothing, buttons half left undone, then a swiftly written fake phone number, a pause by the door to look back longingly (which is actually a mental note never to drink and fuck again), and scarper to wherever it was you think you left the car.
That’s if both parties wake at the same time.
This could be you on The Morning After...
The alternative is one of them (preferably you) wakes first, and notices the harridan next to them has breath that could chemically castrate a Catholic priest, looks like a small moon just crashed into the Earth, has a physical deformity they thought was sexually exciting less than 12 hours ago, and desperately tries to extricate themselves before the other party wakes. There’s no phone number left, often not even any kind of evidence at all that you were there save a skid mark on the sheets or a used condom wrapper (with the condom often still inside, because Ansell are bastards at making condoms fucking impossible to get up and running when your fingers feel like tree trunks) lying embarrassingly in the middle of the floor.
There. Is. No. Escape.
I can’t claim to have ever been in that situation, mind you. I’ve only garnered this opinion from what I’ve seen on television, read about thanks to tabloid journalism (yay the British press!) or seen happen to friends I’ve known through the years. I did try a drunken session with my wife once…. so I avoided the unpleasant Beer Goggles in the Bar scenario, but since she was sober it made for a less-than-satisfactory performance that evening, let me tell you. No, I don’t mind admitting it. Drunken Sex is funny to watch, but not that funny to go through personally. It can be a debilitating ego-killer, and it can get very, very messy. Sex should be messy in a good way, not in a drunken spewgasm after fornicating like two morphine addicted elderly folks trying to copulate over a zimmer frame: the sweaty, sheet ripping, pillow destroying, Lady Gaga-styled antics of a normal session in the bedroom should involve almost complete recall of the event, not a blank stare when mention is made of it around the water cooler the next morning.
Just remember that when you’re staring down the barrel of a hot night of passion with some wanton drunken skank you just met – even at The Bar None – drunken sex can be a vile, life-altering experience from which there is no forgetting the horror of – gasp – the morning after.
You know how you go to a bar, hop on a stool to knock back a few, before witnessing some complete tool down the other end behaving like an imbecile, and all you can think of is why the bouncer at the door let him/her in in the first place. Usually late in the evening, there’s always a dickhead or two to watch get absolutely smashed by first the drink, then some stranger they’ve met and abused, and finally the bouncer throwing them out. Often, it’s quite hilarious, with the bodily fluids and hoarse, booze-affected vocalisations threatening various forms of “wahahh blergggg ahhhrggerbylyyy”, before finding solace in spending the rest of the evening picking teeth from the pavement outside. Unless it’s you that’s the cause, of course, which would be indicated by a lack of ability to stay inside the bar you just got thrown out of.
The problem with alcohol, aside from the obvious physical stuff, is the fact that it makes some people furious. Not sure why, but there are people in the world known by the somewhat appalling label of “they’re a mean drunk”. Generally, add alcohol to make an absolute wanker. People who can’t handle their alcohol, even in minor doses, and turn to rage and antisocial behaviour to make their points, are among the most abhorrent kind of drunkard – perhaps only bested by those fucksticks who go home from the bar and beat their wives. Generally, antisocial behaviour is less tolerated, and in Australia at least, a lot less socially acceptable than it might have been back in the day. In this day of lawsuits and “what about me?” attitudes from the younger generation, people aren’t so easily ignorant of those who seek to create havoc with their drinking. Since humans are fundamentally social animals, the majority of us spend time in the company of others – work, home or simply out stalking a Hollywood movie star. While normal human interaction is controlled by social etiquette and conventions, the addition of alcohol can often (and does, often) lead to a breakdown in those social barriers, to create a Super Human…. in a sense. A human who is no longer restricted by their upbringing, who no longer walks inside the laws of Right and Wrong, is a dangerous one. Often, they do stupid things involving property destruction and public lewdness, invariably leading to some kind of police involvement. Or, they involve themselves in a dangerous scenario leading to hospitalisation and months of rehab: jumping from a rooftop or driving a vehicle, among others.
Drunken Jumping Roofing Idiot.
I’ve seen a few truly hilarious drunken escapades in my time, mostly involving a groom’s Stag Night or a bride’s Hens Night – usually the most socially acceptable scenario in which to get plastered and wander the streets with a pair of fake boobs attached to your front, hollerin’ down any car that’ll stop and asking them to take you to your intended love for a session of mad, romantic sex. (Which reminds me, I’m working on a post regarding drunken sex at the moment!). Myself, I didn’t drink on my Stag Night, although I did visit the obligatory strip club and enjoy a nice, sensual lapdance (or three) from several eye-candy pieces strutting the floor. My intent at the time was to actually be able to remember what happened on my Stag Night, rather than have it disappear into a haze of rum-induced phantasmic ghost-memory, empty moments from which those weird phone calls begin with a husky female voice saying how much they loved what I did to them and wondering if I could do it again, and soon. And missing clothing.
I don’t think I’ve ever tried to pick somebody up while I was drunk, but I will admit to trying to pick up a girl while she was drunk. Bad, I know, but I was about 18 and didn’t know any better. See, I’d been doing a shift of the local radio station for the Saturday night party show, and had been phoned up at the studio by a young girl who wanted me to come to a party with her after I finished. We chatted in between songs and adverts about everything she could think of, and I do remember she seemed like a pretty nice girl, if a little flirty. Mind you, how can any woman resist the dulcet tones of a man on radio, right? Yeah. I finished my shift at midnight, and after a drive of a half hour to the party (it was in the next town from where I was) I met her at a predetermined place we both knew. I can’t for the life of me remember her name, but I think it was Tracy or something. Anyway, MaybeTracy had a couple of her friends with her, and they were all of sweet 16 – and had been drinking. Not that I minded, because as soon as she saw me, young MaybeTracy gave me a big hug and didn’t let go. Perhaps she saw me as a giant bottle of hooch, I’m not sure, but as we walked from my car to the party (about three blocks) she didn’t once let me go. Since I was 18, my hormones were going absolutely crazy with her intimacy – I would be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly turned on, but being stone-cold sober and a little timid to try anything, about the worst I did was put my arm around her to support her as she staggered along. MaybeTracy was quite pretty, a fair face surrounded by a frame of dark hair, and that soft, lilting voice of teen drunkeness – slurred words and spittle.
Join me for a drink....
We arrived at the party, which was at some dude’s place whom I did not know, but I went in like I owned the joint, MaybeTracy at my side and her friends trailing along behind, giggling wildly. We sat on the couch, I had a beer thrown into my hands (I didn’t drink the stuff, and eventually found a spare second to casually put it aside without much notice) and we sat there, listening the sounds of Rednex murdering “Cotton Eye Joe.” MaybeTracy was yabbering away in drunk-speak to me, hardly pausing to listen to any reply I may give, while I was passing a casual eye around the room with increasing amusement. The majority of the people at this party were my age or younger, the tweeny-bopper giggle-shits, and the majority of them were holding those stupid pre-mixed lolly drinks with names like Lemon Spike and Pink Velvet and stuff. The dance music, after about twenty minutes of a mega mix of Reel 2 Reel’s “I Like To Move It”, Roxette’s “Sleeping In My Car” and Ace Of Base’s “All That She Wants”, eventually shifted to the more slo-motion make-out crap like Bryan Adams and his band doing “All For Love”. Fuck you Bryan Adams, you soft core music peddler: go back to your garage band in ’69. All I seem to recall from the early 90′s was your gradual whoring of a decent singing career to shite like “Please Forgive Me”, the aforementioned “All For Love”, and “Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman?”, the latter of which is designed specifically to make men feel both guilty and inadequate. Yeah, fuck you Bryan Adams. My radio career highlights involved your incessant warbling – and it ruined me.
The Hot Rod in his early days...
The Shittiest Love Song Ever Written – All 4 One: I Swear
Anyway, the Juice-box had just kicked in with All 4 One’s “I Swear” when MaybeTracy decided she’d had enough of sitting there with me, and she got up and started dancing. She grabbed my hand and dragged me up, pulling me close. Dear Penthouse, I never thought this could happen to me. As we swayed there, surrounded by half-shouted conversations and alcoholic staggering, I looked down at her – she looked up at me – and we kissed. Awww. So I thought my luck was in, dontcha know? But the problem was, she was drunk (and getting drunkererer) while I was trying to stay sober – after all, I still had to drive home, and the thought of crashing on the couch of this house was as unappealing as typhoid. I began to feel guilty, an attack of my conscience like Jimminy frickin’ Cricket was sitting on my shoulder yabbering away. I didn’t want to take advantage of her, so my options were to either get hammered myself, or stop and go home. So I went home. Like a loser. A perfect chance to get laid, albeit with somebody who most likely remember later on anyway, gone begging due to my principles. Damn me for not being an asshole.
The point of this, though, isn’t to ask for your sympathy is a missed sexual opportunity. It’s to highlight the fact that I was an alcoholic spectator – instead of drinking and becoming part of the seething mass of teen-drunkeness, I stayed sober and ended up feeling worse. I look back and thank God I didn’t go through with the plans my penis had for MaybeTracy, because I know it was the right thing to do, but for years afterwards I regretted my decision. Had I been drunk, had I had a few bevvies whilst sitting on the couch and cuddling with this girl I’d just met (God, how much of a whore am I? – Don’t answer that!) I could very well have ended up doing the x-axis tango in a blur of thrashing limbs and fumbled seconds. Mind you, watching the girls at this party losing their inhibitions was a pretty sweet trade-off. Whilst on the couch, goggling at the skimpy outfits worn by the girls of the time, the amount of faux-flirting going on by both the guys and girls was extraordinary. As opposed to a drunken rampage of toxic anger and rage, like you’d find at any club and bar you care to visit these days, it seems, the teenage-dance crowd seemed content to get hammered, get frisky, and get-to gropin’. The mix of rampant hormones and alcohol induced a sexually liberated malaise over the group. I did see a few boobs that night, although not from MaybeTracy, which made me happy: a poor offset for the fact that I didn’t actually get any sex.
How it looks to slow dance while drunk...
When I moved to the big city, however, the adults there behaved like maniacs when drunk. Instead of a “free love” environment reminiscent of the Swinging 60′s, Austin Powers was pretty much gang raped by the late 90′s adult-drunk animosity which permeated our culture. Instead of the frisky, hint-of-nipple groping going on, for the most part, adults became even more isolated from each other, as alcohol served to inflame tension rather than quench it. The infrequency with which I joined the boys at a bar to drink a few only served to highlight the general stupidity of adult humans when pissed. Almost every time out, we’d notice some imbecile making an ass of himself (side note: now, it’s more often the girls being an imbecile… a social swing which is only too recent) and inevitably the cops would be called as punches started to fly. But, as with the couch party I attended waaaay back, there was also plenty of flesh being shown off. And that’s the thing, isn’t it boys. Go to any bar, anywhere, and if it’s loud enough, eventually those skimpy dresses and short skirts, skin-tight tops and boob-tubes will begin to lack the ability to cover what they’re supposed to. The more crowded the bar, the more likely it is. And of course, the drunker the girls are, the likelihood skyrockets. Which is why I usually like to go to a bar and not drink, just to scab a perv at some free flesh – although when I say it like that, it really does sound disgusting.
Early days at The Bar None
Going to bars isn’t high on my weekly quota of activities either, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bar-hound in real life. The danger of frequenting a bar, especially the wrong bar, was made all too clear one day when several of the boys at work didn’t come in for a week because they’d been involved in a bar brawl (something I’ve actually always wanted to see, an all-in brawl like they have in the movies!). When they finally did return to work, all battered and bruised, one of the guys showed me a specific injury which he seemed to be wearing with pride. False pride, I think, as he pulled up his shirt to expose the still-visible bruise-mark of where he’s been hit with a bit of chain: apparently, the biker he’d bumped into at this bar was carrying a piece of chain around just for special occasions, and so had whipped my work colleague like a dog with it during the fight. You could still make out the individual links in the chain from the indents in his skin. Who the fuck carries a chain into a bar? Bikers, apparently.
Too much booze often led to a dis-clothesure policy at The Bar None.
I now consider myself to be an alcoholic spectator: somebody who will tell you he’s drinking a Rum+Coke when he’s actually drinking just Coke. I maintain my equilibrium, by ability for rational thought, and my dignity, while laughing internally at the folks who end up plastered all over the floor and sidewalk. Like a massive game of Eye Spy, or Bingo, you mark off the clichéd alcoholic behaviour you witness until the board is full, and you can put your hands in the air and exclaim “BINGO” with as much force as possible. Watching drunk people is more fun that being drunk myself, I find. That’s not to say I don’t mind having a drink, but no longer to excess (unless it’s a special occasion) – I just find people trying to behave normally while their brains feel like hot syrup is much more amusing than a hangover.
So let’s hear it folks: what’s your best Spectator Drinking Story – if you have one. We want the funniest, most insane stuff you’ve got! Let fly below in the comments!