Category Archives: Bar

The Lightweight… The Barroom Chronicles… Episode 4

A long, long time ago, on a mountainside far, far away…  an object was found that one customer wishes would have rusted into oblivion. This object has been the center of much controversy, and once was even kidnapped, only to be returned to the aforementioned customer’s chagrin.

We’ll call that customer The Lightweight – not because  of his size, or because of his boxing classification; he was neither small nor a boxer, he was a barroom athlete who mastered the sport of face planting. Many a night, after his third beer, he practiced his art from his barstool by planting his face squarely atop the bar.  During one of these episodes, he was introduced to the object.

The object was introduced to the bar Halloween of 2005.  We weren’t the owners then, and nary a soul knew my wife and I.  Dressed as a pregnant nun, my wife rolled me in – yes the object is a wheelchair and I was playing a mentally challenged paraplegic priest.  My job was to imitate Noah Percy from the movie “The Village.”  People say I make a convincing village idiot.

One of the benefits to being a village idiot is that no one expects you to posses math skills. Belief me, I don’t; but, I did stumble upon an interesting equation: Booze + wheelchair = fun.   Like any mathematical equation, this one could be readily expanded upon.  It was, and we’ve discovered:  Drunk + wheelchair +  Duct tape = Lots of fun.  It’s not the theory of relativity, but the following experiment proved the equation’s validity.

After Mr. Lightweight plunged from stool to bar top, someone asked

Don't drink and ride!

if there was duct tape in the house. I could tell by this customer’s grin that he was onto something I would appreciate. When he asked the whereabouts of the wheelchair, I was wearing a wide grin.  Within minutes we had the Lightweight secured upright in the wheelchair  and were pushing him out the door and down the sidewalk to the other bar. Hey, we’re good sports, we duct taped a beer to his hand.

Once there, we knocked on the front door and scattered behind parked cars. The bartender came to the door, looked at the Lightweight, looked up and down the street, shrugged and went back inside.  “Who knocks on a barroom door?”  the bartender said later. “When I saw him, I knew you p$@!ks were up to no good.”

Like I said, we’re good sports.  After that stunt we rolled Mr. Lightweight home and planted him on his couch. You would think that he would have learned his lesson.  Nope, it took a different equation the next night.

Instruments of Terror!

Sharpies + Drunk = Art Class…

This isn't the Lightweight, but it's still funny.
This isn't the Lightweight, but it is funny.

Like all art classes a painting surface was needed.  That night’s class was held on the Light- weight’s face.  The same pot stirrer managed to draw an erect male organ on the Lightweight’s forehead.  No big deal you say.  I agree. Until, we  learned that the next morning Mr. Lightweight didn’t look in the mirror before going to work.  I think he had a bad day.  The moral of the story? Brushing and flossing keeps the Penis Monster away!

The Shithouse Poet… Another Installment of The Barroom Chronicles

Considering this series started with a quote from the Ladies’ room wall, maybe it’s time to take a deeper look at thou holiest of all places and the artistry scribbled upon its walls.  (Men, you’ll have equal time, Men’s room poetry will be featured in later post.)  If you are a minor, or do not posses a sense of humor, you are not welcome here. Go Away! We don’t want your whining to interrupt our good time. Without further ado, may I point you to the last door on the right.

As with all quality pieces of lit, this is dedicated to the poet of the house of shit, whoever and wherever you are!


Welcome to the Ladies’ Room:

– If you love your man and have some class-  Don’t write his name where your wipe your ass!

-You cry, I cry –   You laugh, I laugh – You jump off a cliff, I laugh even harder.

-Why do men like being on the bottom during sex? They only know how to fuck up.

-I’m starting to see double and act single.

-Whip me, beat me, bite me, blow me, suck me, fuck me, very slowly, then walk away like you don’t even know me!

-Some people are like Slinkies… Good for nothing; but they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down a flight of stairs.

And that’s only what’s written on the door.

My personal favorite:

The right pic is a close up of the verbiage so elegantly written above the toilet paper.  Gives me a chuckle everyday, but I have an eight year old’s sense of  humor.


Continuing our tour:

The Bar Nazi demanding that the toilets flush on time!

The Female’s Prayer:  As he lays me down to hit, I pray his dick ain’t small as shit – and if his dick ain’t long and thick – I pray that he’s good at lickin’ it.

Of the Philosophical realm we have: (Please ignore the Bar Nazi.)

– You’re born…  You die… And somewhere in the middle… you live. If you make it happen.

– Wage + Debt = Slavery

Shithouse Poet busted in the act!

– Life is like a cock, when it’s soft you can’t beat it – when it’s hard – you get fucked!

For the Epicureans:

A blowjob is the healthiest breakfast –  you get sausage, 2 nuts and a shot of protein.

If it tastes like chicken, it’s good for a lickin’ –  If it tastes like fish, add some sauce, it’s a dish –  If it smells like cologne… leave it alone!

If vodka were water and I was a duck, I’d swim to the bottom and never come up. But vodka ain’t water and I’m not a duck, so slide me the bottle and shut the fuck up!


A Tale of Eternal Love:

Here’s to the man  –  I love the best – I love him the best – when he’s undressed – I’d fuck him – Sitting, standing, lying

If he had wings – I’d fuck him flying

And when he’s dead – and long forgotten – I’d dig him up – and fuck him rotten.

I’ve hope you’ve enjoyed our little tour, if you didn’t, there’s the f’ing door!

For those of us remaining. Repeat after me…  (You have to say this out loud for full effect:)

I’m sofa king…  I’m sofa king we-Todd-it!


If you fell for it, you’re in good company, I bit hook, line and sinker the first time a barroom prankster pulled that classic on me.


Till next time, keep a Sharpie in hand, because inspiration may find you where you sit or you stand.






The Prank That Keeps On Giving… The Barroom Chronicles Pt. 2

You’re on a road trip, you’re thirsty, and you’re driving along a lonely town’s main street. Just past a funky book store and a pet crematorium,  you catch glimpse of a purple palm tree, and against better judgement you stop. You’re about to step into…

You thought I was about to say: “The Twilight Zone.”

Nah, it’s more like Northern Exposure.

But what’s really trippy, within a few moments the bartender proclaims your outlook on life.  You know, if you’re an optimist or a pessimist.  My God, you’ve  been exposed by a complete stranger,  one behind a Podunk bar no less.

“Oh The Horror!”

The trick involves no magic, no extra-sensory perception, just an acute eye.  It’s really quite simple.  Personally speaking, the skill has its genesis in an elaborate April Fool’s prank – one which had our quaint little town up in arms.  A prank that resulted in petitions, calls to aldermen, and threats from many to never again patronize our fine establishment.

Did I mention there was a lot of  snickering behind the scenes?

We told the town we were changing the name to the 1000 Bra Bar.  The idea  was inspired by a regional tourist trap, the 50000 Silver Dollar Bar. It’s a gawdy place designed to part you from your money while showing off 50000 Silver Dollars laminated into the bar top.  Really? Who wants to gloat over 5o grand when we can admire dangling braticiples?

Why would anyone be upset about this? Okay, we also said that the relic road sign would be replaced by a large bra with flashing red lights for nipples.

For months we spread the word, telling the old-timers you can’t stop change. Change is good, we need a breath of fresh air.  We went as far as saying we had investors to purchase neighboring buildings and open Great A.S.S. – that’s the Great Adult Super Store! Mobs were being mobilized.

We advertised a name change party for April 4th – we’re shifty buggers, the date alleviated suspicion of hi-jinx.  Though on April 1st, the day the new sign was to be installed, we informed the public  there was a glitch with the sign’s production and that we would reveal the design at midnight during the grand event.

On said date, the place was packed, many to hang their bras on the ceiling, many to have their last drink before the ultimate sacrilege – the name was officially being ‘changed’ at midnight.

On that magical night, during the first raising, a fond memory was made: In the middle of Jimi Hendrix’s   rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner, as the crowd stood with hands over hearts, a traveling couple walked through the front door.  They stood slack-jawed watching a bunch of yokels saluting bras as they were stapled to the ceiling.  I motioned for them to take off their hats and place them  over their hearts. My glare shouted: “Show some respect and listen to the song!”  Think Hanson brothers in the movie Slapshot.  They complied.

Prior to midnight, a contingent of locals were going to walk out for the last time. “We refuse to drink in the 1000 Bra Bar,” their war cry.  I managed to finagle their leader into staying for the unveiling of the new sign.

At the witching hour, two bra clad gals climbed upon the bar.  Anticipation filled the house.  What could this crazy sign really look like? With the appropriate amount of fanfare, the girls unveiled a banner reading: “April Fool’s from the Sportman’s Bra.

To this day, each bra-raising is accompanied with a salute and the playing of Jimi’s rendition.  A raising is never planned and it’s completely spontaneous. Whenever a lady is so compelled, the ritual is reenacted. The most random occurrence,  an autumn Monday afternoon when a limo full of Seattlites stumbled in for a pit stop.

“That’s all well and good… but what does this story have to do with knowing one’s outlook?”

The answer is simple.  If one doesn’t notice the bras during the first few minutes of their stay, I consider one a pessimist. Why? Take a look at the picture to your right, they’re flippin’ obvious. (Please ignore the Mexican bearing cupcakes.)  If you don’t notice ’em you’re head’s down and one would presume you’re bummed out or too focused on draining your drink.  Experience dictates a rapidly drained glass is always half-empty and a drinker with a half-empty could find a fifty on the floor and complain that it wasn’t a hundred.

Judging by its smile, the drink to our left took a moment to gaze at the ceiling. Despite its impending fate, it can’t help but enjoy the view.

The following April Fools, we managed to outdo ourselves and pissed off more people. That’s a story for another day.

A Wise Monkey… The Barroom Chronicles Pt. 1

“A wise monkey once told me don’t mess with another monkey’s monkey unless you’re holding the banana.”  I’m not sure what it means but considering it’s written on the lady’s room wall at my place of employment, I believe it’s a reminder to the inebriated which monkey keeps the bananas. You see, I own a small town bar in rural Montana, and these are my stories (Cue Law and Order Theme.)

We’ve all seen obnoxious drunks, the kind of ogre that just pisses you off. When you’re the customer, you can tell him to shut up, remind him that he is a rip roaring anal aperture and wish him a painful hangover. You’re lucky, you’re on the fun side of the bar.

Behind the bar, such dealings call for a bit a diplomacy, a heaping of patience, and when worse comes to worse, an eye for retaliatory measures.  As an owner, I have to bide my time and take my shots when I can. Being a small town, customers are not in unlimited supply. In other words, even though I hold the bananas, it doesn’t behoove me to piss off too many monkeys.

When that magic moment comes I can assure you we’re not slipping Visine into drinks – that’s downright cliche’.  For those unfamiliar, that’s an old bartender’s trick. A dash of the eye drop into a libation and obnoxious customer is suddenly puking up his guts. What follows are my favorite acts of vengeance:

1)  What’s that, you only have a dollar ten in pennies and nickles?

Regular number 1 walks in, orders a bottled beer, pays for said beer. Drinks beer, orders second beer, pays for beer, drinks beer, orders third beer, whips out a bunch of nickles and pennies and says this is all the money he has.   Hey, I’m a nice guy, under normal circumstances I’d let it slide.  But remember the law of the jungle: give a monkey a banana, and he thinks he’s entitled to two.

But this isn’t the second or third time it’s happened with dear #1, it’s become habit.  What do I do to get even?  I open his beer, pour half of it down the drain and slam the bottle on the bar.

“You can’t do that,” he says with wide eyes.

“You bet I can,” I say as I dump out a little more.   “You’re paying for a dollar ten cents worth of beer,  you’re getting a dollar ten cents worth.”

It worked,  he’s never short changed me again.

Regular #1 again…  There’s a pattern developing, people receiving such actions are beyond diplomacy.   Said patron was cut off for the night and refused to vacate the bar. You must understand #1 is a harmless fellow, his worst offense is getting in people’s space, playing air guitar while articulating delusions of being in Van Halen.

For such circumstances we keep a valuable tool behind the bar. Technically the act could be construed as chemical warfare, and as far as I know it may violate the Geneva Convention or whatever laws govern warfare.  I walk behind him and apply  a liberal dose of  Liquid Ass upon his backside.  If you haven’t experienced this joy, think of fat ole’ granddad letting it rip… on steroids.   Of course I risk clearing the bar, but because #1 smells like #2 peer pressure quickly mounts. Everybody thinks he  shit himself.  The remaining customers harangue the confused customer till he leaves. Not to mention, next visit he gets his balls busted for shitting his pants.

3)  Regular #2   aka   The Crankiest Prick in Town.   He is also a recipient of two acts of barroom karma.   #2 is such a prick that revenge is justified with every sip.  Words just can’t explain this wonderful human being. If you ever met him, you would be instantly creeped out.  Imagine an old, defrocked priest and you have an accurate picture.

The inspiration for these acts of retribution aren’t even remembered, but I can assure you they were just another clash of symbols in a very long parade of hostility.

On a summer night, #2 irritated me sufficiently to slip out into the parking lot and urinate on his driver’s door and a tire.   An act of silent vengeance that allowed me the honor of serving him with a smile the remainder of the evening.

4)   #2 plays his own trick. The man is so despised that if customers see his rig in front of the bar, they go to the next bar, or simply turn around and go home. #2 has figured this out and parks his truck in front of the bar he’s not drinking in.  One glorious afternoon, #2 parks in front of the bar and walks down the street.  With afternoon business shot, I sat on the deck and watched the local riding club trot their steeds down Main St.  Remember, this is rural Montana.  Along with the horses comes pucky, and lots of it. An evil smile crosses my face and I set off to find a shovel.

Within minutes not only have I found a shovel, I’ve found help. We load #2’s pickup bed with #2.  I get a good laugh. Apparently, my help dislikes #2 more than I do. He asks if I have a pair of gloves that he can keep. Notice, he didn’t ask to borrow a pair of gloves. I say, “but, of course.”  The help proceeds to don gloves and spread some of the horse’s cheer over #2’s windshield. I”m wondering if it was a shitty ride home?

The moral of the story? Even if your bartender is an ass, he often gets the last laugh!