>>> Edited For Content
By staff writer Mike Forest
November 24, 2004

Today we are going to explore the wilderness that is the urban bar jungle. When venturing out into this unknown it is always good to have a guidebook with you. Even wise, experienced explorers would be wiser to heed my words of…uh…wisdom. There’s going to be lots of big words and science thingees so hold on to your boxers and panties (not too tightly to your panties, girls), 'cause I’m dropping knowledge left and right today. Look out, some just landed on your shoe.

The pretty women who serve your alcoholic beverage of choice are a dangerous breed indeed. We males are already at an evolutionary disadvantage because of our small, one-tracked minds. Add to that the phenomenon of having too much blood in your alcohol stream and you’ll end up in a gutter or jail cell with an empty wallet and broken heart if you’re not prepared.

“Not even your mom thinks you’re cool anymore; you don’t stand a chance with anything less than a chubbypaperbagger.”

The female waitress species nevergonnagiveyouany is one of the first dangers that any young bar lad needs to be wary of. These are the specimens that will pretend they are interested in your small talk about D&D and your floss collection. They’ll toss their hair, bat their eyes and make sure that they lean waaay over when they give you your drinks. Don’t let them fool you. You ain't got a snowball’s chance in Wal-Mart of even getting some digits.

Paidtobehereduh, a breed known colloquially as the “Hottie McHotSluts,” are an interesting cousin of the nevergonnagiveyouany. They are, in fact, not sluts at all, but they do wear tight black pants that show off an ass that you can bounce a quarter off of. They’re easily identified by their blonde hair, blue eyes and minimum of two K’s in their name. Look, but do not touch, lest you risk the wrath of bigdumbbouncerus.

The other day I spotted a dirrrtynevershutupicus. She had her hair teased or waved or whatever the fuck it’s called and seemed compelled to regale us all with stories about going home for her aunt’s funeral. It’s usually best to observe from afar if you have to observe at all. Though they look like trailer trash versions of Xtina, their small talk can lead to a conversation that could sober Ted Kennedy up. You don’t need a downer like that during Stars on Ice—I mean, Monday Night Football.

It is very important not to try to impress any of these breeds. First of all, not even your mom thinks you’re cool anymore; you don’t stand a chance with anything less than a chubbypaperbagger. Secondly, your actions are likely to startle them and send them scurrying for the kitchen. If you ever want to see a refill of your Sea Breeze, you’ll keep your mouth shut and man purse open. Never one to heed my own advice, I made the mistake of trying to be smooth with one of them just this weekend.

Having spent some time at one of my favorite bars Jane-Goodall style, some friends and I had learned a few of the native practices from a meanswellnewbiecus. We had been teasing her because she was emptying our ashtrays faster than we could drop cancer by-product in them. While innocently thrusting her bosom in my face, she told us of a custom called “One butt, two butt, your butt.” Basically this means that if a manager sees more than three butts in an ashtray, that waitress does the dishes. Even though she was barely an onlyifinevertellanybody I was ready to let her do MY dishes—if you know what I mean.

The next night, we were at the same bar we had overflowing ashtrays. I told our nicelegsinaskirticus that her hands were too pretty to do dishes and she should probably empty our ashtray. She was not amused and cashed us out pretty quickly passing us off to another breed: a notwithatenfootpoleium.

Put away the guns, boys. Nothing worth bagging tonight.

Even skilled hunters sometimes go home without a trophy strapped to their hoods. Resist the urge to toss too many of your (or daddy’s) hard-earned dollars at them and instead sit back and enjoy the show that is nature.

Next week: Table scavenging. Is it wrong to trip crippled grandmothers just to have somewhere to play quarters? The answer may surprise you…or not.