Jay set's the bar on fire.. literally
As you may or may not know by now I am a Mexican food fanatic, and the best part of eating Mexican is 90% of the time their margaritas are killer.
One summer I visited my buddy TK in Va. Beach for about 2mon’s and he had an “authentic” Mexican joint like 5 blocks down. So needless to say the folks that run this joint and I became close..
Now this joint isn’t the classiest of joints around but they did have good food. Traditionally it was more of a restaurant than a bar although it did have a bar in it. Now then, as odd at it seems the norm consisted of TK and I sitting at a table eating/drinking, then at times depending on what the bar scene looked like, motivating bar-ward after the meals were finished.
This particular day however I was not real hungry so I just ordered my usual, which was a pitcher of margarita, rim of the pitcher salted. I know this may confuse you. “Why salt the rim of the pitcher?” you may be asking. Well kids, it is because that’s how I roll. I don’t have time to screw around with filling those pansy martini looking glasses. No sir, I go straight to the source, I shoot it straight from the pitcher. (After the first week of me doing this they actually bought some of those super long straws like 7-11 has. Kind of funny.)
Now, these Mexican dood’s loved me. I could tell them the most vulgar shit right in front of their customers as they wait on tables an they never got mad. The customers however, well, fuck them.
About two pitchers into this evening It’s time to make my first trip to el grande pisser. As I walk in I immediately notice a mop bucket. Now to most people this would mean nothing and they would walk on past thinking nothing of it. Well, me to, this time around. However I did get a good chuckle as I wandered to the stall. If you have already read my story “Siwel vs. the mop bucket” (and you should have being it was a few stories before this one) then you know what I am getting at.
I make my way back to our table and sit down with a crooked grin on my face. TK just gives me that “oh god, what did you do now” look. Second pitcher gone an I see my third on it’s way. (I don’t even have to order at this place they just bring them to me until I tell them to stop). Our waiter Paco (no clue what his real name is) stops and asks TK if he needs anything. Immediately I interrupt to tell our waiter about the mop bucket in the bathroom and why he should remove it. He is concerned that the presence of it in the bathroom upsets me. I assure him it is nothing of the sort, and he laughs and asks why it is that it be removed so promptly..
As I begin my story 2 other waiters hear the laughter erupting from not only the waiter but TK as well. Apparently TK had never heard the mop bucket story.
(incase you skipped my previous mop bucket story I will tell you, in short, it involves an unattended mop bucket in a bar bathroom and me taking a massive jager dump in it)
There are 2 tables within ear-shot of me and I am making no effort to be quiet. Mortified by this story two old people who were seated by my table get up and walk out.
No shit.
I guess casual talk about jagermeister giving you the ass-piss was just too much for them to handle while they tried to decide what to order for dinner.
Well fuck them.
Third pitcher is 1/3 in the books when it is decided that TK and I should have Paco top our pitchers off with tequila. (Great idea!). He looks and kind of laughs at us as he takes our pitchers off to the bar. The other table beside of us who did not leave when the mop bucket story took place sees that we are well on our way of becoming shit-holed and apparently they want no part of it as they grab their plates and head to the bar. Ha, up tight pricks anyhow. (I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to go talk to them).
Paco has returned with our pitchers and is laughing about the people who were once a table over from me. Apparently they told him their reason for relocation was due to my colorful language and my less than gentlemanly like conduct. Fuck them, we have two pitchers of supercharged margarita’s to drink.
As we look down at these two pitchers of heartburn in the making TK say’s two words which seals the fate of Jay checking out for the evening and my alter ego Siwel making his grand appearance. Those two words were “let’s race”.
Now I don’t know if you have ever tried to chug a pitcher of margarita. Most of what our society considers to be “normal” people have never tried it nor have they even thought of it, or considered it to be a good idea.
Fuck them, I am no normal mortal man.
I accept this challenge and I shall come out as the victor even if it kills me.
I stand up on my chair to announce this challenge to the entire establishment.
Game on.
3/4 of the way into this pitcher I am spent. I sit it down, no longer can I hang.
TK sits his down as well and is glad to see he lasted just slightly longer than I. He is an asshole. The remainder of the two pitchers get drank at a slightly slower pace and I ask for the check.
We are not leaving. Oh no, no, no.
Earlier in the day it was agreed that I would buy dinner that night and TK would pick up the tab on our boozing adventure after. I pay Paco and to the bar we head.
You can just imagine how excited the two people who had left their table to go sit at the bar and eat were when they seen that TK and I were heading in their direction. (By this time I have reached shit-holed drunk. Siwel is standing dormant waiting to step in).
In need of something to chase all of this sour mix and tequila down I order a 32oz bud light. Yea I know, but it’s really all they had on tap that was what I considered drinkable.
I take a few drinks and notice the couple at the bar trying their hardest to pretend that I do not exist.
This does two things.
1. It pisses me off, and
2. It adds fuel to my fire.
Beer is not going to do the trick.
If I am going to really piss these people off I am going to need the help of my alter ego. Hard liquor here we come.
I slam down the rest of my beer as fast as a human being possibly can and start yelling incoherent shit to the bartender. He laughs as he walks over to ask what it is I am in need of. I point to the couple and say “GET ME, MY BUDDY, AND THOSE TWO FUCKERS OVER THERE A ROUND OF FLAMING DR. PEPPERS.”
Instantly the couple at the bar are once again mortified by not only my language but now for the fact that I am fully acknowledging their existence and want to interact with them.
(Ladies and gentlemen, Jay has left the building. Siwel has arrived)
The bartender has not the slightest idea what in the hell a flaming Dr. Pepper is, how to make it, or if I’m just pulling this out of my ass which I have been known to do at time. I assure him it is indeed real and offer my assistance in helping him make them.
I have 4 pint glasses out. The couple at the bar both notice this and make their opinions clear that they want no part of this drink but “Thank you anyhow”.
Yea well fuck them, I will make 4 and they can watch TK and I do them.
Apparently as I was pouring the 151 atop the shot glasses I spilt some of it, ok, quite a bit of it onto the bar. Ah well, no big deal.
Now the traditional way of doing this is to take a mouthful of 151 and blow it out into a flaming lighter/match but the last time I tried that my hand was left bare and slightly scorched, so I opted for the other method which was just lighting the glasses individually.
This is when disaster strikes.
Remember that spilt 151 I was telling you about? Well perhaps I, or the bartender should have cleaned this up before deciding to take part in a fiery magic show.
Poof.
There we are, the bar is now on fire.
Instantly I fall into a fit of raging laughter. This is the absolute funniest shit I have ever seen at this point. The couple who were at bar run in terror as the 151 burns off the top of the bar.
A few seconds later the fire is out but TK, the bartender and I are still standing there in shock-and-awe laughing our asses off.
It is then decided that I should not be in charge of anything flammable.
I loudly and violently dispute this decision repeatedly but am overthrown by a two to one vote. I am displeased at this outcome but my attention is quickly diverted to another round of Dr. Pepper.
The couple that was at the bar is now at the other end of the joint talking to their previous waiter demanding their check. They were so scared by my fiery performance that they refuse to even go back to the bar to finish their meals.
This gives me a sense of fulfillment that you just cant buy.
How many people do you know that are able to go into a public place and unintentionally (Sort of) scare the absolute hell out of a person so bad that they leave without finishing their meal or whatever their intent was for being there?
I make an announcement to the bar explaining this act and order more Dr Peppers.
I rule.
One summer I visited my buddy TK in Va. Beach for about 2mon’s and he had an “authentic” Mexican joint like 5 blocks down. So needless to say the folks that run this joint and I became close..
Now this joint isn’t the classiest of joints around but they did have good food. Traditionally it was more of a restaurant than a bar although it did have a bar in it. Now then, as odd at it seems the norm consisted of TK and I sitting at a table eating/drinking, then at times depending on what the bar scene looked like, motivating bar-ward after the meals were finished.
This particular day however I was not real hungry so I just ordered my usual, which was a pitcher of margarita, rim of the pitcher salted. I know this may confuse you. “Why salt the rim of the pitcher?” you may be asking. Well kids, it is because that’s how I roll. I don’t have time to screw around with filling those pansy martini looking glasses. No sir, I go straight to the source, I shoot it straight from the pitcher. (After the first week of me doing this they actually bought some of those super long straws like 7-11 has. Kind of funny.)
Now, these Mexican dood’s loved me. I could tell them the most vulgar shit right in front of their customers as they wait on tables an they never got mad. The customers however, well, fuck them.
About two pitchers into this evening It’s time to make my first trip to el grande pisser. As I walk in I immediately notice a mop bucket. Now to most people this would mean nothing and they would walk on past thinking nothing of it. Well, me to, this time around. However I did get a good chuckle as I wandered to the stall. If you have already read my story “Siwel vs. the mop bucket” (and you should have being it was a few stories before this one) then you know what I am getting at.
I make my way back to our table and sit down with a crooked grin on my face. TK just gives me that “oh god, what did you do now” look. Second pitcher gone an I see my third on it’s way. (I don’t even have to order at this place they just bring them to me until I tell them to stop). Our waiter Paco (no clue what his real name is) stops and asks TK if he needs anything. Immediately I interrupt to tell our waiter about the mop bucket in the bathroom and why he should remove it. He is concerned that the presence of it in the bathroom upsets me. I assure him it is nothing of the sort, and he laughs and asks why it is that it be removed so promptly..
As I begin my story 2 other waiters hear the laughter erupting from not only the waiter but TK as well. Apparently TK had never heard the mop bucket story.
(incase you skipped my previous mop bucket story I will tell you, in short, it involves an unattended mop bucket in a bar bathroom and me taking a massive jager dump in it)
There are 2 tables within ear-shot of me and I am making no effort to be quiet. Mortified by this story two old people who were seated by my table get up and walk out.
No shit.
I guess casual talk about jagermeister giving you the ass-piss was just too much for them to handle while they tried to decide what to order for dinner.
Well fuck them.
Third pitcher is 1/3 in the books when it is decided that TK and I should have Paco top our pitchers off with tequila. (Great idea!). He looks and kind of laughs at us as he takes our pitchers off to the bar. The other table beside of us who did not leave when the mop bucket story took place sees that we are well on our way of becoming shit-holed and apparently they want no part of it as they grab their plates and head to the bar. Ha, up tight pricks anyhow. (I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to go talk to them).
Paco has returned with our pitchers and is laughing about the people who were once a table over from me. Apparently they told him their reason for relocation was due to my colorful language and my less than gentlemanly like conduct. Fuck them, we have two pitchers of supercharged margarita’s to drink.
As we look down at these two pitchers of heartburn in the making TK say’s two words which seals the fate of Jay checking out for the evening and my alter ego Siwel making his grand appearance. Those two words were “let’s race”.
Now I don’t know if you have ever tried to chug a pitcher of margarita. Most of what our society considers to be “normal” people have never tried it nor have they even thought of it, or considered it to be a good idea.
Fuck them, I am no normal mortal man.
I accept this challenge and I shall come out as the victor even if it kills me.
I stand up on my chair to announce this challenge to the entire establishment.
Game on.
3/4 of the way into this pitcher I am spent. I sit it down, no longer can I hang.
TK sits his down as well and is glad to see he lasted just slightly longer than I. He is an asshole. The remainder of the two pitchers get drank at a slightly slower pace and I ask for the check.
We are not leaving. Oh no, no, no.
Earlier in the day it was agreed that I would buy dinner that night and TK would pick up the tab on our boozing adventure after. I pay Paco and to the bar we head.
You can just imagine how excited the two people who had left their table to go sit at the bar and eat were when they seen that TK and I were heading in their direction. (By this time I have reached shit-holed drunk. Siwel is standing dormant waiting to step in).
In need of something to chase all of this sour mix and tequila down I order a 32oz bud light. Yea I know, but it’s really all they had on tap that was what I considered drinkable.
I take a few drinks and notice the couple at the bar trying their hardest to pretend that I do not exist.
This does two things.
1. It pisses me off, and
2. It adds fuel to my fire.
Beer is not going to do the trick.
If I am going to really piss these people off I am going to need the help of my alter ego. Hard liquor here we come.
I slam down the rest of my beer as fast as a human being possibly can and start yelling incoherent shit to the bartender. He laughs as he walks over to ask what it is I am in need of. I point to the couple and say “GET ME, MY BUDDY, AND THOSE TWO FUCKERS OVER THERE A ROUND OF FLAMING DR. PEPPERS.”
Instantly the couple at the bar are once again mortified by not only my language but now for the fact that I am fully acknowledging their existence and want to interact with them.
(Ladies and gentlemen, Jay has left the building. Siwel has arrived)
The bartender has not the slightest idea what in the hell a flaming Dr. Pepper is, how to make it, or if I’m just pulling this out of my ass which I have been known to do at time. I assure him it is indeed real and offer my assistance in helping him make them.
I have 4 pint glasses out. The couple at the bar both notice this and make their opinions clear that they want no part of this drink but “Thank you anyhow”.
Yea well fuck them, I will make 4 and they can watch TK and I do them.
Apparently as I was pouring the 151 atop the shot glasses I spilt some of it, ok, quite a bit of it onto the bar. Ah well, no big deal.
Now the traditional way of doing this is to take a mouthful of 151 and blow it out into a flaming lighter/match but the last time I tried that my hand was left bare and slightly scorched, so I opted for the other method which was just lighting the glasses individually.
This is when disaster strikes.
Remember that spilt 151 I was telling you about? Well perhaps I, or the bartender should have cleaned this up before deciding to take part in a fiery magic show.
Poof.
There we are, the bar is now on fire.
Instantly I fall into a fit of raging laughter. This is the absolute funniest shit I have ever seen at this point. The couple who were at bar run in terror as the 151 burns off the top of the bar.
A few seconds later the fire is out but TK, the bartender and I are still standing there in shock-and-awe laughing our asses off.
It is then decided that I should not be in charge of anything flammable.
I loudly and violently dispute this decision repeatedly but am overthrown by a two to one vote. I am displeased at this outcome but my attention is quickly diverted to another round of Dr. Pepper.
The couple that was at the bar is now at the other end of the joint talking to their previous waiter demanding their check. They were so scared by my fiery performance that they refuse to even go back to the bar to finish their meals.
This gives me a sense of fulfillment that you just cant buy.
How many people do you know that are able to go into a public place and unintentionally (Sort of) scare the absolute hell out of a person so bad that they leave without finishing their meal or whatever their intent was for being there?
I make an announcement to the bar explaining this act and order more Dr Peppers.
I rule.
posted by Siwel at
1:27 PM
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