On Saturday night I went out in Manghattan with Scottbrundage.com, my sister (Tiff) and her boyfriend (Adam). We hung out at this swank bar in midtown nearly all night. (Btw, thanks for paying for all of our drinks Tiff (ZOMG(ROFL(WTF)))) At 3:15 am, with last call quickly approaching, we decided to head to another watering hole.
Tiff and Adam live on the Upper West Side so he suggested that we hit up Yogi’s, a ‘dive bar’ on Broadway. Yogi’s really doesn’t deserve the title of ‘dive bar’, nor does any other bar on the UWS for that matter. A real dive bar is characterized by genuinely rude bartenders, cheap drinks, a shitty decor, urine, vomit, and a location that allows degenerates to loiter within the community. Like Trophy’s in Austin, Texas. The owner is a degenerate alcoholic who legitimately scared the shit out of me, the bartender was a washed-up, angry woman, the beer was cheap and stored in a refrigerator meant for a home kitchen – which was crucial, considering the fact that the place doesn’t even have a liquor license – and the overall grime and filth were thick enough to make Scottbrundage.com’s boxer briefs look clean. The place made me feel right at home.
So when we arrived at Yogi’s, ordered up a couple of PBR’s and laid back in the cut, I was surprised to see a blackout drunk bartender spilling drinks and dancing on the bar. The girl was in full-on thousand-mile-stare mode. She had that sedated, gone look whereby she could be looking right into your eyes but not see you at all. Kinda like a zombie. Or Crazy Mike most Saturday nights 2 years ago.
We stood behind a couple of guys and listened in as they accused her of pouring a pitcher of beer on one of them. She accused him of grabbing her leg as she danced on the bar. They demanded free drinks – shots of Jameson and some free beers. I watched as the girl turned around and scanned the bottles of liquor for Jameson. It took her quite some time to find the bottle, as she kept looking right over it. The thousand-mile-stare was confirmed.
After pouring the shots – spilling shit all over the place in the process – the bartender demanded payment for the drinks. The guys told her that they weren’t paying for shit. It was at this point that I looked away for a second, and was soon hit by a piece of ice. “WTF, where did that come from?!”. I looked back up and saw the bartender pouring a beer over one of the dudes while he returned the favor. Soon enough, this crazy bitch was launching beer bottles, shot glasses, and half-empty pitchers at the guy. Of course, she missed each time, hitting the suckers standing behind the dudes. Aka – us. After getting hit with a bottle, my sister ran outside to get the bouncer. When nothing was left to throw, the bartender stormed off to the back room crying.
Two thoughts ran through my mind as this madness ensued:
- This bitch is absolutely crazy, we need to get out of here stat.
- I think I’m in love. I need to get this girl’s number, take her out on a date and marry her. At the very least, interview her for Chuckblog.
I commend Yogi’s for hiring such a degenerate and hope that they keep her on the payroll.
I demand you date her immediately!
Your sister’s chesticle and my hipjawn suffered mild contusions. My pretty brown shirt, post beer bottle holocaust, smelled like… well it smelled like my dick. Thank your sister for even touching that shirt, let alone washing it.
What a great night! That deserved a Trophy and a trip back to Seadonkey Cove.
Lord Annubis cryeth from the plains of Jericho, “Where are my babies?”
Go back and ask her if she wants to drive cross country with a couple of donkeys.
Fuck it, we’ll stay in Flagstaff for a whole month if we have someone around who’s even drunker than we are.