A Guide To Drinking Like A Goddam Man
- Sit down. At a bar. A bar made of wood, you ingrate.
- Now stand up. Lean against the bar. Go ahead. Lean. Feel your elbows in the groove. You… you have an elbow groove at the bar, right? Now rest your shoulders. Allow your body to form the classic Larry King / vulture position. That limey cunt Pierce whatshisfuckinfface ain’t got shit on our boy Larry.
- Now. Sit back down again. Clear your throat.
- Order a drink. No need to have the bartender near you. Just announce it like the second male lead in a Sam Shepard play at a community theater table read. Own it.
- You better have ordered either a shot of bourbon or a heavy, dark beer.
- The bourbon you order should be caramel colored and bitter, like your landlady. The beer you order should be so dark and heavy it should be available as a special edition by Critereon.
- While the bartender is reeling in fear / getting your order, survey the bar like a garden sprinkler of spite and sexual tension. Think Jeff Bridges from Tron but actually Jeff Bridges from Crazy Heart. You want to make every woman in the bar pregnant just by being in your vicinity. You want to make all men question their life choices. Smack your lips loudly. Perhaps chew on a toothpick. If no toothpicks are available, there’s a wooden bar infront of you.
- The bartender should be back with your drinks by now. Take seven seconds to look up from the drink to their beady eyed bartender. Call him a derogatory name, casting your net wide to assure an insult on both his socioeconomic and his ethnic background. Hold eye contact. Sneer. (HOMEWORK: practice sneer.)
- Tip the bartender with a ripped dollar and an anecdote about killing a hobo.
- Take a sniff of the drink. Make sure he didn’t POISON you.
- Drink it all in one fell swoop.
- Repeat steps 3 through 11 until barely able to stand.
- Regale entire bar with different anecdote about killing a different hobo / three day peyote binge. Be sure to use the word “spittle” at least six times, and three of those times incorrectly.
- Take Polaroid of self. Hang it with spit on mirror behind bar. Point at it dramatically.
- Go to jukebox. Select and then play Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” ?fteen times in a row.
- Leave bar, never to return again.
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Hope is never gone, it’s just ignored.
Get off of me don’t touch me stop touching me. Stop. Touching. Me. Stop.
It’s so hard for me not to let what other people say about me define who I am.
I should eat an entire sleeve of saltines (and a brownie).