moon's attempt at "raging out at... people thinking alcohol poisoning is a thing"

This is going to be a “rageout” written on BEHALF of stars but by moon.  We have decided that it would be a great experiment to see how well I (moon) can effectively tell a story from stars’ point of view with stars’ voice and tone.  She has edited it and all of her additions are italicized and all of her omissions are... well... omitted via strikethrough.  Here we go...

-  -  -

So, the other night I was informed that someone I know whom I already find to be of dubious character got alcohol poisoning.  And had to have, and I quote, “an ambulance called on her.”  Not even by someone who knew her… nope, nope, nope… by a random.  And it dawned on me first that that is the most embarrassing, ridiculous thing ever.  What do you even have to DO to get alcohol poisoning? And furthermore, what the hell kind of hijinx were you participating in to force someone to call said ambulance on you? I could give a few examples of my drunken behavior, but I feel the FBI would show up at my door within minutes of posting if I did.  Realistically, if you’re drinking that much, the body’s normal reaction is to throw up.  I wouldn’t even know how to GET alcohol poisoning because I’ve sure as hell tried. taken my body weight down in vodka and never achieved a state of poisoning. 

So then I realized that this is not a thing.  Alcohol poisoning is just seriously not a thing!  It’s not real and it’s not a damn thing.  So stupid.  (Here I’d ask you to “allow” me to explain, but I don’t really give a rat’s ass if you’ll allow me anyway [Two points to Moon for acknowledging how little I care]):

There are nights I’ve drank myself into a coma, a legit "how did I wake up with half a pizza on my shoulder?" coma.  If alcohol poisoning were a thing, I’d have it biweekly.  If I have not gotten it yet to have my stomach pumped, it is not a thing 100% fictitious.  If moon has not gotten it, it is not a thing either then it really and truly is not a thing.  Surely musical lawyer, who actually coined the phrase "losing time," would have gotten it at LEEEEAST once if it were actually a thing.  I mean, realistically there are nights I’ve easily put back 20 drinks.  PLUS shots!!  And I’ve never gotten alcohol poisoning.  Hence... it is not a thing.

I have legitimately seen moon put a way a BOTTLE of Jameson.  Did I have to call an ambulance on her?  Absolutely not.  It did not even enter my mind.  And despite how I can often be a questionable friend, I am perfectly willing to call an ambulance on a friend if need be. There are nights where I’ve seen moon drink so much and oh my god, that she could be considered legally blind in most states. she is practically BLIND.  No ambulance.  All this does is make us want a nice sandwich and an extra large bloody mary for breakfast.

There was a night not too long ago when I left moon on the lower east side and ended up at home (albeit, after several attempts).  I had to go to Port Authority to do so and I have legit no recollection of how I got there.  I may have walked.  I may have taken a cab.  You could tell me that I took a goddamned stupid thing with the bikes that guys bicycle you around in with William Baldwin and I’d believe you because I have 100% no idea how I got there. This night was also filled with screaming at a garbage boy, denying my inebriation (the #1 sign that someone is hammer towned), and losing a boot in MY APARTMENT that I still have not managed to locate.

And NOOOOOO one had to call an ambulance on me.  Hence, not a thing.  Alcohol poisoning = not a thing.  Believe me… I’ve been inadvertently TRYING for YEARS.  There’s just no way it’s a thing. 

It makes me furious that people get this thing that is not a thing.  Not.  A.  Thing.

-stars

-   -   -

I’d like to add that during the conversation between stars and myself during which these points were made, I said something hilarious which I could not incorporate into a blog from stars’ point of view, so I’m appending it here.  It was:

“You know what… I walked into this conversation thinking that it was a thing.  Because if people tell you that something is a thing enough, you start to believe it’s a thing.  But now I just don’t think it’s a thing.”

-moon

rageful grievance: quitting... AND THEN BEING FIRED!!! (another moon and stars collaboration)

Moon/Stars: We have a little story to tell. We will tell it together.

Moon: So about seven and a half months ago, I got fired from my bartending job and was still very much in a place in my life where I NEEDED to have a bartending job to pay my bills. It was shocking and sudden and all of my connections fell through. I ended up getting a job at a smoking bar/hookah lounge on the lower east side via craigslist, whose name I will omit because this blog will indubitably be horrendous. I mean, stars, we do "do" pretty "weird" and "awful," no? Writing this together, our "doing horrendous" will be magnified, I think.
Moon: now you say something lol
Stars: lol sorry was getting a smoke
Moon: lmao that is crucial.
Moon: i'm actually going include that part lmao
Stars: We have absolutely been known to do weird, horrendous and disrespectful more often than not.
Moon: So, in any event, I spent a couple of months working at this bar. Making zero money (even when adjusting for the recession) but loving the crap out of all of my coworkers. Then my bestie, stars, moves back and needs a quick fix for money while scoping out jobs, so I brought her ass in and got her a job. What exactly did you get hired to do, stars?
Stars: Well, the bar in question started out dicey for me. I came in agreeing to do a handful of shifts checking patrons' IDs with the understanding that I would then be moved to cocktail waitress or bartend. The managers swore they just needed help for those few shifts. So despite my résumé making me qualified to have the majority of the staff there working under me, desperate for cash, I agreed.
Moon: So together we worked in this ridiculous place, making close to no money, but compensating for it by getting really ridiculously hammered and being rude to people.
Stars: Yeah, when working for little to no money (often I made barely more than what the commute to the place cost), we compensated by saving the money we would spend on a night out drinking. And were we awful to people? No question. But before anyone jumps to conclusions, the vibe of the place wasn't exactly "the customer is always right."
Moon: And you often punched people, no?
Stars: Yes, sometimes I punched people. In my defense, it was usually an accident... that does not mean I didn't find it hysterical.
Moon: I'm going to an open a bar CALLED "The Customer is Always Wrong."
Stars: I would go there every day because I am always wrong.
Moon: And I will hire you and their first exposure to the place will be you punching them at the door.
Stars: There's actually a bar in Asia where you can beat the holy hell out of the employees. This would be like that in reverse. It would get press.
Moon: I love that you know that. In any event, stars had been getting into several altercations-via-text a week with one of our managers. And he was losing them all.
Stars: Which I find laughable as the boss should never lose an argument, unless they were born without a pair. Is that too mean? Don't answer because I don't care.
Moon: You never care. In any event, they'd been kind of dicking stars around, giving her shifts, taking them back. And well... me... I have no defense. I just have no regard for rules whatsoever. We're not allowed to drink at work. I like to drink. You can see the incumbent conundrum.
Stars: Hey I found the link! http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/china/2006-08/07/content_658196.htm
Moon: You would.
Stars: No, I don't ever care nor did they give me a reason to change my usual behavior. On top of being jerked around for shifts, they also had me come in for unpaid bartending training only to inform me afterward that there were no available shifts. I don't like wasting my time nearly as much as moon likes drinking.
Moon: And I not as much as you. (That's completely extraneous for the story but felt it necessary to use that ridiculous sentence structure 'cause it's funny.)
Stars: I approve of inserting any inane sentence structure at any given moment. Approved.
Moon: Thank you for approval. Not that I care. So, getting back to what happened... a couple of months ago I got a REAL job (don't yell at me, bartenders) using my degree (Political Science) and stuck it out with the bartending for a bit to put a bit of a dent in my accrued college debt. This weekend, I decided I was far too burnt out and "over it," so I put up on Facebook that everyone should come visit me because it'd be one of my last bartending shifts. My manager saw this and pleaded with me to not quit because "everyone loves you" and offered me any shift I wanted, etc. (This is important because [well, I guess you already know due to the title of this] of what ended up happening.) But I essentially gave my "two weeks' notice." Stars, how did you handle giving in your two weeks'?
Stars: Unfortunately, in the case of dueling "notices," the Facebook status update ends up being the classier one.
Moon: Eh... what're ya gonna do?
Stars: This past weekend, I was relegated back to checking IDs after my oh-so-awesome promotion to checking coats. I know, I know, hold your applause. The bouncer I was working with was one I didn't know and a total dick from hell, let's not mince words. He seemed to want to instruct my every move, despite the fact that no one has ever needed a degree in ID Checking. I, of course, complained. My manager begged me to let him think that. I got upset and said I would do no such thing and he could consider this my notice.
Moon: So, while that was going on, I was pretty busy getting HAMMERED and hanging out with my friends... oh yes, that's right about 25 of my (our, actually) friends came in that night to celebrate our friend, Mike's, birthday. So not only was I drinking, and drinking boldly, but I was drinking on camera. And doing a lot of it. And taking a lot of breaks to give relationship counseling to (I swear to God) multiple friends.
Stars: Yes, you did have your hands full that night. I, on the other hand, was trapped in the hallway, missing my friend, Mike's, birthday despite having asked for the night off to enjoy my friend's day.
Moon: So... stars, you're really going to have to take it from here for a little while, because most of the rest of the night is a bit blurry for me. Thanks, Patron. ... and Jagermeister. ... and Jameson. Good ol' Jame-o.
Stars: Well, in all fairness, my sobriety was out the window pretty early on. But long story short, I quit more than once, then was offered moon's Saturday night "money making" shift if I would agree to stay.
Moon: "Money making." (Wry laugh.)
Stars: Seriously. Our post on the economy (raging out at... the economy) was written a day after pulling in cash during one of these big money shifts.
Moon: Touché.
Stars: Regardless, the night ended, though filled with animosity, with both moon and I both having been begged to stay and being promised all kinds of excess if we would not abandon the bar.
Stars: And with both of us having stood firm on our 2 weeks' notices.
Moon: N.B.: I walked out with less than a hundred dollars.
Stars: On a Saturday night?
Moon: On a Satur-goddamned-day night.
Stars: That's pathetic.
Moon: So, on Monday morning, while I was at work, I got a text from a friend who also happens to be one of the managers (however not the aforementioned manger with whom stars was waging war) saying essentially that I'd been FIRED due to drinking at work. FIRED. I'm sorry, but the whole "you can't fire me... I quit" aphorism? Yeah, like, that actually HAPPENED. I immediately shared this news with stars who thought, as did I, it to be the most hilarious thing that had ever happened. Especially because I had acted in no way different on that night than I had for the last seven months and by that I mean, well, ok, umm, I guess, err, I may have a mild drinking problem.
Stars: Ha! Yes, this is a point I hadn't thought of before. Despite our terrible behavior, it was no worse than anything we had done prior. I would even say, without revealing any more, that there were even certain horrible activities that I often partake in that I did not do this past weekend.
Moon: So, no one even technically "fired" me. I had to BBM (Blackberry Messenger message) my "manager" and I swear to the HOLY HEAVENS this is how the conversation went:
--
Moon: Hey, so should we get on with this?
Manager: ?
[Seriously with the question mark? C'mon.]
Moon: Aren't you supposed to, like, "fire" me?
Manager: Lol I kindof am, but I guess you already know that :)
[Seriously? A smiley face?]
--
This was all after he called you, though, no, stars?
Stars: Unbelievable. Yes, it was. The "manager" and I had a talk that went something like this:
--
Stars: Hey "manager," you called? What do you want?
Manager: Just want to let you know we are not going to be doing your shifts this week.
Stars: Great, so I am fired. Fabulous. When can I get my money?
--
I basically had to fire myself.
Moon: I got a good ol' "well, your shifts are covered from now on." I even said "DON'T YOU HAVE TO FIRE ME OR SOMETHING?" Nothing. ANNNNNND I'd already quit. You. CAN. NOT. make. this. shit. up.
Stars: I don't even think my wild imagination could have invented this. I was also told they were unhappy with "some other stuff." No mention of what said stuff was, just... stuff.
Moon: So, in conclusion... I quit and then I got fired. Is that a good summation of what happened to you? ... ON THE SAME DAY? ... FROM THE SAME PLACE?
Stars: Yep, that paragraph can be quoted VERBATIM for me. What the hell is wrong with these people?
Moon: It can't be us. We are way too awesome.

This is a picture of us from that very night with a caption (via stars) about how no one dares to say a word to us:


-moon/stars

grievance: cab drivers who talk too much

I got into a cab the other day and I was so hungover that I was pretty much still hammered until about 8 o' clock (Post Meridian) the next day. So naturally, I was already absurdly nauseated.

So the insane driving nature which seems to be a prerequisite to being a cab driver was already making me close my eyes, open the window and pray to not hurl everywhere. 3 blocks later, my cab driver decides to (attempt to) enter into a discourse with my inebriated ass. About complete and utter inanity. And was also not really even paying attention to what I was saying but kind of just enjoyed hearing himself speak.

As an aside, I'd like to say that I empathize with cab drivers. A LOT. They have an incredibly difficult job and are entirely under-appreciated. With that said, I had no use for this man at all. I was polite but also quite obvious in my lack of desire to communicate. I hate small talk as a general tenet. But he also got off on the wrong foot because he had music blaring when I got into the cab and didn't turn it down when I received a phone call. This also quite exacerbated my horrendous hangover (from) hell. ("From" is obviously used parenthetically in order to engender alliteration. ...Obviously.)

In any event... On top of this... My cab ride was 15 dollars from 38th and 2nd to 61st and Lexington due to this dude being a total moron. I was so angry by the time I got there.

And then I paid.

And... (this is the kicker) TIPPED HIM FIVE DOLLARS. For being "nice." For being "friendly." Because I felt odd giving an appropriate tip after having gotten to know a little about this annoying, annoying man. I never ever ever want to talk to people I don't know. And when I get forced to, such as how I was here, I'm angry about it. And then I apparently "reward" this dude by giving him more money?

How is this acceptable?

I realize now that this grievance should really be entitled "Grievance: My Stupid Ass."

-moon

grievance: bar etiquette (2)

As my bartending days seem to be coming to a very (welcomed) end, I thought it best to address this very small grievance. It is, of course, for the greater good of humanity to understand that this behavior about which I am about to rage is NOT acceptable.

A patron walks into the bar and asks the bartender "what kind of beers do you have on draught?" Already pretty damned annoying seeing as the draught beers are inherently on display. They are IN FRONT of you, patron. But fine. So the bartender either points (if he or she is in a bad mood) or spells it out and lists every single one there is.

"Sam Adams... Stella... Blue Moon... Guinness... Brooklyn Lager... Amstel...."

Herein lies the idiocy:

"Do you have Newcastle?"

And then the bartender goes into a J.D.-from-Scrubs-like-daydream in which he or she jumps across the bar and strangles the person to death.

If you asked me what was on draught and I told you, why would you ask me if I have something else? WHY? Do you think that I'm telepathic and I know exactly which beer it is that you would like and am trying to torture you by hiding the fact that I have exactly what you want?

I seriously think these people should be knocked over the head with a pint glass.

-moon

grievance: asking for "no" or "little" ice

As you may know from one of my earlier blogs ("grievance: bar etiquette [silly cocktails]"), I spend some of my weekend nights slingin' drinks behind a bar. And I've already reprimanded some people for ordering particular (embarrassing) drinks. However, I think an entirely different aspect of cocktail-ordering needs to be addressed...

I swear to GOD if you ask me for "no" or "very little" ice, I will take the 1-inch long baby knife on my wine key intended for cutting foil off of the tops of wine bottles and slit your piece-of-shit throat.

Maybe you don't understand. Bartenders pour as they pour. End of story. And I actually happen to have a pretty heavy hand because... Well, let's call a spade a spade, I'm an alcoholic myself. But asking for this limiting of ice makes me so irate that I actually will end up giving you less liquor than I would, were I not assaulted by such a blasphemous insult.

Would you like to know why this SO pisses off bartenders and why you ought not ask for this? Because it says, very implicitly, "I'm CHEAP. I want as much alcohol as I can possible acquire based on the size of that glass." How does that translate into bartender-ese? "I will not be tipping you." Hence, you will not be obtaining any extra liquor at ALL. Not to mention, it's kind of an insult to a bartender's capacity to do his/her job. It's not your place. And you're going to end up with less that way.

I almost become UNCOMFORTABLE when people do that because I'm embarrassed for such fucking parsimony.

New rule (to the tune of Bill Maher's awesomeness): accept what a bartender has to pour. You'll get fucked over and embarrassed if you request otherwise.

New rule: Not tipping? Not acceptable. Oh wait. That's kind of an old rule. Ugh.

-moon

grievance: gravity

I'm pretty cool with gravity generally speaking, you know with its magical capacity to hold things down to the earth and not go flying through the air. And I'm pretty thankful for that. Especially because that means that I don't randomly go flying through the air.

Except that I apparently do.

Falling fucking BLOWS. And the only thing that could possibly make falling any worse is falling ALONE.

I have to admit that this really isn't much of gravity's fault but really more of my own assisted by one of the following:
1. Walking while typing on my Blackberry;
2. Stilettos (usually coupled with a flight of stairs);
3. Converse sneakers (NB: if you wear the same pair of sneakers since you were 16, you're likely to have no traction);
4. Wearing ill-suited foot attire for ill-fated weather (namely 2-inch platform Rocket Dog flipflops, with toe-socks);
5. Being an idiot;
6. Drinking three quarters of a bottle of Jameson.

I think number six will probably take the cake for likelihood of occurrence. However, the thing that really set me off happened Thursday morning. Running for the 4/5 downtown subway, I tumbled ("tumble" is a cute enough euphemism) down about 6 or 7 stairs, thanks to a pair of 23-inch stilettos. This particular incidence was markedly significant for two reasons: I managed to hurt so many different places that I have a new awareness of bones in my body existing; I was alone.

As if falling doesn't BLOW enough. You fall- OW- you have to pick yourself up- MORE OW- and then you have to look around at random pedestrians who saw this who are "concerned" and play it like you're as cool as Danny Zucco in Grease. I mean... at least if you are with someone, you can laugh it off and people don't rush in to be "concerned" because you have someone to "take care" of you should you so need care to be taken.

I was going to write this blog about a year ago when, wearing stupid Converse (#3) in wet weather (#4), I slipped and "tumbled" down an entire flight of stairs while my roommate watched and giggled. I didn't think it was enough fodder at the time for a rageout. But FUCK, did it hurt.

So with time, so other occurrences have... well... occurred (that's what occurrences do, no?). This spring, I was rushing to get to Penn Station wearing.... you betcha... stiletto boots. I jumped out of a cab at the intersection of 34th Street and 7th Avenue, which is a mangled mess of TWO four-laned streets, with 34th going both east and west. My cabby was stopped in the inside lane of 34th street. I was rushing for a train, so I jumped out, took two RUNNING steps toward the south side of 34th, i.e. into ONCOMING traffic and BOOM. Face-goddamned first. A lotta people rushing to my aid. And man, did it hurt. And no one to giggle with. But hey, I got the train.

About three months ago, I got drunk (#6). Very drunk. And was wandering from one Lower East Side shit hole to another. So, PERFECT time to start lookin' through my BlackBerry (#1) and start messaging people. And I was wearing REAL sneakers! Stepped of a curb. Fell. No explanation. No one with me. No skin on my left elbow. Pretty terrific, I'd say.

All I'm saying is that Isaac Newton can suck it.

And that I am an IDIOT (#5).

-moon

P.S. Please buy me some shoes that don't want to kill me.

grievance: ass-biting

I feel like this is probably something that would happen to Stars... or maybe even that Stars would do... but for what it's worth, when this happened, Stars was present. I'm assuming that her being there is the reason that this happened. It must be.

After a lovely dinner and a few pitchers of margaritas, Stars and I ventured to a bar on the Lower East Side, for the purposes of getting (more) hammered and playing Skee-Ball, because really, who doesn't love a good game of drunk Skee-Ball?

After securing BOTH of the two lanes and getting some cocktails, our drunk asses (I'd like to shout out the bartender at MaryAnn's for making the bad judgment call to think Stars and I to be good candidates for free shots) decided to have a Skee-Ball competition:

Moon: What's your best Skee-Ball score of all time?
Stars: I don't know... Probably perfect, I would imagine.

Okay, so that quotation has little-to-no significance for this story. Nothing to do with the story actually. Nothing at all. It was just funny. But what does have to do with the story which I've failed to mention is that I'd decided to wear some pretty ridiculous "pants" that evening (the word pants being in quotations because they look like they're painted on):


Thanks, Stars, by the way, for being too lazy to upload photos from a couple of months ago, so I have to pull a picture of some random bitch off of American Apparel's website. You're lucky you had a funny moment that night so I'm not so mad at you.

In any event, back to Stars and my Olivia-Newton-John-At-The-End-Of-Grease-looking self at this bar, "tell me about it, stud." I'm very intensely competing with Stars in Skee-Ball, when my ass gets slapped. I turn around and see a gentleman (a.k.a. douchebag) and ask him if he had, in fact, slapped my ass. He said "your friend made me do it," which is, let's call a spade a spade, something which I (or any reasonable person) would believe could be true of Stars. So I snarled and continued my game.

A few moments later, all of a sudden, I feel teeth on my ass.

TEETH ON MY ASS.

"I'm sorry... what did you just say?"

TEETH ON MY FUCKING ASS.

So I turn around and ask this fine, young chap if he had, in fact, BITTEN MY ASS. His response? "It had to be done." Okay... what? WHAT! I don't even know what kind of a defense that is supposed to be. I looked at him, looked at his friend, looked at Stars and then said "ummm, no it really didn't."

So, for the first time in my entire life, I went to the bouncer and actually had someone ejected from a bar. The only problem was that by the time I had explained (several times, because the concept of a stranger biting me on the ass was so outlandish that it didn't really get through to the bouncer) what had happened and brought the bouncer back to the Skee-Ball area to get him, I'd entirely forgotten what the douchebag looked like. Thank goodness for Stars who pointed him out. As a result of the whole ordeal, we got more free shots. Never a good idea.

When I asked Stars later if she had in fact told the young man to slap me on the ass, like he'd said she'd done, she said "fuck no! I told him to give you money for Skee-Ball."

I think it's pretty safe to say the message of this post is "if you're NOT already biting people on the ass in bars, keep doin' what you're doing. If you are... ummmmmmm... uhhhhhhh... you should probably be locked in a room forever."

-moon

raging out at... drunken behavior

If you've been paying attention, it is pretty apparent that I enjoy a good cocktail. I even enjoy a mediocre cocktail that's a little watered down from the ice melting in it. Hell, I doubt I would turn down a bad cocktail if the mood struck and it was the only thing available. I don't mind when others drink around me if I'm not drinking, but factor in ridiculous drunken behavior and I'm fit to be tied.

Now ridiculous drunken behavior doesn't encompass being silly or getting a little rowdy or even when your vocals get above a decibel I care to listen to them at. That's par for the course and while I don't necessarily enjoy all that behavior, I can live with it. What does burn me up is the "Did you actually just do/say/think about that" kind of behavior. And I apparently am just surrounded by friends who have the most deplorable conduct imaginable when their BAC rises just the slightest; people whom it would serve well to maybe lay off the sauce for a bit.

So if you want to spend any time around me and grab a drink with me, may I present to you "Stars DOs and ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOTs of Drinking."

DO... Be mindful of your own tolerance. No one who is above the average American college age should be throwing up in the street or blacking out or falling all over themselves. I accept this behavior early on in your drinking years, but come on. How many times do you have to vomit on the club's bouncer before it clicks that maybe 16 gin and tonics is more than you can handle?

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Ask me for money when you are drunk. It is not my responsibility to fund your extracurricular activities. Unless I choose to buy you a drink or I owe you money, my cash stays in my wallet. You are not entitled to it because you are drunk and out of cash. Not my problem. And ESPECIALLY do not ask me for money if:
1)You paid for parking when I said I would walk: too bad for your lazy butt; or
2) You need it to buy marijuana which I am not going to smoke: just don't ask.

DO... Put your cell phone away before you do something you will regret with it. It's your life and for the most part, what you choose to do with it does not affect me. However, when you drunkenly call your ex-boyfriend or text a friend to tell her off, I have to hear about it all day the next day. I am not interested. Don't be stupid. Perhaps this DO should be amended to: If you're going to use your cell phone while inebriated, ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT talk to me about what you did the next day. I will never in life have any sympathy for it. Suck my non-existent balls.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Tell people things I have told you in confidence and then either attribute it to your intoxication or claim to not remember. You did it to be "funny and cool" at the time. So being disloyal and a shitty friend makes you cool... hope whomever you told likes you now, because I don't anymore.

DO... feel free to go home when you've had enough. I would never look down on you for not making it out to last call. I only look down on you when you act like a Grade-A Jackass.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... ever come near me if you're one of THOSE drunk people.

Writing this blog has made me realize my new found respect for straight edge folks... and not for their willpower to not get themselves tanked, but for their remarkable ability to put up with the rest of us stupid drunk idiots whilst sober. Hats off to you, Straight Edgers of America - I am contemplating moving over to your ranks.

-stars

grievance: young, drunk girls in murray hill

Premise A: "I am a girl."
Premise B: "I live in Murray Hill."

Conclusion A: "I am an annoying slutface hobag who gets hammered and screams nonsense on the streets."

Introducing... Premise C: "I have a brain."

Conclusion B: (The obvious is "I am not marked by attributes described in Conclusion A due to the having-a-brain-ness," but instead, I will use this time to aver an emphatic: "GO FUCK YOURSELVES MURRAY HILL SLUTS."

For those of you who don't know, Murray Hill is a section of Manhattan, the exact boundaries of which I do not even know but will approximate to be around 25th to 40th streets on the East Side. It's probably the most reasonably priced area of Manhattan below 120th street, so it'd be expected that a lot of young people would live in that area, but when I moved there from a really, REALLY quiet area of Manhattan, I had no idea what I'd find.

Young, annoying girls. Trendy restaurants. Young, annoying girls. Men in business suits. Young, annoying girls. Bars. Young, annoying girls. Young, annoying girls. Young, annoying girls. Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Every single night (not just weekends) hoards of women in their 20s prance around in their best people-tell-me-I'm-like-Carrie-Bradshaw outfits in packs of 3s, 4s, whatever, on the prowl for... Love.

Scratch that.

... On the prowl for... SEX.

And a free meal.

By all means, people are allowed to do whatever they'd like with themselves (despite the fact that I'll STILL definitely be judging them [ya can't win 'em all]) but these women are offensive to the quality of life of those around whom they prey on men.

This is how: they get fucking hammered sloppyfaced drunk and then spill out of the bars looking like a blonde celebrity (they all do it at this point; take your pick) emerging from a vehicle, i.e. clothes falling off, hair tattered, make-up smudged.

So now they're on the street, sloshed, at 4, 5, 6 A.M.; I am in no way exaggerating either. And they look like SHIT, and the 30 Cosmopolitans they've had have apparently rendered them incapable of assessing the brilliant volume at which they are speaking... And saying the most dumbing shit I've ever heard in my life...

"Oh my GAD! Do you think he'll call?! I gave him my number!"... Said she as she fell into the tree potter/walked into oncoming traffic/walked down the sidewalk barefoot with her stilettos in her hands/dropped her Louis Vuitton bag/walked into a wall/puked on her friend/self/phone/hair/fill in any inane drunk-girl activity here. (Note, "she" is of course the universal "she." I did not in fact see one idiot perform all of these behaviors simultaneously. If I saw THAT, I'd actually be kind of impressed.)

But seriously: (directed to the lovely ladies) WHY ARE YOU YELLING? ALL THE TIME? Don't you have a home?

I just don't want these shitbags doing this anymore because
A. It's really putrid noise pollution to me personally; and
B. It's embarrassing to women in general.

Somebody put a fuckin' leash on these predators.

And an alcohol-moderating ankle-bracelet.

And for fuck's sake, a chastity belt.

-moon

raging out at... 5am

5AM can officially blow my ass. It is never a pleasant experience, no matter from which side I hit it. 5 AM either means I'm exhausted or a few short hours away from a fierce hangover.

Today's 5AM is particularly evil. What's so particularly vile about this early morning terror? Well, let's take into account the fact that I moved 2 days ago so my sleep has been infrequent at best. (Especially when you add the facts that I consistently interrupted my packing to get drunk, go to shows, and watch Season 2 of Dexter [a little disappointing] into the equation.)

But getting up at 5AM to drive 4 hours to Las Vegas to attend a high tea... I have no words. I don't even know what high tea means, but I have no doubts it's nearly as intoxicating as it sounds.

Also currently rageful that Moon saw Hillary last night and Stars did not.

-stars

grievance: bar etiquette (silly cocktails)

There are plenty of blogs which come from the standpoint of a bartender or someone who works in service about all the fucked up shit that customers do. So I've been blog-reticent on this matter, in the hopes of not being redundant.

But oh my stars, each and every one of these following drinks is ordered each and every time I bartend. And each and every time, I want to take a pint glass, smash it on the bar and scratch the customer's face out with that beautiful serrated translucence. So in an attempt to NOT go to jail for assault, I've decided to use my experience for good and share with you all...

Drinks to Order If You Want the Bartender to Laugh At You:
1. SoCo/lime shots. Usually ordered by: a douchebag who played football in high school, majored in business or political science, and is currently working at his daddy's company. Always ordered in a gratuitous quantity, like TEN, to give to all his buddies, i.e. the vapid blonde chicks he's with. You know them: the ones who bring purses nice enough to have to wipe the bar with a beverage napkin before putting it down. And the douchebag dudes that look JUST like him, also wearing popped-collared-Polo shirts. Southern Comfort is fucking DISGUSTING.

2. Red Bull mixed with top-shelf vodkas, especially, but not limited to Grey Goose. If you're drinking Red Bull with liquor, you're essentially a crack head. Red Bull, while I do love it solo, is like carbonated SHIT. And if you're mixing it with booze, it's probably nighttime. Nobody needs that kind of caffeine after noon. Your goal with this kind of "cocktail" is essentially to have a heart attack, die, or throw up. It doesn't matter if it's house vodka or fucking Belvedere. You just sound like an asshole.

3. Partially connected to number 2, STOP ORDERING GREY GOOSE. It really isn't that great a vodka. You're paying for a name that you think is trendy and respected. It really isn't.

4. You have no place ordering a dirty martini, (of course, with Grey Goose) at a rock bar. For that matter, the fact that anyone would think such bars would serve mojitos is simply ludicrous. There are people smashing into you from behind, left and right trying to get a drink. You think I'm going to muddle mint leaves? You deserve to be choked with a lime for even asking.

5. If you order Jager bombs or Irish car bombs, you are automatically an asshole.

6. If you order Jager shots, surfer on acid shots, or red-headed slut shots, you are automatically a douchebag. For that matter, kamikazi shots, lemon drop shots and buttery nipple shots make you a fucking pussy.

7. Anything "sour," namely whisky sours, amaretto sours, or (ugh) Midori sours. No, no, no. Those, along with Malibu bay breezes, are also a huge tip off to "I'm 16 years old." If you ARE 16 years old, think of a better drink. If you're NOT 16 years old, message to you: be a bigger loser.

8. I understand that somewhere along the way somebody decided to turn "vodka and tonic" into "vodka tonic," and "vodka and cranberry" into "vodka cranberry." I don't know why, but the linguistic transformation has happened. With that said, there is no such thing as a "gin tonic." Stop ordering them from me. It's just weird.

9. Stop drinking Jose Cuervo. Seriously. It's a Mexican dude pissing in a bottle.

10. Girls, stop drinking cosmopolitans and apple martinis if you're doing it because you think you're Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City. I can ALWAYS tell. You're not fabulous. You're probably FAT from drinking all that sugary, sugary crap. If you're wearing a tutu with leggings and expensive shoes, you deserve a smack in the head.

-moon

raging out at... my top 10

Today is a special day when so many things have created a swelling rage within me that I can not stick to one topic. I must instead introduce my first annual (or however frequently, or infrequently, I feel like doing it) Top 10 Rage list.

In no particular order...

10) My Roommate's Piece of Trash DVD Player
I will readily admit that I am absolutely the kind of girl that reads the novel before the movie comes out so I can snidely look like a pompous ass walking out of the theater saying, "can you even believe they left out the 3rd word in the 4th paragraph on page 26? The whole movie couldn't have possibly made any sense to anyone who didn't read the book." Now this attitude (and it is a stretch, but bear with me) is why I'm pissed off at the DVD player. Dexter, from what I hear, is this brilliant amazing show that I haven't seen. I've had the DVDs laying around and I, of course, have not yet unwrapped them and bothered to watch the show. Of course all it takes is for me to hear that it's coming to CBS and I immediately raced to watch. How could I bitch and moan about how much better the cable version is if I had not seen it? So clearly to keep my grandiose sense of entitlement, I attempt to watch the DVDs today and the DVD player tells me the disc is incompatible. Living with my roommate for a year, I have yet to put a disc in there that does actually work. So now I'm watching dexter on my laptop while the stupid DVD player screen mocks me in the background. I will be going out in the morning to purchase a cinnamon raisin bagel to see if that might be compatible for it. Or at least cross my fingers that DVD players are capable of being choked.

9) Lying Contact Lens Manufacturers
Yes, I know I shouldn't sleep in my contact lenses. And yes, I do it anyway. Almost every night. But I did have the good sense to order the extra oxygen, let-your-eyes-breathe contacts which are supposed to be "okay" to sleep in. Are they? No, they are not. Can I find my glasses? Nope, I certainly cannot. Am I going blind and might this blog be the last thing I ever see? Well now there's one question that gets a yes. Don't offer me extra fake oxygen. It's rude.

8) Javier Bardem
I legitimately can't sleep most nights or go into a convenience store to buy cigarettes anymore as I spend the entire time in a panic waiting for Javier Bardem to come in and airwhip me to death. I'm scared enough of the eye doctor's airpuff. If I ever see Javier Bardem anywhere near me, I will drop dead of a heart attack long before he can get near me with that deadly canister. Frick, now I'm thinking about him again. My roommate will be mad if she comes home and once again can't get in the door because I've created my traditional Bardem Barricade.

7) Lost
Okay (and I'm sure Orion is going to correct me... which reminds me, stay tuned next week for a special orion/stars west coast edition), but Lost is quite possibly the best show of its genre on network television. I would maybe allow Pushing Daisies in a ring against Lost, but any show where the lead actor is a pie-maker is somewhat genre-less. (I will categorize TV based on bakery treats as often as I want and based on the one time I have ever done this [just now], it has proven to be a remarkably efficient and precise classification method.)
But here is my big problem with Lost. And no, it is not how they always quickly and thoroughly answer all my questions within minutes of them being posed, or how it isn't frustrating at all that they do something absurd and never again approach the topic. Actually I've changed my mind. Those are my big problems with Lost. But even more pressing and tragic than that problem is that the costume designer keeps putting a shirt on Sawyer. I believe it's a Biblical reference - that you do not hide your light under a barrel - so the costume designers are pretty much telling God to shove it by shirting the ever majestic Sawyer. That's just not cool.

6) My Supermarket Discount Card
The supermarket discount cards belong to a conglomerate that is also home to such things as socks in the dryer and every Bic lighter I've ever owned. They are objects which are fleeting in my life. They come and bring me joy for a short time and then are just as quickly lost, though not forgotten. There was a period of perhaps 6 or 7 trips in a row to Ralph's when I signed up for a new card because the old one was in the Great Abyss. And my phone number also magically never works.
So I finally have given up and have picked up the habit of punching in my old gentleman friend's phone number. (At least "Pinehog" is good for something). So thanks for the discount, "Pinehog," and you can send me a small gourmet cheese platter for all the points I've wracked up for you in the Ralph's Wine Club. (Come on, who thought I was shopping for a well balanced meal?)

5) Brittny Gastineau
That girl can suck whichever of my butt cheeks is her preferred. A few nights ago, I was walking into a bathroom stall at some Grammy party (God, living in LA is awful) and Brittny Gastineau literally enters the stall with me and yells "Is Paris in here?" Now I've had about a gigaloot of champagne (and yes I did make up that word but it truly is how much champagne I had) and have no idea who this chick is and even if I did, we certainly aren't cool like that for her to join me in a tiny bathroom stall. So the remainder of the conversation goes something like this:

Stars: I have no idea who Paris is.
Brittny: You've got to be fucking kidding me. Where is Paris?
Stars: I'm not sure if you're aware of how tiny this stall is, but the chance of Paris being in here is pretty marginal.
Brittny: You fucking bitch. Tell her I need her.

Okay, what? I'm making it a life rule that D-list celebrities are never welcome in any bathroom stall I'm in. Ever. I have to debate where A-, B-, and C-listers fall on my stall privilege rule. I will get back to you.

4) T-Mobile Sidekicks
I don't have to justify this to anyone who has ever owned a shitkick. Mine is basically being held together by dental floss and a prayer right now. It never works and yet I remain just immature enough to not want to switch to a BlackBerry.

3) My Landlord
My lease is up in less than a month and par for my course, I'm moving, so they're renting out the apartment. With zero forewarning, my landlord barges in with 2 girls to check out the apartment. I was actually head half down in a beer on one couch with a half naked singer/songwriter on the other couch, his head in some Tostitos. We did not need witnesses to that hungover moment. Nor can I imagine it's great for his career to have a spotting of that nature.

2) Tylenol P.M.
I'm a notorious insomniac and I used to be able to trust in my old friends Simply Sleep or Tylenol P.M. in a pinch. Apparently those things are now as effective as a Flintstones gummy vitamin. It's laughable - the non-existent purpose they serve. I don't even get drowsy. I think it may actually have the adverse effect. The next time I go to run one of my half marathons I'm going to pop a Tylenol P.M. I will be sure to finish in record time.

And the top of the Rageout List, the gold medal of suckage prize goes to...

1) CNN.com
Of course I followed the presidential primaries, obsessively checking each number as they came in. And I was delighted with the turnout and pretty much rooting CNN on as their winner projections were coming in quicker than any of the other news channels. But when you click for the more detailed state-by-state delegate breakdown, it informs you in big purple letters which of the candidates no longer have a snowman's chance in hell of winning. Obviously there's quite a few down-and-out candidates who are basically being mocked in lavender by CNN.com for having no votes. But somehow Mike Gravel, winner of maybe not even his own vote, has a big fat zero next to his name, but has escaped the Lilac Mockery. I will be creating "congrats on the goose egg, Gravel" in an array of purple hues to show I think he showed as terrible of a showing as all the other candidates... sans, of course, my beloved Hillary.

-stars

rageful grievance: rude concert go-ers (a stars and moon collaboration)

This is a collaborative narration of an event to which both Moon and Stars were privy. Due to this shared experience, we felt it necessary to share the recount. Stars' words are in red; Moon's are in blue. Shall we begin...?

Once upon a chilly eve', Stars and Moon went to see a band. N.B.: others were present, but they don't matter, obviously. Stars and Moon also hate paying for things. A lot. But this show was important enough that they elected to break the bank on tickets. Also N.B.: Moon is still angry. Stupid headliner.

As is rote for all fairy tale classics, the glory of matching Newcastles (see photo below) was preceded by daunting dragons in matching baseball caps. And, of course, the obligatory midget.

(Why did I turn this into a fairy tale?) (I'm not really sure. But the story does include some evil villains and we are pretty princess-like, so it works.) Agreed. Oh and I had traveled from a distant land, so that counts for a proper fairy tale requirement.

Alas, we begin our tale of turpitude: Enter stage left Moon and Stars. The show has already begun. A midget stands before them.

What is the politically correct term for midget, anyway? Little person? I like wee one but that could get us in trouble with the fairy tale community. Well, I think you've done your part for the wee people actually with your Wee Me, no? That is somewhat exonerating. And you will find out later how I exonerate myself on behalf of the wee people. Absolutely. Well... I won't. I already know. But I can't wait for you to share it with the world.

In any event, Stars and Moon, are suddenly rushed by a group of three of the most ogre-ous/ogre-ful/ogre-ferous (I can't reconcile which word to make up) boys. They stampede over Princess Moon and Princess Stars. Their objective on the other side of the princesses is, obviously, to stand in front of them and act like complete and utter assholes. They reek of vile stale beer and that putrid odor of fraternity castle meets the creature under the bridge. And perhaps they were from a team of jesters as two of these ogres were wearing the exact same hat. Indeed they were. They were undercover jesters. But I saw one of them juggling by the bar later. Juggling two wenches.

(Is this a pirate fairy tale now?) Where's Orion, our resident pirate expert? We have finally found somewhere that his college degree can be put to use and he has gone the way of the buffalo. This may actually never happen again. Such is life.

Getting back to our glorious tale: said ogre-jesters proceed to accomplish their goal of irritating the hell out of the princesses, by pushing each other, ignoring the band and letting respect for others' space go by the wayside. The Princesses Moon and Stars complain to one another to the tune of "I'll fucking kill them. I've never been so angry in my life,"... as all princesses speak.

Well if you live in the kingdom Princesses Moon and Stars live in, you must speak that way to get by. Princessing 101. Not entirely unlike English 101. Very similar in fact.

Just as Moon and Stars felt that these shenanigans could get no worse, they began pushing each other in such a way that they began banging into the Wee One, who had been doing a valiant job prior: protecting the princesses from the jesters. Not to mention giving up her own view of the show despite all the dubloons she too had shelled out to bear witness to this event.

So Princess Stars took measures into her own dainty hands. She bravely approached the most grotesque ogre of the three and demanded he leave the wee one alone at once. To which the response was his throwing his short ogre arms into the air and proposing a duel to the death. (This is real shit people; metaphor aside, this dude wanted to FIGHT Stars.) (Also on a very real note, had Stars actually had that goddamn sword in the stone, his ogre buddies would have had to carry his head home in a bag.) She had left the sword in the stone at home, unfortunately. No one really ever expects to run into ogre-ous riff raff at an event for the king's court. Surely not.

The princesses then regaled in a goblet of Newcastle. A much deserved goblet.

The End.

Moral of the story: Ogres should stay the hell away from princesses with an attitude. Or perhaps they should just stay out of the kingdom entirely.

If you see this man behind Stars, everyone, punch him in the eye. He is the King ogre:


If you see these princesses... well... buy them a beverage:


-moon/stars

raging out at... being taped to a couch during a shootout

No, that wasn't a typo. Last night I was actually covered in stickers and packing-taped to a couch while a shootout went down outside. Before the two people who love me freak out, I should clarify that one event had nothing to do with the other.

I should rewind... and also state that my memory is dim on these events so I will be presenting the story from three different sources.

Last night I was exhausted from a long week of "working hard" and "leading prayer groups," so I elected to head over to my local "Ginger"'s house and watch Arrested Development. My usual two large green goblets of wine later, I was fast asleep on Ginger's couch with a party going on around me. The next thing I remember is waking up unable to move, taped to a couch. So allow me to bring in my two very reliable (and terrible) friends to finish this post for me:

"Jen": You took me to new levels last night. New levels of appreciation. You have no idea how many one-liners you had last night.
Stars: Did I? I don't even know what I said half the time.
"Jen": When we were taping you, you kept moving and that would be so loud we would all stop, let you settle. Well, you woke up and you were like "MMM... I SEE WHAT'S GOING ON HERE... I'M JUST NOT DOING ANYTHING UNTIL THE MORNING." I DIED LAUGHING.


Stars: "Jen" just told me I woke up during the taping.
“Ginger”: You don't remember that?? You said, "I don't care... I'll deal with this in the morning."
Stars: I have zero memory of that. I'm an idiot even when I'm a zombie.
“Ginger”: Do you remember me cutting off the shit? I woke up to you moaning you were covered in blood. I was like "oh shit." Then I kept trying not to laugh, but the evil in me kept pulling the stickers on your skin, and you were like "OH GOD NO."
Stars: I just remember being like "put them on my clothes. Keep them off my skin. I'm bleeding,"
“Ginger”: And then you were like "eh, at least it's not loud anymore," when I had taken off a lot. Oh yeah... and you missed a shooting.
Stars: I miss everything when I pass out! There is no waking me up when I don't want to be.
“Ginger”: I can't believe you missed the shooting.
Stars: What happened??
“Ginger”: There was a shootout right outside. And we walked into it. And got yelled at to stay back. But we didn't stay back. I just wanted to make eye contact with the perp.
Stars: Did you do it??
“Ginger”: I might've been the perp. Just saying. There were shots between "the perp" and the cops I believe.
Stars: Did anyone emerge victorious?
“Ginger”: You didn't get shot did you? I'd say that's victorious.
Stars: You ran TO a shootout. I was safer taped to the couch. So you guys are really good friends. And I thank you.
“Ginger”: You do owe me a big thank you for that. We went through a shootout and then made it in time for last call.
Stars: You went to a bar after the shootout while I was taped to a couch??
“Ginger”: Yes. Fiesta and East/West.
Stars: I'm in love with you all.
“Ginger”: Two bars.


So, to summarize: I don't even know what to say. I'm bruised and bloody. Ginger and Jen are hungover. I need No-Doz whenever I am not alone. Oh, and my friends are a-holes.



-stars

raging out at... shots

I hate Christmas. I genuinely despise nearly everything about this stupid holiday. I don't know where the wonder and magic of December 25th went, but wherever it shipped off to, it certainly bought a one way ticket. The only reason I even still celebrate Christmas instead of converting to some religion where tradional Christmas is banned is, it's a great day to get drunk with my favorite family members. But as tonight ended with me letting loose a shrill war cry in the direction of my brother and his girlfriend banning them from speaking to me again for the remainder of the night, I seem to have lost what was left of my holiday joy.

Today I walked into a home filled with family I haven't seen in over 9 months, since I picked up and moved cross country. I was welcomed by my dearest cousins with whipped cream shots of 43. Right down the hatch they went and thus the drinking commenced. I attempted to slow my pace down with an only slightly pinkish cranberry and vodka, but my cousins were having none of that.

My internationally renowned champion drinker cousin Peg entered the Ring O' Christmas bearing shot glasses that were actually MADE of candy canes. Being that "no" is probably the least used word in my vocabulary, this was just catastrophe waiting to happen.

Now I would like to state for the record that I am NOT, in fact, raging out at the candy cane shot glasses. I am in fact applauding their very existence and brilliant power to make vodka taste much like a liquid Starburst of goodness. And it is not their fault that their variety of flavors caused me to throw back a shot from each glass; that would be my own stupidity. But, come on, look how cute they are. It would take will power of pure wrought iron to resist.



What I am angry at is shots in general. There has never been a time in my 10 years of drinking where I have woken up the next morning and been like, "Well, thank God we did those shots. The night surely would have been entirely doldrum without those Patron shots." Never. I would imagine no one ever has. Shots are without fail always a terrible and ungodly mistake, but again this very basic life truth has yet to stop anyone from partaking in a round or 12.

Shots have been the cause of a good chunk of the pie chart of my life's tribulations. Because of shots, I have endured headaches sent straight from hell. Because of shots, I have kissed boys whose hairlines receded to nearly the back of their necks and ignored boys who may have been Prince Charming. Because of shots, half the pictures of me in existence look like the one above.

Oh, and of course, every year there is the Christmas tradition of the picture of all the cousins to be framed and displayed for the next year. Here is what this year's looks like. I'd like to thank the many, many candy cane shots for ensuring my classiness and low alcohol tolerance be one for the books. [Note: Stars is the drunken pile passed out in the corner.]



Which reminds me... Orion, you and I have a special shot to take that's been years in planning. I have not learned my lesson yet.

-stars

grievance: friends and hardware

One-Question Survey:
Is it acceptable to have friends who call you at 4:15 A.M., to tell you that they are stuck on a Manhattan rooftop?

See "raging out at... unacceptable locking doors."

-moon

grievance: guys in bars

If you've spoken to me recently, you've probably already heard my rant about this, but I think it ought to be addressed.

When did bar etiquette completely go out the window?

A couple of weeks ago, I was bartending, and two nights in a row something similar happened in which the end result was the same. I was told I was ugly.

Okay. Night number one... old mess of a guy left over from happy hour. Sober enough to ask me for a drink and talk my ear off. Then he went downstairs for a party and one of my fellow bartenders, I can only assume, didn't realize how drunk he was and got him absolutely hammered. He then proceeded to try to hit on me for several hours. He was unsuccessful. Thus, he felt it was appropriate to become hostile and angry and... I guess, try to use reverse psychology on me because I was unreceptive to his luscious lips and raw sex appeal. And by "reverse psychology," I mean give me the finger, tell me to fuck off, and tell me I was "ugly, anyway."

Okay. So this was an old pathetic dude. But the next night, I was working downstairs and a bunch of kids that worked at Apple were out to see their (god awful) friend with an acoustic guitar play bad songs. They were young and semi-attractive and sweet boys. It was one's birthday at 12, so they all got pretty drunk, but it was also the day before the iPhone launch, so they all had to cut out pretty early. So after having PLEASANT conversation with me all evening, he decided to wait for me upstairs while I finished up downstairs. I had no idea. So I went upstairs after about an hour of sitting in the office with one of my bosses, making fun of bands on MySpace. And he was waiting for me... alone. He then asked me to stay and have a drink and I was too tired and didn't feel like dealing with a drunk douche. So when I tried to leave, he asked me if he could ask me "a small favor." The favor was to STAY AT MY APARTMENT because he lived in Brooklyn. When I gave him an answer he didn't like, he followed us down the street yelling like a lunatic about how I'm a "cunt" and I'm "ugly, anyway."

What gives? I understand the whole drunken psychology behind "I hit on a girl and she rejected me so I'm going to be a dick,"...... I guess. But like, calling girls "ugly"? What are you hoping to elicit with that? All of a sudden I'm going to change my mind about sleeping with you? Or you're protecting your "pride" in front of... nobody?

Moral of the story: don't call random people ugly when they won't sleep with you.

Better rule of thumb: don't hit on bartenders. We don't want to hang out with you. And by deductive reasoning, you can pretty much figure that we don't want you inside us. Calling us "ugly" will NOT change that.

Thank you.

-moon