Let’s be honest with each other. This site is dedicated to bringing you news on what’s going on in the world of movies, video-games, general world events, and beer. Beer, that malted beverage that so often brings a man to drunkenness and stupidity. It is for this reason (and because the carbonation makes me feel fat and bloated) that I never touch the stuff. As an advocate of the “no beer” way of life, I feel it is my responsibility to inform you that there are better ways to live. One such way is hard liquor.
This last weekend I was graced with a visit from our resident-neighborhood Aussie. Yes, the Muttonchop had somehow made his way past customs and was sitting in my living room in the great state of Texas. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the Chops, let me inform you that he is not what you would call a drinker. More often than not, he’s what you’d call a “pussy” or a “designated driver” depending on your given state of intoxication at the time. That being said it was my duty as a Texan to take him to as many dive-bars as I could and attempt to get him as drunk as possible. We let the pub-crawl begin.
Our first stop was a converted gas-station that had been turned into a sports bar. It went by the snazzy moniker of “The Pump” and it featured dark lighting and a darker crowd. We walked in and casually strolled to the bar asking for two “Skittle Shots”. Now, I know those of you familiar with my drinking habits will assume that I ordered said shots, but I’ll have you know that the Muttonchop looked them up on his Mixology App prior to walking into the place. Anyway, after downing two delicious candy based beverages, we sat and consumed a Sprite and a Vodka and Cranberry respectfully. During this time, we endeared ourselves to the owner of the joint as well as the bartender (which would come in handy later in the evening).
Our second stop was a trip to the Little Apple. This was an even smaller watering hole with a single pool-table and a cute little bartender. After finding two seats near the door, we each ordered a fantastic little shot called a “Key West”. This little baby is a mix of Jaggermeister, Rootbeer Shnops, and a little Cola for taste. As we toasted our health and good fortune, I noticed a small change in the Aussie. During our earlier toasts, he would simply “clink” his glass against mine and then proceed to drink. Here in Texas we “clink” glasses, then tap the table with said glass before pouring it down our throats. I don’t know if it’s a homage to the land, lost homies, or just something a retarded cowboy did once that the rest of us follow along with, but it’s what we do. During his consumption of his second “Key West” it was noted that he honored the retarded cowboys and it made me smile. He was quickly becoming assimilated.
Our third stop was at a place that is very near and dear to my heart, the Flying Pig. We walked in and I was immediately greeted by a chorus of “Hey Dave” similar to Norm on “Cheers”. (Don’t judge me, it’s how it feels in my head.) Anyway, we saddle up to the bar and asked our lovely bartender Peggy to mix us up a couple of shots. Peggy, being ever so lovely and a master of making shit up, poured us a couple of shots with a milky-white appearance. We did not let it slow us down for half a second and proceeded to consume a shot that tasted like a delicious Tootsie Roll. No sooner had the taste of candy left my mouth for a second time tonight when I was looking down at shot that was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was a layered shot consisting of a red base, a white center and a blue top. I was about to consume America. We raised our glasses, I toasted “patriotism” and Mutton toasted “fair consumer prices” and we went to work.
At this point in the evening, things begin to get a little fuzzy. For the rest of the time at the Pig, I spent it talking to everyone except Mutton because he was talking to a cute little thing over a game of pool. I even noticed him buying them a couple of shots and losing a game or two to her just to make sure she kept playing. If you’ve never seen an Aussie doing it’s native mating-dance, it’s a sight to behold. Anyway, long story short, baby girl went home alone, the Mutton returned to me rejected and we pounded a “Sex with an Alligator” shot, and looked to move on. It was at this point that a second pretty thing in the bar informed us that she was leaving this place, but was moving to another bar with a little more action. A place called “The Pump”. Had we heard of it? Yes. Would we follow? Again, Yes. And we were off.
Back at the pump things got dicey. We ordered two “Flaming Dr. Peppers” as we walked through the door, and put them away with all the vigor and responsibility of two idiots who’d already had too much to drink. From here I played wingman to the Muttons every need. He cuddled up to said cutie at the end of the bar, while I played jack-ass for the rest of it. Now, the key to being a good wing-man is not to convince a woman to spend alone time with your friend. That duty falls on him. Your job is to make sure that he has the time and space to do so. This is where I excel. Now, if you want to keep the fat cock-blocking friend away from your buddy’s conquest, you ask her to dance and tell her that there’s no way she’s a pound over 120. If you’ve got a room full of men who are all looking to make a move on said conquest, you need to be more entertaining than she ever could be. This is where the shots really come into play.
First step, buy a round of the shittiest shot the bartender can think of. In this case, a “Prairie Fire”. For those of you not in the know, this is a shot of Cuervo with a heavy dose of Tabasco Sauce. Namely, it burns going down, it burns staying down, and it burns the next morning. We had seven. In between shots five and six, I noticed that the Mutton was now snuggling with his object of desire with a hand firmly rested on her lower back. I was so proud. The bar closed in 40 minutes and I needed only to keep the jackals away from my friend for that long. Thankfully, the bartender said he’d up the ante for the rest of us idiots and introduced us to “Buffalo Sweats”. This is just like a “Prairie Fire” except instead of the Cuervo you use Wild Turkey Whiskey and the shots are doubled in size.
Needless to say, three of those and the night was done. The Mutton wandered off into the dark to partake in what I assume was to be a church meeting or bible study of some sort. I shook hands with bartender and thanked him for what would be a horrible time on the toilet the next day, and I headed off towards home. What started with a shot of Skittles turned into a night of Fire, and me driving home alone. Our pub-crawl was a success.