>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
September 25, 2005

How to design a bar that will piss me off:

-Put an Irish name on a bar that’s not Irish. That’s always fun. You go into a place called Sonny O’Blarney Stone, and inside you’ve got Mexican food, Corona on tap, some character named Abdul behind the bar, and the Russian National anthem blaring from the jukebox.

-Don’t carry the Red Sox game. This is just a Boston thing, but I’ve actually seen bars not play a Sox game while there’s one going on. Who the hell would do that? Does Tim McCarver own the bar?

-Have bullshit beer promotions. Want a real beer promo? Have two dollar Molson drafts like the Tap here in Boston, or two dollar Killian’s like Pizzeria Uno, one of the finer beer establishments in the country. But I’ve been to bars that are like: “Welcome to Jackie Shitbar’s. It’s Miller Lite night. Four dollar bottles with the purchase of our patented Grilled Cheese and Sawdust. We’ll be bending you over all night! It’s Miller Lite night!”

“Have a crappy beer list, like this bar in Boston called Foggy Goggle, or as I call it Purgatory for the Blind, that only serves Budweiser and Corona.”

-Populate your bar with fuckshits. I know this is really out of the bar’s hands, but clientele is very important. Nothing chafes my nether-regions like a bar full of popped collars and those raspy-voiced girls who can’t stop screaming. Listen, you already know where you stand on popped collars. You either hate them, or you’re retarded. You don’t look cool, you look like a douchebag who doesn’t know how to wear a shirt.

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-Play crappy music. Listen. I know a lot of people. And almost everyone I know loves music and has very diverse tastes. The point is, I don’t know a single person who likes “Hollaback Girl.” Although that “Don’t cha wish ya girlfriend was raw like me” would make a lovely wedding song.

-Hire big-breasted bartenders. I know I know, I should be thrilled by a big set of cans fumbling its way through my Mojito, or some other manly drink. But you know what, big-breasted women typically (we mustn’t generalize) are dumb as a box of rocks. Plus, they’re so used to being financially groped by the fully erect malcontent at the bar knee-deep in his fifth Carbomb, that they glare at you for only leaving a one-dollar tip. As my roommate Rob says, for no real reason at all, “Your money’s on the dresser, baby. I’m done with you.”

-Play crappy infomercials on the TVs. That shit drives me crazy. Say you’re at the bar with your buddies. One of your buddies drops the bomb that he’s into dudes. Everyone’s silent, counting back from 100 in their minds and trying to find the gentle way to ask: “Did you even think of your butthole?” Soyou watch a little TV, and what do they have? That British chick from Blossom trying to sucker you into a $10,000 mattress that appears to be made from insulation and the wombs of one thousand sheep. But hey, you can jump up and down on it while you’re partner sleeps and you won’t tip over that glass of wine. Either put on Sportscenter or music videos. And by music videos, I don’t mean MTV. But that’s obvious.

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-Charge a cover. That’s one less beer I can purchase. I will accept a cover under only one circumstance: live music. Other than that, I refuse to go in, unless you can positively guarantee I will go home with the 18-year-old with the fake ID who tells me I look like her dad and that’s how she gets her kicks.

-Have a crappy beer list. I hate that. You know those bars that specialize in giant umbrella drinks that defy your sexuality even as you’re drinking them? You know, “Boy this blue ice Kahlua treat is fun. You know what would make it more fun? Showtunes!” Now, those bars rarely have a decent beer list. And as a fervent beer drinker, this bugs me. There’s this bar in Boston called Foggy Goggle, or as I call it Purgatory for the Blind, that only serves Budweiser and Corona. And Corona is not a beer, much like NASCAR is not a sport, and George Bush is not a president.

-In the bathroom, don’t have at least an eight-inch differential between urinals, particularly when Joe Lazy Eye is twelve Pabsts deep and gazing upon your fields of gold.

-Three words: Five. Dollar. Budweisers.