Bryan Fraker's Blog
An Ode To Sailor Jerry’s

Dear William Grant & Sons:

There are three things I love in this world:

  1. Sports
  2. Boobies
  3. Sailor Jerry’s

Sure there are things like family that should be in my list, but honestly I enjoy mixing everything I love to have a great time and if family and boobies were in the same night there’s not enough therapy or battery acid in the world to undo seeing Aunt Milly starring in “Octogenarians Gone Wild”.

Anyway I wanted to write something explaining just how much I love Sailor Jerry’s.  When people come over to my place and see me enjoying this interesting looking bottle they always ask the same thing: “Bryan for the love of God put some pants on.”  And once I reluctantly do there’s always a follow-up: “Bryan what is that rum you’re drinking?”  This is when I get to weave them the tale of how awesome Sailor Jerry’s rum is.

It all started at a Kroger’s liquor aisle in 2008.  I was a handsome…ok, dashing…ok, mildly attractive…ok, presentable…ok, lesbian-creating 21-year-old Ohio State University junior and the weekend was at hand.  I was perusing the rum aisle for something new.  I had just gotten a big paycheck from work ($48!) and wanted to step up in class because drinking fermented dog urine (Admiral Nelson),  and his younger inbred cousin/lover (Lady Bligh) just wouldn’t cut it.  I was browsing the options when…

“Looking for something in particular?”

I instantly grabbed my rape whistle and was about to start bitch slapping someone until I whirred around to see a Kroger’s employee standing there.  He had this radiant glow about him.  Something told me this man was special.  That this man was a leader…nay…a God.  That’s right…

He had a sweet mustache.

I stammered upon seeing him: “Uh…um…I like booze!”

Mustache laughed at me: “Ha!  I see.  You know what you should try?”

“What?” I asked, my knees quivering in fear and a bit of odd arousal.

“Sailor Jerry’s.”  The words flowed from Mustache like a whimsical symphony that weaved a web of laughter with friends, spectacular times and college girls yearning to be with me instead of throwing up in their mouths…and just like that he was gone…to the adjacent aisle so he wouldn’t have to stare at the awkward erection I was having as I daydreamed in the afternoon of a grocery store booze section.

I gathered my thoughts, tucked my 4” of man away, bought a handle of Sailor Jerry’s and drove back to campus with hopes of an amazing night ahead of me.

Later that night I was standing in my kitchen getting ready to pour the first Sailor Jerry’s cocktail of the night.  I’m a simple man with simple desires so I made a simple cocktail:  Cup.  Ice.  Sailor Jerry’s.  Cola.  Super bendy straw.  Two parasols.  Latest edition of Teen People.  After I applied some cocoa butter on the stretch marks on my lovehandles I sat down to have the first sip of this new rum.  I took a drink and…

Magic happened.  The first wave of flavor hit my taste buds and sent them dancing with delight.  My throat sung its praises of Sailor Jerry’s by emoting a tender, window-rattling belch out.  My liver was thinking “F***ing sh#&!  GIVE ME A BREAK, MAN!  WHAT THE F*** IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?!?!  I’M A VITAL ORGAN!!!  STOP MAKING ME PURIFY YOUR SH@$&% ALCO…whoa!  This is good!  MORE MORE MORE!!!”

And from that point on…a love was born.

This love lasted all senior year including the Michigan game, my birthday, Let’s Get Drunk Tuesdays, Class Is For Stupids! Wednesdays, I Don’t Have Class Tomorrow Thursdays, Why Do I Keep Doing This To Myself Friday mornings, Oh That’s Right It’s College Friday nights, Who’s This Ugly Chick Saturdays and finally No, Really, Why Is There Another Ugly Chick And Now A Homeless Man In My Bed Sundays…great times.

Now it’s three years later and this love is still strong.  It has lasted longer than any romantic relationship I’ve ever had.  I bet I’ve kissed the hula girl on the bottle more times than a real live female…wait, what?…why would I kiss a fake hula girl on a rum bottle…whose hips won’t stop…that come hither look…the fact she has rum inside her…(MUAH!)…oops…I did it again.

Anyway everyone who knows me knows I love Sailor Jerry’s rum.  People send picture messages to me of Sailor Jerry ads they see in liquor stores.  I’ve had bartenders save a special bottle of Sailor Jerry’s for me after they ran out of their stock.  My dad even buys me a handle of Sailor Jerry’s every Christmas.  When he asks me in April “is your handle done yet?” I reply “Nope…barely touched,” and secretly think “since I killed it December 29th.”

I have spread the gospel to my friends.  Whenever someone tells me about what they like to drink I impatiently cut them off, slap them in the face and yell “DRINK SAILOR JERRY’S IT’S AWESOME!!!”  After I settle their lawsuit for assault we sign over my next ten paychecks to them over a glass and they always say “Mmm…you’re right, this is good.”

It’s not just the rum that has me in love with Sailor Jerry’s…it’s Sailor Jerry himself.  The story of Norman Collins on the bottle made me want to learn more about this Navy man who tattooed thousands of military men at his tattoo shop with his unique artwork.  After learning more about this American hero and what he believed in I knew I picked the right rum.  I’m not a tattoo guy, but if I ever do get one, a Norman Collins specialty is third on my list behind a bear eating a gyro on my lower back and Betty White making out with Mr. Met on my inner left thigh.

The love for Sailor Jerry’s was strong in the beginning, is going strong now and I know will still be strong in the future.  I don’t know if I will ever be married, but if I find a girl desperate enough to find me husband material there will be two requests that must be honored for me and the rest will is between her and the bobblehead known as me agreeing with everything she says: 1. Sailor Jerry’s will be fully stocked as the only rum at the bar.  2. “Thong Song” by Sisqo is our first dance.

In conclusion I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your rum like a giddy 12 year old boy writing a love note to a girl: right a long, rambling letter that would lead to her showing her friends and him peeing his pants in math class from embarrassment. 

I thoroughly enjoy your product and look forward to many future memorable, forgettable and kinda-sorta-don’t-remember..able nights ahead.

Cheers,
Bryan Fraker

Lodge Bar Eulogy

Thank you everybody for coming today on this day of sadness and joy.  Pain and pleasure.  Reflection and inebriation.  Welcome one and all to the eulogy for Lodge Bar Columbus.

Hello ladies and gentlemen.  My name is Bryan Fraker and I’m an alcoholic…or as Lodge Bar called me a regular.  I will be the narrator on this magical journey through the two and a half years of fun known as “The Lodge Bar Years”, “Drunken Debauchery Downtown”, or “Fondling Fatties: Cankles In The Air”.  It was an era unlike any other and will never be seen again.  As is true with any trip down memory lane let me take you to the beginning.

I was a young 20 year old heading down to the 2008 BCS Championship Game that hailed my beloved Ohio State Buckeyes versus those inbred, tobacco chewing, gumbo slurping, English language raping LSU Tigirls.  I took the trip down to New Orleans as a member of Buckeye TV, the campus television station where I was going to be the Walter Cronkite of sports, but I turned into the Jenna Jameson of bible study.  During this trip I met someone who was a bartender at a Columbus tavern that I had never heard of since I was only 20 years old and wasn’t allowed to have a spirituous beverage because I wasn’t of age (…ok maybe I enjoyed a sip of Chardonnay after a long night of studying…ok maybe I had two beers on a hot day…ok maybe I took shots and became the life of the party…ok fine!…I would drink seven beers and end up vomiting one can on my shirt, two on my pants, one in the sink, one on the foreign exchange student walking by, one in my dirty clothes hamper and one inside my roommate’s economics book.)  Anyway this gentleman would regale me with stories that tickled my college drinking bone (which may/may not have been my penis).  Great stories like girls dancing crazy to certain songs, awesome drink specials on certain nights and anyone named Fraker got a complimentary motorboat whenever you entered…so I was tickled by this bar already…and I thought this was a great place to be…but I had no idea.

Everyone remembers their first time.  I remember my first bike ride, my first baseball championship, my first sexual experience…all three of them ended up the same way: me crying in the fetal position.  The first time I went into Lodge Bar it was for a friend’s happy hour.  We went into the bar, sat at a table and just got a single drink $1 beverage at the bar and just talked to each other about string theory and possible cures for the common cold.  After I explained my points of “I have no idea what string theory is” and “Shut the hell up with this smart sh*t let’s talk boobies!” I noticed the gentleman I met on the ride down to New Orleans.  Turns out he was an assistant manager.  He started walking towards our table, I made eye contact and said “Hey man what’s up?”  I expected a startled expression on his face followed by a loud shriek, a pissing of the pants and lots of worshipping the ground I walked on because I am awesome!  And…sure enough…he walked by without making a sound or looking in my direction.  After five minutes of tears and wiping mascara off my face my manager buddy walked behind me and said “What’s up, man?  Sorry about earlier.  I had some work to do.  You guys want some shots?”  Upon hearing this I had my very first, but certainly not last…Lodge Boner.  The amount of pure ecstasy I had at that moment, I knew…I would never love another human being as much as I loved my manager buddy…I mean his penis…balls…shots…Lodge Bar…there it is…I could never love another human being as much as I will love Lodge Bar.

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.  The beginnings of my relationship with Lodge Bar.  It wasn’t just a loving, nurturing and semi-coherent companionship with an inanimate building…there were people inside it.  Since Lodge Bar wasn’t a futuristic robotic building that disperses alcoholic beverages directly into my bloodstream via anal suppositories, we got to meet many a bartender and made friends with a lot of them.  There was Kenny Woo, Jay, Mike, Matty, Joe, Rob, Robbie, Steroids McGee who hooked us up with a $3 tab one Halloween, Eric, Pat, Tad and inevitably others whose name I forgot.  Now it wouldn’t be a list of bar employees without the women!  And we met a lot.  There was Marmaduke (drunkenly one night I was asked to give a female bartender a nickname and shouted “Marmaduke!”  It stuck and whenever we didn’t know a bartender’s name we gave her a three syllable nickname that made no sense), Jennifer, Topeka, Haley and her twins (she once introduced me to her parents who were at the bar and drunk me said “Your daughter has great boobs!”…then walked away), Alexandra, blonde with great cans, brunette with great cans and finally the other blonde with great cans.  Sure, you could say that me knowing every guy’s name and giving only nicknames to the girls makes me gay, but I assure you if you lined up every girl……’s cleavage in a line-up I could tell you which one is which.  It may take me 13 hours, two naps and 34 seconds of “me time”, but I can get it.

When you combine a great place with great people working there you know what you get?  A cold shower after grinding on what may have been a 250 pound tranny?  IT WAS JUST ONE TIME LEAVE ME ALONE!!!…I mean great experiences with two leading the way: The Party In The USA dance and Crawl For Cancer.  As many of you have seen I did a certain dance to a certain Sylvia loving, mullet-dad having, no longer statutory girl’s salute to America.  While it looks like a finished product in the video (or as finished as a guy alone in his room with his camera propped on a dresser and no rhythm or tangible musical talent can be) the dance started at Lodge Bar.  People may be shocked to hear this…I don’t like dancing.  No, it’s true.  I have zero abililty/confidence/belief in other people wanting to dance with me.  Don’t get me wrong; if someone wants to dance with me you’re damn right I’m gonna bust a move with you, but if I’m flying solo I feel that if I get on the dance floor I will not only stick out like a sore thumb, but may cause girls to jump out of a window or piss myself…until Miley came along.  I always liked the song because it’s catchy and I love ‘Murrica and as a result…I found the song that would get me off my feet.  After a couple of Fridays I had almost 75% of my dance done…then I did the video…and completed it…and the world is forever changed for the better.  Hellen Keller…Betty White…Bryan Fraker: true champions.

The other memorable event would be the Crawl For Cancers.  The Crawl For Cancer is a bar crawl involving almost all the Arena District bars all day Saturday of Memorial Day.  There have been three CFC’s…and we have done all of them.  The first time is where we got a hint of Lodge.  I enjoyed the smell of wood, beer and vomit; the look of a cabin filled with wood, beer and vomit; and especially the drinking of beer that gave me wood and hope I don’t vomit.  The first CFC I ate two Chipotle burritos for dinner, stayed out partying from 1 pm-2 am and we accidentally left a team member at Lodge chilling against the wall with a team that was blue like us…only they were baby blue and we were navy blue; the second CFC I ended up making out with a member of another team at Lodge Bar outside in the sun…and if I’m not mistaken she didn’t have an Adam’s Apple or a nub of a wiener; and last year for the third go around…I had an eventful time.  Let’s just leave it at that.

With all of these experiences and people we’ve met…there were a lot of innovations and inventions we were a part of.  The biggest invention was the pitcher of rum and coke.  This was a year long process of showing up every Friday for happy hour, downing drink after drink, until Matty got fed up of constantly making single drinks for us folks that he took a beer pitcher and filled it with rum and coke…and the invention was created.  We felt like kings.  Every time someone went up to the bar and saw what we had, they were like “Oh my God how do you get THAT???”; and I’d be like “Depends girl…you like what you see?” as I caress my ass in an oh so seductive way; and she’d be like “Wow…I do like what I see.  You wanna make out with me and my team of Swedish Lingerie Bowl models?”; and I’d be like “Hells yeah!”; and then there’d be at least 25 women making out with me and rolling around the bar and then I’d get a paddle and…AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!…sorry…just fell out of my chair fantasizing.  I think I’m alright…does anyone know how to put an eyeball back in its socket?

Anyway the pitcher of rum and coke was the major invention, but there were other minor ones: Beer Shots (get a shot glass, fill it with beer and toast everyone whenever you felt like drinking), Team Peanut Butter (trivia team name that always did well), the 404 handshake (I’d show you…but I’d have to kill you…or take a dump in your car…either way), the 404 sign (I’d show you…but I’d have to kill you…or just show you if you ask nicely…either way) and my fraudulent educational background to impress women (I’m training to be a veterinarian currently at Northwestern specializing in equine studies…score!)

Two and a half years.  So many friends made.  So many Friday nights spent.  So many memories made…and forgotten.  So many great times.

So long Lodge Bar…

Levels of Drunk

You know those blood alcohol content charts that tell you what your body does when you reach certain levels of drunk?  Those are nice and give you a general idea of how your will feel, but don’t have real life practicality to them.  After six drinks I will feel an increased feeling of invincibility?  Does that mean I’m gonna walk in front of a moving car or jab straws in my eyes?  After three drinks your heartbeat speeds up?  How can I feel that?  I don’t carry a blood pressure dohickie (I don’t want your fancy medical words…I’m aren’t not in skool anymores.)  I feel that finally there should be a real-life description for how you will react after a certain amount of alcohol so one will have a greater understanding of how you act at each level…and naturally I went and made one.  Enjoy.

Level 1: Base level (0-2 drinks)

Memory: 100% of the night.  You are still a productive member of society and will be able to provide every detail of this night to your parents the next day if they were to ask about it.

Phone usage: Mainly to text/call friends to see what they are doing.  You start out with your close knit circle of friends to gather them up either at the bar or at a party you are going to.

Drink of choice: Whatever is cheapest.  Most likely you are going out during happy hour to start the night or having a few beverages at your place before you venture out to the bars in order to prevent losing your whole allotted amount of money for the night’s festivities.

Talking to women: Not yet.  You’re self-esteem isn’t high enough at this level to talk to random girls at the bar/party.  You tend to chill with your friends and just talk while either watching TV or scouring the area for girls you want to talk to later in the night if you can find the courage to talk to them.  All the girls you see are of the 9-10 variety.

Pick-up line: “Hi, my name is Bryan.  How are you?”…or at least that’s what you would say if you could walk up to them and speak without getting hiccups, having your voice crack or piss your pants.

Drink of choice for girls: Whatever they want.  You’re trying to keep them around you as much as possible until they start to warm up to your sense of humor and nothing says that like free alcohol they choose.

Music preference: Whatever you normally like.  Not enough alcohol can change it.

Food: Since you probably had a good dinner to give yourself a solid base you aren’t hungry at all and won’t be ordering food.  You may nitpick at other people’s food, but only if it’s something that you really like to eat.

Peeing: Normal rate.  You must likely hydrated yourself thoroughly with water before you stated drinking so that you will wake up very nice and ready to take on the day instead of your head throbbing and hating the world with a passion.

Dancing: Not at this juncture.  There’s likely no one on the dance floor and far be it from you to start the dancing knowing that once you get out there the only thing you bring are standard ugly dancing like the Macarena, cranking that Soldier Boy (nice and fresh) and your version of the Dougie which mixes the Macarena with shampooing your hair.

Favorite position: Sitting at the bar.

Level 2: Buzzed (3-5 drinks)

Memory: 95%.  You will remember every event, who was there and what you drank, but specific details of conversations tend to be forgotten.  You will remember talking about which Sportscenter anchor you would like to make whoopie to, but you will forget the reasons why your buddy picked Chris Berman.  You assume it had something to do with your buddy loving activities that are fat, loud and gay…hence why he enjoys sumo wrestlers at karaoke bars singing “It’s Raining Men” and fantasizes about Jonah Hill eating Pop Rocks while watching “Brokeback Mountain”.

Phone usage: Having already talked to all of your friends to come to the bar/party and getting responses to your request you now hone in on the girls who responded to your text (specifically the ones who are on the fence about it or are somewhere else near your area.)  You continue innocent texts just to convince them to come where you are because everyone knows a party gets better with girls around.

Drink of choice: Draft beer or mixed drinks if cheap drinks are done.  If the happy hour is done you choose either of these two because they are still filled with alcohol, but won’t quickly drain your budget like shots will.

Talking to women: Having gained a little liquid courage you finally make eye contact with girls who come around you at the bar for a drink; however any verbal communication consists of “What did you order?”, “Yeah I can move over for you” and an audible sigh mixed with looking away and continuing the erosion of your self-esteem to the point of wondering if it were possible for you to dig a hole in the ground and live of pond water and McDonald’s scraps so you won’t make an ass of yourself again.  Attractiveness goes between girls who are a 7-10.

Pick-up line: “So what’s your major?”  An awful pick-up line that has so many chances for failure: she graduated, she didn’t go to college, she has answered that question 3,289 times in her life already and even if she does answer the question the second she finishes her response she is looking for a way to get out of the conversation…so much so she may stab herself in the eye with a parasol as an excuse to go to the bathroom.

Drink of choice for girls: Beer.  If it’s good enough for you it’s good enough for her.  Since happy hour is over you don’t want to waste money on top shelf stuff if she’s just gonna walk away.

Music likes: Whatever they are currently playing in the bar.  The combination of being buzzed, being in the same spot for 90 minutes and realizing you can’t change a preloaded playlist tends to make you apathetic to whatever is in the speakers.  Plus you are too busy ribbing your buddy for picking Chris Berman and texting girls to notice.

Food: Chicken fingers.  Solid choice that isn’t too filling so you can still drink, too outlandish that a bar doesn’t know how to make them or too expensive that it hurts your wallet.  You also get the hottest sauce because you have plenty of beer to wash the heat down blatantly ignoring the fact beer makes spice worse.

Peeing: You waited so long for this first moment of urination.  Everyone knows about not wanting to “break the seal” and will do the best we can to wiggle around and reject the urge to go to the bathroom, but finally you had to do it at this point.  In a wave of pure relief and enjoyment you take a 3 minute pee that leaves you satisfied and ready to attack the rest of the night.

Dancing: You slowly start tapping your toes to the beat and swaying to the music without knowing it.  Nothing above the kneecaps are moving yet because dancing is stupid according to Level 2 you.

Favorite position: Now that everyone you know has arrived you no longer sit in the bar seat/party chair and take a leaning position on the bar top, back of a chair or a 7 year old kid who wondered in randomly.  Leaning gives you the comfort of seating with the ability to move at a moment’s notice.

Level 3: Drunk (6-9 drinks)

Memory: 85%.  You are well aware of the fact you went to the bar, saw all your friends, had some drinks and had a good time, but you don’t remember the debate you had about which Friends character you would have sex with (you went with Joey…he’s just so innocent and has eyes that would make an albino man blush) or how many times people said you were allowed to pick a female character.  Usually it’s just a conversation that left your mind or forgetting about meeting a friend that stopped by only for two minute.  It’s nothing that bad to forget.

Phone usage: Having honed in on which girls are in the vicinity and may be able to stop by you pick three or four of them that you either have made out with before or are pretty sure if they came you could make out with them then.  Instead of texting innocent jokes and playful words you now step your game up with more punctuation and increased persuasiveness.  You throw around exclamation points around like they’re candy and beg and plead the girls you text to stop by because it really is a fun time and that “if they come you’ll make it worth their while :)”  Important note: smiley faces, lol’s and haha’s are bountiful at this point regardless if they make sense or not.  I mean, they’re harmless and are a little flirty, right?

Drinks: Bottled domestic beer because they tend to be cheaper, easier to chug and if you were to spill it on the dance floor it’s no problem.  Occasionally you double fist, but you usually just have one so you can use your other hand to cut a rug and such.

Women: Having gotten to your drunk level you now look on the dance floor to find which girl you would like to make your move on.  She has to be already dancing because you are too drunk to talk to women (a glaring and depressing problem of yours…you are too sober and scared to talk to women, but when you reach the correct level to meet new women you have a 15 second window that almost always ends in you being too drunk and scared to talk to women).  Other characteristics you will look for include dancing by herself, groups of girls with at least four members in it (so you have fall-back girls to hopefully dance with) and no other guys trying to dance with a possible target (don’t want to deal with a boyfriend).  As a result of these characteristics your target attractive rating is 5-7 because there’s no way an 8-10 fits what you are thinking and the 1-4 demographic is just unspeakable…at this moment.

Pick-up line: Any of the cheesiest ones you can think of, but you screw them up just slightly making any chance of them working near impossible.  Examples: “Your last name must be Campbell’s because you’re delicious enough to eat”, “You must be an angel because you’ve been running through my mind all day” and even “If I were to rearrange the alphabet I would put my tongue and your mouth together.”

Drinks for women: Whatever shot they want.  If you were to finally find a girl on the dance floor that fits everything you are looking for you will surely do anything to keep her talking/dancing with you.  If she wants the Lemon Drop, she gets it.  Buttery Nipples?  Kamikazes?  Red Headed Sluts?  Yes, yes and sure bring your friends.

Music likes: Everything that is upbeat and danceable.  Heavy bass and techno beats are very big with you right now and are thoroughly enjoyed.  Black Eyed Peas, Basshunter, Kei$ha and some form Eastern European disco band named Forcken that makes beats using bodily functions (sneezing, farting, burping…it’s all there in a brilliantly choreographed song.)

Food: Anything that’s on the bar.  Namely peanuts, pretzels, leftover food no one is watching.  You’re looking to get something solid in your stomach and get right back out to the dance floor and finding the girl who you bought the Jolly Rancher shot went.

Peeing: You have broken the seal which means…three times an hour.  You eventually come up with the perfect way to cycle the bar.  Every 20 minutes you go here: the bar, friends, bathroom, friends, dance floor, repeat.  It’s a flawless system that covers all your bases.

Dancing: Like a fiend.  You’re wiggling your hips, pumping your fist, Riverdancing like a son of a bitch and showing off your amazing patented moves like The Sprinkler, The Shopping Cart, The Stubbed Toe, The Knight in Shining Armor, The Air Traffic Controller and of course…The Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Seating: Who has time to sit?  You’re dancing!

Level 4: Wasted (10-12 drinks)

Memory: 50%.  You remember going to the dance floor and going to the bathroom a lot, but who, what and how long you danced are going to Unsolved Mysteries.  You remember a girl being there, but who she is and how attractive she was are total unknowns that make you really hope you didn’t make an ass of yourself.  You remember talking with friends, but have no idea that you kept kissing them on the cheek and squeezing their asses as you walked by.  In the end it’s details schmetails.

Phone usage: Having isolated three to four girls from your previous level you now pick one girl who seems the easiest to make out with and badger her to no end.  You have no subtlety left in your system and are texting things that you think are sexy and funny at the time, but in reality are disturbing and pathetic.  You text things like “I just want you to be on me!”, “I hope you’re not wearing pants ;)” and “What color is your underwear?  I know…on my floor haha :)”  These texts are ones that will get thrown in your face by the person you are talking to next time you see them and are the ones that when you read the very first sent text in the morning you instantly delete the rest of them because you don’t want to relive what happened.  Any single ladies in your phone who are friends are collateral damage at times during this stage and that makes you feel like five times the dumbass in the morning.

Drinks: One shot of straight liquor that you think is a good idea, but in reality pushes you over the edge of drinking for the rest of the night.  As a result of the poor taste of the liquor shot, the amount of saliva that gathered in your mouth as you almost vomit and how stuff is starting to spin you make the decision to no longer drink…by yourself.  If the girl wants to drink more you’re damn right you’re there.

Women: Since it’s late in the night and most likely the first wave of girls you were slurring at are gone you set your sights just off the dance floor to the fringe.  Here you will find girls who are with friends, but doesn’t feel like dancing, is too drunk to dance or is so embarrassed by not having a guy dance with them yet they just take a seat.  Here is where you turn into your inner lion and go on the prowl of the weakling gazelle in the back of the pack.  They are the easy ones to get…and you’re just hungry for some mouth-to-mouth action.

Pick-up line: “Hey you wanna make out?”  No more of this bulls*** talk: let’s get busy.

Drinks for women: The Turkey Shoot.  A shot of Wild Turkey mixed with powdered gravy.  It gets the girls drunk and most likely the girl you are talking to now will be more interested in eating the gravy than drinking alcohol, but you want to get busy so you put liquor in the powdered gravy.  It’s win-win.

Music likes: “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey.  That’s it.  Everything else is crap and you feel it’s your civic duty to request the song 43 times from the DJ and to tell everyone around you that any other music sucks.

Food:  Street meat.  Oh dear God do you want a gyro, hot dog or burger so bad right now that you will trip this Turkey Shoot girl you’re with just so she won’t get a single bite of it.

Peeing: Like an 80 year old man with a prostate the size of a basketball.  You stand at the urinal for an extra three minutes just squeezing with all your might so you’re out of pee completely…even though 10 minutes later you’re back in there doing the same thing.

Dancing: As a result of your hardcore arm flailing, leg kicking and Turkey Shoot grinding you’re body is completely spent.  Instead of dancing you are talking to Turkey Shoot at 1:30 am and trying to get her to come home with you as her friends keep trying to get her to leave with them because Taco Bell is only open until 2.  You try and run around the bar with Turkey Shoot to keep pitching going home with you, but there are just too many friends and too little time to get it it done by yourself.  You look for some wingman help from your friends, but they are too busy laughing at you and texting other friends about Turkey Shoot to help you in this endeavor.  After some final desperate pleads by you Turkey Shoot and her friends leave and you now find yourself alone and wasted at 1:50 am.

Seating: Back at the bar with your head in your hands or your head completely laying down on the bar.  It’s the only way to hold off the shame of missing the chance on Turkey Shoot and also keep the room from spinning.

Level 5: Blackout (>13 drinks)

Memory: 0%.  Don’t worry about blood you get from jumping in that bush, the pain you feel after spraining your ankle while sprinting down the sidewalk or the bruise you’ll have after your friend punched you in the arm as hard as they could because you called him a pussy and telling him that CVS may be open for more tampons if you need them: you won’t remember any of this.

Phone usage: If for some miraculous reason your phone still has battery life left after all you’ve done so far with it now is where you become King Stupid.  You text any and all booty calls you may have had in the past regardless of how long it’s been and if they’re even in the same state as you.  It’s 2:30 am and most likely they’re not awake right now, but you give it the old college try anyway.  You even text the one girl you swore you would never text again because you did some things really drunk you didn’t expect to do…but you end up texting her about a certain part of the male anatomy doing unspeakable things to a couple of parts of the female anatomy.  Again you won’t remember this so what’s the harm?

Drinks: Whatever the mixture of everything you’ve drank throughout the night tastes like when it comes back out of your stomach and out of your mouth in the form of vomit.  As for where you vomit there is no end to the possibilities: in the toilet, in a trash can, your leg, your friend’s leg, a parked car, in a beer pitcher, a random baseball hat, the middle of the street, a garden gnome, on top of roadkill or even in the grass right where you dropped your keys.  You don’t remember this, but it’s what your friends said happened.

Women: What women will answer your texts that are drunk and disgusting or smell your puke breath?  Having said that…anyone female who is not related to you is fair game.

Pick-up line: “Hey girl…wanna come with me?…don’t worry I have a breath mint and a packet of powdered gravy just for you!”  Good thing what you just tried to pick up was just your shadow.

Drinks for women: No one will get within 50 feet of you so even if you could buy a drink for a women they won’t take it.

Music likes: “The Stop Puking Song”: an original song created by you in between heaves.  You’ve sang this song before, but it had different words and dance moves to go along with it…or so your friends say because as stated many times before you won’t remember any of this stuff.

Food: Having emptied your stomach of any and all contents you are ready for good old fashioned drunk food.  However none of the drive thrus are within walking distance and your don’t want to pay for pizza, but you have noodles.  You start the burner to make the food, put in the contents and by the time you realize what happened you wake up in the morning to find your burner still on, the noodles completely black and the pot ruined forever because the bottom of the pot has burned all the way through.

Peeing: Providing you didn’t pee your pants at any moment you will wake up at random intervals and start peeing at random places at the place you’re staying at.  If you are in your bed you can make your way to your bathroom because you know where it is, but if you’re somewhere else there’s a chance you will pee in the corner of a room, in front of a bedroom door, in a dirty clothes hamper, on your floor or even somewhere else you would never expect…only problem is trying to explain to your roommates why the remote control is covered in a weird smelling liquid in the morning because you have no recollection of the event.

Dancing: The only dancing involved here is the Pants Dance.  You unbutton and unzip your pants and start wiggling your body up and down until the pants finally fall down after 17 minutes of idiocy.

Seating: The top of your body in the bathroom and the bottom half of your body in the hallway.

So…there you go.  I hope this provides a better idea of where your feelings and actions will be after a certain amount of drinking with the Levels of Drunk.  Now go my minions!  Find yourself a Turkey Shoot all your own!

Pet Peeves: Bar

Here comes another edition of Pet Peeves.  Today, let’s venture into the world where wings, beer and women are priorities…the bar.

  • Love: Happy Hours.  Whoever invented the concept of the happy hour needs to get a hug, a kiss or his wiener touched because it’s the greatest thing in the world.  How else could I get off work at 4, shower, travel to the bar and be hitting on possible trannies by 8 pm for $10?  My favorite bar (Lodge Bar) has the best happy hour for Fridays: 5-9 pm, $1 well drinks, $2.25 pitchers of beer, $3 you-call-its and half-off pizza and appetizers.  I swear if it were possible and no one at Lodge Bar would know I would live there.  (I have it figured out: sleep under the band stage at night after closing time, use Lysol as showers, wash my clothes in the toilet and just live the dream until they find out I’ve been doing this or I become too fat and they need to get my 400 lb ass from under the bar with the Jaws of Life.)
  • Hate: Flirting bartenders.  Now I’m not talking about the ones that flirt with me.  I hate when a bartender is flirting with a girl ten feet from me and I don’t have a drink in my hand.  I know she’s hot and most likely she will allow you to slide head first into home later that night, but right now…come on!!!  I’m thirsty and not drunk enough yet!  She’ll be there after you serve me my drink unless it’s time for her birth control and Penicillin shot.  However I understand the idea behind flirting with bartenders…free drinks.  Although in my experience I have yet to get a free drink.  And I’ve tried…just not with female bartenders.  About six months ago a group of us Ohio State students went to Indiana to visit one of ours that moved away.  We went out and had a great time when we ended up going to a gay bar near his apartment.  I staggered up to the bar and did my best flirty pose with the male bartender.  I figured being the luscious beefcake that I am he would instantly give me a free drink and that would be it.  Instead I got stuck with a bill and some Cosmo called Tie Me To The Bed Post.  So much for my idea…and being able to tell people I’ve never tried flirting with a man.  Anyway…
  • Love: Dance floors. What isn’t there to like about dance floors?  You have addictive music (why am I constantly listening to Britney Spears and tapping my feet?  I can’t stop listening!  I’m trying…to stop…but…I…ca…”One, two, three not only you and me”…yeay!!!), bump and grind, women in sundresses, attractive women thrashing around, bump and grind, Cha Cha Slide, fist pumping, bumping and grinding, 45 year old men doing The Charleston, packs of women keeping men away, doing a little bump and grind, the couple that is getting a little too into dancing (I’m talking borderline third base action that would make Betty White rollover in her grave…what?…she’s still alive?…well in that case I need a new bridge partner on Thursday nights.  You in Betty?  If you’re not, I could be…um…yeah.)
  • Hate: Girls with boyfriends.  Now I’m not saying this for every girl with a boyfriend.  I’m only saying it to the ones that love to throw in the fact they have a boyfriend 15 minutes into a conversation with her.  Here is the thought process for me during one of these conversations: “Ok this is going well.  She laughs at my jokes.  She is very attractive.  She hasn’t gagged when she looks at me, yet.  It’s been over ten minutes…new record!!!  Here are things I need to know: she is a chemistry major, born in Cleveland, loves The Simpsons and enjoys sports and know how to cheer at an event.  Her favorite food is anything fried.  How is she single?!?  I’m getting excited I can feel the connection.  I’m gonna ask her to coff…what was that?  She said something about spring break in Miami.  Who did she go with?  Did she say the b-word?  I’ll ask again…damnit!  Boyfriend of three years.  WTF?!?!  I can’t get those 15 minutes back.  Plus other girls saw me talking with this one and they aren’t going to want to talk with me.  I’m over this.”  The thing is I still try to be nice when getting away.  I need to just get up and leave.  As soon as she says the word “boyfriend” from now on I’m just going to get up and leave.  That should be a societal norm.  What should happen is there should be some sort of relationship ring.  Not a wedding or engagement ring, but a relationship ring.  Obama should put through that all women need to wear a certain color of ring for how long the relationship has been, if they are on the rocks, if they are on a break or if she wants to be out of the relationship.  They have colors for national security…why not relationships?  As for guys I don’t care what they wear.  Let’s make it a giant sticker on the forehead.  I’m single so men in relationships can suck it.
  • Love: Old Guys.  As mentioned before for the Dance Floor bullet old guys at the bar always bring a smile to my face.  When they first walk in I always look for facial hair.  A mustache always brings fantastic results with the grayer the better.  Next the fashion takes center stage.  They are always dressed to kill…just from the 1970s.  Nothing says I’m looking for a good time quite like a powder blue leisure suit or a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned down to the belly button.  Once they hit the bar I need to watch where they go.  You see some go to the and hang out chatting up the bartenders.  Some have been pregaming at their office and are loose enough to stand near the dance floor cackling with friends and staring at the waitresses walking by.  And then every so often you hit the motherload…the Old Man Dancer who comes in ready to dance with girls half his age.  He usually has a flamboyant shirt on (neon colors with pineapples or Bill Cosby-style lines and stripes) and stares at nothing but where the dance floor is.  He finds the floor, hitches up his Pampers, straightens his dentures and limbers up his artificial hip for a night of the Boot-Scoot Boogie.  Watching the old man dancing is a three step process: 1. He looks for his prey.  He dances around in a two foot circle spinning around until he finds the girl he wants.  2. He stares her down.  Usually it’s a direct stare mixed with either a preview of his dance moves full of pelvic thrusts and hands on hips or it’s the double fingered “come here” move.  However Old Man Dancer goes it’s guaranteed to make his prey feel awkward and her friends laughing hysterically.  3. He dances with her.  I use the term dances loosely because it normally is the prey coming over and doing one pelvic spin in front of Old Man Dancer and giggles away while Old Man Dancer is smiling way too much because someone danced with him and the fact that Extenze works so well.  This process goes on throughout the night or until Old Man Dancer’s retirement home van comes to pick him up.
  • Hate: Crowds.  What makes a bar enjoyable if there are tons and tons of people there?  You can’t move, it’s impossible to get a drink, the bathroom is backed up to the dance floor, you can’t hear anybody, a stranger has his hands on your ass, a stranger has his hands on your junk, sweat hits at an alarming rate (making the nether region feel like the Amazon), walking around is impossible, if you fart there is no quick path for you to crop dust so you are stuck stewing in your own stench.  It’s just miserable.
  • Love: “On the house”.  That’s one of the best three word phrases in the world, right up there with “let’s have sex”, “I’m not pregnant”, and “Dane Cook sucks”.
  • Hate: Piss puddles.  No matter how classy a bar or how crowded it may be there are always piss puddles in the men’s bathroom.  You could be the only person in the bar right when it opens and go straight into the bathroom as the cleaning person is done with it and…there’s already a piss puddle under the urinal.  I could understand around 1 am there being puddles because the drunk guys will try and turn to talk and totally miss the urinal, but it’s where the puddle migrates that is mind boggling.  Sometimes it makes its way to the entrance, sometimes it funnels into a corner of the bathroom and other times it grows into a urine lake that drowns five men a night.  I don’t know if this happens in women’s bathrooms, but at least men have an excuse.  If women have this problem, too…I have lost all hope in mankind.
  • Love: Hot girl on mechanical bull.  Easily the most mesmerizing spectacle in a bar not involving a fight.  Everyone stops what they’re doing to notice what is happening.  Women watch and think to themselves: “Thank God that’s not me up there.  You couldn’t pay me enough to get up there and look stupid like that.”  Men watch and think to themselves: “Pop out!  Pop out!  Pop out!  Pop out!  Pop out!  Pop out!”  Exciting times for all.
  • Hate: Live bands.  Here’s how it always plays out:

Me: “I can’t believe the Reds’ starting pitching this year.  It was supposed to be a strength, but everyone is failing to last six innings.”

Friend: “I know, but we are winning games late which is something that hasn’t happened in 10 years.”

Me: “I still think we can find our stride.  Just need some consistent production from our batting order and…”

House DJ: “Ok let’s give it up for Pit Stain!”

(Too loud and too bad music starts blaring)

Me: “I THINK WE CAN MAKE THE PLAYOFFS!!!”

Friend: “WHAT???

Me: “I THINK WE CAN MAKE THE PLAYOFFS!!!”

Friend: “WHAT ABOUT PILLSBURY BAKEOFFS?!?!?!”

Me: “BASEBALL!!!”

Friend: “I LOVED THE MOVIE BASEKETBALL”

Me: “AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

(I proceed to stab the lead singer in the face with a parasol and poop inside the drummer’s cymbals)

  • Love: Female wingwomen.  This works like gangbusters for some reason.  I guess it’s easier for women to talk to other women than talking to a guy who is nervous, filled with swamp ass and rum and coke, an odor of cologne mixed with fear and knowing the bottom line is bedtime shenanigans.  Women know how to talk to other women and having a friend who really wants to help open the door to talking is an invaluable source.  The female wingwoman will tell your target your faults, but also highlight the proper good things you have.  This is unlike the male wingman who could come up and tell women you have a huge penis and makes $4 million a year as a hand model and breeder of puppies.  However awesome the life your male wingman says it’s still fake and won’t get you into your target’s heart like the delicate talk of a wingwoman.

That’s my list…what are some of your loves/hates that yours truly have forgotten?