alcohol – aMediocreMan

Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar

roo I parked on a side street and walked towards the bar. A couple was sitting at one of the tables directly next to the bar door.

The man looked liked a biker; he was tall, too thin (almost crack thin), had a black skull & bones do-rag on his head, old stonewashed jeans and roughed up leather boots. He was smoking Marlboro Reds and drinking beer from a tall glass.

The woman with him looked worn. Her leathery skin made her look about 55 years old, but she was probably 30. She had what local Floridians call “crocodile” skin; dry and cracked. She seemed a little fucked up. Not drunk, probably just some pills.

She had a white chicken on her left shoulder. He/she was just sitting on her shoulder looking nervously around, like chickens do.

“Is that a chicken on a crocodile-skinned woman’s shoulder sitting outside a bar,” I silently asked myself. I knew 100% that I had never dropped acid, but I was suddenly wondering if someone slipped me some.

People walking by were marveling at this sight. Apparently I wasn’t the only person dumbfounded by this fuckery.

A man stopped and asked her, “Is that a pet chicken, can I pet it?”

Crocodile-skin lady smiled, revealing a missing tooth right where the vampire tooth is supposed to be, “Yep, he’s our pet chicken. His name is Chuck. Yep, Chuck the Chicken. Go ahead and pet him,” she said. Continue reading “Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar”

Golf course hotel

Another hotel for work. I stay here a couple times each month. It has a golf course and small convention center.

It’s the same freak show every time. Fat, white golfers with their pasty cheeks toasted by the south Florida sun, come in for drinks after chasing a ball around for five hours.

A mix of business men sitting at bar tables, intently focused on their laptops, checking stocks, because these rich assholes can actually afford to own stocks. Always rude to the bartenders and staff for no reason other than to satisfy their inflated egos.

Rarely, if ever, does a woman show up. I don’t blame the women though. When they do come to the bar, every guy is trying to be cooler than they actually are because their wives are far, far away. While at the hotel on for business, they dream of strange, anonymous pussy, but rarely seal the deal.

Business man next to me at the bar wearing a fancy jacket, cuff links- yes, fucking cuff links, apple air buds in, making calls, speaking loudly so everyone knows how important he at least thinks he is. Holy fuck, I don’t dress that nice for a wedding or funeral, but thankfully he does.

He ordered a Stella draft and that’s shit beer, so that confirms he’s a fucking fraud. He’s damn good looking and fit, but would probably fuck himself first because no woman could ever be as hot as he thinks he is.

I wish I could Dexter this guy; lay out the plastic, put the tranquilizer in his neck and drain his blood because he’s doing nothing positive for this world. He probably has a huge cock too, that’s usually how it works.

“I’m a salad guy,” he said to the waitress as his cuff links shimmered from the bar lights above.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I walked outside, smoked some weed and went to bed.

(Related Posts: Another Hotel Bar; Another Florida Hotel Bar; Beach Bar)

beach bar- (florida east coast)

(This is a crappy bar I go to sometimes while working. It’s always an incredible trainwreck and I can’t stop going. I know I’m an asshole, thanks.)

It’s a Wednesday night around 7:30.

Barback– guy with American flag bandana, dancing behind the bar, throwing his lighter in the air like a drunk Muppet, trying to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but he’s fucking not at Burning Man

Bartender– cute, but worn, searching for something more, she could do better than this. She meanders behind the bar languidly, like a beaten puppy, just hoping for some decent drunk to pet her and scratch behind her ear.

Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, talking to one of the regulars at the bar, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck-up, if they only knew…..

New couple- sits next to me at the bar, she’s cute, but you can tell the husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching about wanting a frozen drink, fat husband remains indifferent to her bitching. She’s definitely tired of his dick, sad because he actually seems like a nice guy, but damn she’s such a bitch. Continue reading “beach bar- (florida east coast)”

in San Fran

parade First trip to San Fran, first trip to Cali, first trip to the Left Coast

Too scared to stay outside the financial district,

my pussy wasn’t ready for that cherry pop.

I like to hang around the less smelly creatures when I travel to big cities,

That whole piss, patchouli dread-locked stink doesn’t appeal to my golden spoon upbringing.

San Fran is a different breed;

More Asians than you could throw a noodle at

More homeless than New York

More trendy than Miami

Oddly polite, like how white people treat other white people in the deep south

Did the good society thing and went to the SFMOMA and stared at some cool artwork with meanings I will never understand

After that, Wifey and I started drinking at the Hyde Out, a local bar with plenty of flavor; Continue reading “in San Fran”

my addiction

soda I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed and I’m weak because I have an addiction. I’m not proud of what it does to me. I’m not proud of what I do to get it. But I do it anyway.

When I first roll out of bed, it nags at me like a hangnail.

“Come get me, you know you need me. You know you can’t make it an hour without me,” it whispers knowingly in the back of my mind.

I look around my house in odd corners hoping to find a couple of quarters or dimes. If I can’t find enough there, I lift up my car seats and scour underneath to find the right amount to pay for it.

Once I find enough change, I get into the car. I don’t brush my teeth, I don’t bathe, I simply put the car in drive and get there as quickly as possible. Continue reading “my addiction”

another hotel bar

Another hotel bar; I’m on the corner bar stool, minding my own shit, hoping no one tries to talk to me, only thing I want to say is “Yes, one more please.”

Another business man, probably mid 40’s and a little fatter than most, sat down next to me, his eyes scanned the rest of the bar, looking for some strange pussy, hoping some desperate clit will let him in. His Brooks Brothers button up is wrinkled from sitting behind a computer for the past 8 hours and there are visible pit stains. He should work out more, he’s too puffy for a hookup, especially given the 10 to 1 male to female ratio. That’s the typical ratio, damn the women are “lucky.”

He ordered a Glenlivet neat. Shit, the puffy man has bigger balls than most. He’s really trying to impress, really trying to show the rest of the bar that his expense account is for real.

The bartender took notice, but only because the scotch means her tip should be bigger. Her bangs and wrinkled forehead tell me that she’s either 25 or 50 and she’s probably seriously questioning her life choices. He will talk to her about his two divorces, child support and how he’s hoping to retire to South Florida one day and buy a boat. “Do you like boats,” he asked her. She says she that she does, but only because she has to say that so she can make a payment on her Boost mobile cell phone the next morning before it gets shut off again. Continue reading “another hotel bar”

night at a beach bar

it’s night, I’m at a bar across from a beach, east coast of Florida

The Cook– Skinny, white-trash looking guy with American flag bandana dancing oddly behind the bar, throwing his lighter into the air. He looks like a drunk Muppet, spinning around as he tries to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but let me be clear, he’s fucking not at Burning Man. Must be a bored cook….. people would have to be desperate to order food from this hole of shit bar.

Bartender– she’s kind of cute, nice brown hair and her skin appears somewhat innocent. Her strained smile and lack of amusement for the drunk Muppet gives her motive away…… searching for something more than this place. Good luck honey, don’t let those tips suck your life away.

The Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, a real fucking big shot. Talking to an old dude who is probably a regular, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck up….. if they only knew.

The Couple– they walk in and sit close to me. She’s cute, in that trashy kind of way women look cute to me when I’ve had eight beers or so. Husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching and whining about wanting a frozen drink.

Fat husband sits silent as she argues with the manager, he’s probably seen this shit a few times before and he’s tired of it. Just like she’s probably tired of his gut and his dick, she gives zero fucks about embarrassing him. Kind of sad, because he actually looks nice, but damn she’s a bitch. She’s un-fucking-pleaseable. Continue reading “night at a beach bar”

douche flute in cuff links

“I’m a salad kind of guy,” he said as the waitress looked away in disdain. Understandable disdain from her considering this was a sports bar, not Tavern on the fucking Green.

He wore tight designer jeans, way too expensive shoes, a royal blue blazer and diamond-studded cuff links that were protruding aggressively outward so everyone could see. He was fit, had great skin and tight cropped hair, almost military hair. And yes, his teeth were fucking perfect too.

He had wireless iPod ear buds, so it was nearly impossible to tell if he was speaking with someone in real life or someone from his contact list. A contact list full of hundreds of people who aren’t his friends, but just people who somehow make him money.

He continued to engage the waitress. “Do you have any healthier options.” In an increasingly strained tone, she apologized and said that was the only menu they had. I could feel her hatred growing and I understood it. Everyone at the bar understood it.

He ordered a grilled chicken salad with balsamic dressing on the side and a Stella draft.

As if I didn’t already know, his beer order solidified the fraud. Someone who dresses like him should never drink a Stella. Stella is just a fancier version of Coors Light. What a cunt. Continue reading “douche flute in cuff links”