Regular Rob: I got three DUIs in Texas, making me a convicted felon. I come to Florida and they hand me a shiny new license that says ‘safe driver’ in big red letters.

Recently, a few of my co-workers got in some trouble when they were caught making (alcoholic) drinks for one of the waitresses. While I don’t condone the behavior (and I’m pretty pissed that I’m now dealing with the consequences of their poor decisions), a part of me wants to post this on “the board” and see how the Man Who Thinks He’s God likes it.

Reasons to Allow Drinking at Work:

1. It’s an incentive to show up.
2. It reduces stress.
3. It leads to more honest communications.
4. It reduces complaints about low pay.
5. It cuts down on time off because you can work with a hangover.
6. Employees tell management what they think, not what management wants to hear.
7. It helps save on heating costs in the winter.
8. It encourages carpooling.
9. Increases job satisfaction because if you have a bad job you don’t care.
10. It eliminates vacations because people would rather come to work.
11. It makes fellow employees look better.
12. It makes the cafeteria food taste better.
13. Bosses are more likely to hand out raises when they are wasted.
14. Salary negotiations are a lot more profitable.
15. If somebody does something stupid on the job, it will be quickly forgotten.

going to work with a hangover sucks. working in a bar with a hangover.. the WORST.

not only do i know ALL of my regulars on a first name basis, but i know what they drink, their marital status, the names and ages of their kids (and who has custody), where they work, where their kids go to school, their hobbies, what they drive, where they live, what TV station they want to watch, what they want to eat, and one or two (or more than enough) interesting tidbits of personal information that the general public would just not find as amusing as i do.

i see a lot of people throughout a shift, but it gets kinda monotonous  when its the same. exact. people. every. single. day.

and that’s why i’m thankful for the characters that crawl into the parallel universe centrally located inside beef o’brady’s. never a dull moment…

tonight, we are feeding the football team, should be interesting.

FUCK YOU, YOUR FAT DAUGHTER AND HER WHORE FRIEND. YOU SUCK.

This lady (and her fat whore sidekicks) come in every week- on Wednesday. Happy hour wings and half price appetizers. And every Wednesday, something is wrong. Either her “crispy but not burnt” fries aren’t cooked just right or the teriyaki sauce “doesn’t taste how it usually does.” Whatever it is, I ALWAYS end up storming back to the kitchen, with half eaten food, pissed and yelling some profanity.

Today, all three of them ordered the same exact thing they got the week before:

• 2 orders of fried mozzarella
• 10 sweet jalapeno wings
• 10 medium wings
• 10 boneless buffalo wings
• order of straight fries

When their food came out, everything was fine. Fifteen minutes went by and everything was still fine. But of course, right when I was contemplating the outrageous idea that they actually wouldn’t complain about anything, the fat girl’s friend had something to say.

Her: I can’t eat these wings. They’re making me sick. Her’s too. (points to fat girl’s half-eaten bonesless wings, looks at her own half-eaten wings, and looks at me)

Me: (trying not to throw the basket at this girl’s face) Well what would you like me to do with them?

Her: I don’t know, I don’t want them. (pushes the basket to me)

REALLY? THEY’RE MAKING YOU SICK? YOU DON’T LOOK SICK. YOU DON’T LOOK GOOD BUT YOU LOOK PERFECTLY HEALTHY. JUST LIKE THE 200 OTHER PEOPLE WHO ATE THOSE SAME EXACT WINGS TODAY.

Anyways, when it was time for them to go, I gave them their (no-comp) bill and went to get their to-go drinks that they rudely reminded me they “needed.” When I returned, the fat bitch goes “I really hate to be a pain in the patooty but I’m not paying for wings they couldn’t eat.”

UMM they COULD eat them and they DID eat them. Enough until they were full and then they decided it was time for free food.

Fat bitch got the wings for free, ONCE AGAIN. I really, fucking hate people like that. Always going out to a restaurant to get free shit. BITCH YOU AIN’T EVEN BLACK.

Nine o’clockish. Two guys. Opposite sides of the bar. Only two customers in the restaurant.

Dude #1. He’s been to the bar a couple times before, drinks Amber Bock, kinda annoying. Twenty-seven. Married and divorced. He has ADHD tendencies and feels the need to constantly talk to me. About everything. He has a nine-year-old son. He has custody every other weekend. Dude went to jail two years ago for three felony cocaine charges. The only letter his wife wrote him detailed her affair with another man. He did his time, got out, divorced Baby Momma.

Dude #2. Never seen before. Mid-30s, heavy set, Maker’s Mark doubles on the rocks. He’s quiet, seemingly normal. I give him a number of opportunities to talk to me but he chooses not to. After two drinks, he begins to sweat profusely. I’ve seen weirder things, so I let it go, no biggie. About an hour (and another drink) later, he asks me for a pen. Normal. I walk to the kitchen, come back, and he calls me by my name. I walk over to him and he hands me a paper towel. On it, it reads:

“Kendra,

I have not been locked up (ever) and I have no kids. I have a good job. Will you go out with me?”

Uhhhhh.. what?

a thirtysomething-year-old regular who frequents the bar with his companion Chuck (formally Charles Brown) on a daily basis. Long nights, years of smoking cigarettes, some jail time, sunburns from passing out on the picnic tables (beer still in hand) combined with rheumatoid arthritis make him look about 50. Byron owes $200 a month in child support for his 22-year-old son, which he doesn’t pay. He’s gone to jail for it before but vows never to go back. The cops aren’t finding him; every address written to his name belongs to somebody else. When Byron gets really wasted, he starts speaking in a unique dialect known as Byronese. Only a few can understand it, but everyone at the bar will hear it. “Kendra” becomes “Kenya.” He speaks in no sentences, just a mashup of words with absolutely no coherent thought. And don’t forget the lisp, undoubtedly caused by numerous infections from his tongue ring. His escapades with the trailer park tramps are entertaining but not convincing enough to disprove his questionable gayness. His flamboyant usage of the term “whatever” is enough to make Perez Hilton blush.

I should not be allowed to serve you alcohol. I will get you drunk and take you home with me. Just wait.

like clockwork, a group of Mexicans will come to the bar sometime throughout the week. It’s usually the same gang of greasy, rude, disgusting guys, drinking Coronas, spitting on the floor and ruining my night. They stare at all the girls, making them feel uncomfortable. They scare off my customers- no one wants to sit next to that. They never tip, but it’s okay. They’ll never notice the extra 5 added to their bill after they leave.

Tonight, one of them kept asking me for a “peektur.” Assuming he wanted a picture, I said no every time, and walked away. About an hour and a half went by before I realized he was saying “pitcher.” I still said no every time, and walked away.

regulars make up the majority of my bar patrons. i know almost all of them on a first name basis. if not, references such as “creepy guy,” “Bronson boy,” “skinny cokehead,” and “crazy homeless guy” work just as well. they usually arrive faithfully at 3, the beginning of happy hour, and leave not a minute before it ends. it’s the same routine for all of them. they come in, i serve them, we make small talk, they get drunk and everyone is happy.  but not all regulars are the same .. here are some distinctions I’ve noticed (usually blatantly obvious from the second they walk in)

• Trailer Park Trash: These characters live behind Beef’s in an array of run-down trailer homes. Cheapest of the cheap. Hardcore boozers. Due to their close proximity to the bar, they seem to expect some sort of Preferred Customer treatment. They are rude, obnoxious and hardly know how to behave in public. They make up the majority of the happy hour crowd, and everybody knows each other either through neighbors, “associates,” their kids, or some twisted love triangle involving a prostitute and a pitch fork. This crowd is notorious for measly tips, if they tip at all. Thanks, but keep your 35 cents. We all know you need it more than I do. Example: Dale
• Trailer Park Not-so-Trash: Same as above, only nice. And they tip a little bit better. Example: Tom
• Pathetic Losers/Weirdos: These guys usually wander in to the bar solo. They have no wingman and no dignity. They are either loud and adamant about hitting on me or they just sit there, quiet and creepy. No matter how many times they are shot down by myself or one of the other bartenders, they return, just as hopeful. They usually ask 20 questions in an attempt to “get to know me” and then ask me the same 20 questions a week later. If they are too shy to ask me out, a drunken mess of chickenscratch scribbled onto a paper towel works just as well, and just as pathetic.  Example: Racecar Driver Chris
• Normal People: Self-explanatory. These people come to the bar to drink, eat, maybe watch some TV. I give them what they want, and they hardly bother me for anything more. They understand what I go through. We understand each other. Example: Kevin the Cop

Most of the regulars fall into one of these categories, but there are some exceptions. Like John Rafferty. Words cannot describe how fucking weird this guy is. Someday I’ll figure out what the hell is wrong with him.