Sunday, March 2, 2008

Mixmaster Mike in Da House

Men are annoying. The number of situations where men will whip out their penises, slap them on the table and start comparing size is at times overwhelming. One situation that annoys the hell out of me is alcohol. Every man, everywhere, EVER, is an amazing bartender. Those girls from Coyote Ugly were fucking amateurs compared to the master that you all are lucky enough to now see.

It's amazing. Most men, if planning a party, will arrange for three types of spirits (for shots, of course), and beer. But, God save you, if you should have a bar at a party to which these very same men are invited, they suddenly turn into gourmets of all things alcoholic, experts of the finest details of everything from micro-brewed beer to single-still vodkas from Poland, with spectrographs for tongues. Every party I've attended or held with this has all the men leaving with bleeding assholes because of all the of bullshit they pulled from them.

They stand there, stroking each others egos, as though they have any clue what they're talking about. Extolling the virtues of potato vodka over grain vodka, for example. These are the same men who will later get obliterated on Bacardi, which is one step above jet fuel.

And if you have the bar, and you have men coming, HIDE THE GOOD STUFF. Men will make a bee-line for the most expensive booze you have, and believe me, they all know each and every brand they can't afford, and tell you about this fan-fucking-tastic martini/margherita/cocktail that their boss/friend/brother-in-law invented. Cointreau is the one that gets hoovered up at my house. "I know this amazing drink with Cointreau in it, it's called Cointreau, you drink it out of the bottle!"

And it's always the expensive stuff! Lining up shots of 20-year single-malt Scotch whiskey is only a good idea if you're following them up with lines of coke off a strippers butt; and you're stinking rich; and you're Keith Richards. I think that if I ever left the Louis XIII de Rémy Martin cognac out men would actually explode.

But, right, the initial reason for writing this post was a penis joke. I consider myself a decent bartender. My tastes aren't quite up to par on a number of brews and spirits, and my consistency is a bit off, but I'm better than many. As you can tell from the photo of my bar area, I don't mess around. Now, because I'm interested in expanding my tastes and skills in the alcoholic world, I go trolling for books on the subject every now and then. The discount book racks that Borders leave outside in a desperate attempt to get people to steal them is usually a good place to check.

I found a pile of books that looked really good. Nice, big pictures, history of various liquors, etc. I was so excited about finding a good bartending book for cheap that I didn't notice the cover for over an hour. Since I'm sure all of you are immature twits, like me, you find this hilarious. And, I'm sorry, but there is no chance in hell that this was a coincidence. I even went back to the same store the next day and, sure enough, every book was labeled the same way. And, strangely enough, it's a remarkably accurate title. Since, I suspect that most of the people buying this book were men, desperate to show off their mad bartendin' skillz at the next party and keen to memorize as many drinks as he can. All so that when the conversation inevitably turns to how each man is better than the others in some weird, insignificant way, and bartending comes up, his penis will be just that much larger when he slaps it on the table. Ultimate Book of Cocks, indeed.

No comments: