I’M NOT YOUR BAR MOM

With school back in session and weekends in full swing at bars all over the city, I can’t help but feel good seeing a packed house in my bar.

More people means less downtime and more hustle. And more money. It also means a lot of work. Jesus, can you people drink. But should you? I mean, I too can slug back Fireball Whisky like a boss. But there reaches a point when you should just stop, and go home while you’re ahead. Newsflash: That girl is not going to call you. She wants pizza. So, save what’s left of your dignity, and if you feel a blackout coming on just do the drunkard’s shuffle right out that door while your legs still (kinda) work.

I’m talking to you, “one more Jager” guy. You come in multiple times a week, so drunk you can’t even stand without the assistance of your friends who are no better off. The bouncers let you in because we know you, but I wish we didn’t. Because you showing up here means I have to take time out of my night to make sure you don’t fall down the one step we have in the bar, never mind stuffing you into a cab (if they’ll even take you). Do yourself a favor and stay home next weekend.

The same goes for you, “nodding off at the bar” guy. I remember that feeling in the (occasional) college class. You’re incapable of holding up your head, and falling forward while falling asleep is all that jolts you awake. This, friend, is not your bed.

For the last time: I’m your bartender, not your mother.

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