Sep. 13th, 2007

scary_manilow: (weird-0)
It's getting to be that time of year when [livejournal.com profile] secret_malady and I plan our annual Get-The-Fuck-Outta-Lawrence voyage, but we're completely stumped for destinations.

What's going on in YOUR part of the world the first week in November?
scary_manilow: (Default)
September 11th, 2007:

Vladmir Putin dissolves the Russian Government. Shinzo Abe steps down as prime minister of Japan. Israel resumes its missle bombardment of Palestinian settlements along the Gaza Strip.

Also, Kelly Nightengale and Rob Gillaspie are featured in the latest Lawrence.com "Style Scout."

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketPhoto Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

CLICK HERE for the whole shocking story! )


And now, a story from my week of bartending:

Monday afternoon, a couple of meth-banging hags slithered through the Replay doors and forced themselves against the bar. One of them had a twitchy eye and several blood-crusted bald spots on her scalp; the other was missing several important teeth in the top part of her mouth. Like every other person I hate in the world, they stepped on the wrong foot straight off and ordered a shot of something called "Liquid Cocaine."

"Do you know what's in it?" I asked.

"How should I know?" one of them gasped. "You're the bartender!"

I shrugged. "Never heard of it, and if you don't know what goes in it, I'm not going to make it."

Her friend shouldered in, impatient and slobbery. "How about Kool-Aid? You know what goes in that?"

"Sugar, water, and powder from a packet."

They looked at each other, did a simultaneous eyebrow-pinch, and turned back to face me.

"Don't you know how to make anything?" Blad-Patch asked.

I shrugged again (I've gotten REAL used to shrugging at my job), then motioned to the row of whiskey bottles on the shelf behind me. "This is a real beer-and-bourbon shot bar, lady. Anything up there look good to you?"

Tooth-Gap licked the space in her blackened gums. "Sex on the Beach?"

"Never had it." At this point, I was just being obstinate. I know what a fucking Sex on the Beach is, I just don't like making them. Mainly because I don't like the people who drink them, and I want to discourage their patronage. This pair of jittery twats, for example. The only way I was gonna make Sex on the Beach for either of them was if the drink recipe called for a shot of draino in each glass. Unfortunately, the fella who wrote THAT particular bartending guide is probably behind bars by now. People don't appreciate a good population-thinning like they used to. So it goes.

They finally settled on Buttery Nipple shots, which I agreed to make in hopes of expediting their departure. Two shots each because, in the words of Bald-Patch, "They'll get you really fuckin' fucked up this way!"

Their faces hovered inches from the bottle as I tapped out a few drops of Irish cream. The shot glasses fogged up under their mutually heavy panting. Gap-Tooth was literally drooling on the bar, but I couldn't tell if it was from anticipation or because of her unfortunate dental impairment. Either way, the counter below her chin had slowly glazed over with a reflective pool of acrid saliva.

I pushed the shots over to them with one finger each.

Bald-Patch rubbed her paws together. "Oh yeah, oh shit, oh boy. This is the good stuff here. Lotsa booze in them Buttery Nipples. They will get you all kinds of fucked up."

I turned my head while they sucked them down. Call it professional courtesy-- I didn't think it was appropriate for me to vomit on the floor while they had their afternoon meal. When I looked back, all four glasses were empty, and Gap_Tooth was smearing a white glob from the corner of her lips.

"Mmm-MMM!" she belched. "I sure do love that buttery flavor! I tell you what, if my husband's nipples gave out that butter-stuff, he'd never leave the bedroom... and neither would I! HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!" She clutched the bar with all of her might, as if the force of her laughter might send her rocketing through the wall.

Bald-Patch rolled to her feet and helped her friend upright. She looked me up and down with what I presumed to be her best bedroom gaze. "You're fine, but you ain't the finest." They collected their belongings and beat a sweaty path for the door. "We gotta catch a bus to the Crosstown Tavern... that's where the REAL hard stuff is!"

"Hard Stuff"= Crack or Cock? I turned this equation over in my brain as they vanished outside. Thankfully, no palatable answer presented itself. I poured myself a beer and glanced at the empty tip jar and I thought, Ah, well. Sometimes the money isn't worth it, anyway. Then I switched on the TV over the bar and flipped through channels, hoping to catch the end of "Golden Girls." Those ladies on that show, they were a REAL class act...

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