I have a joke for you.
A guy walks up to a bar and asks me for a Jager Bomb.
This is a joke because I don't know what a Jager Bomb is, much less how to make it.
Thankfully, Alana came to the rescue and got me out of the joke. It turns out it's a shot of Jager and Red Bull. It also turns out we didn't have any, so they had to settle for something else. My bar savvy has improved since working at this Mexican Restaurant. I can deal with margaritas, pour wine, and do things that have what they're made of in the name… Jack and Coke? I still, however, have to read the labels carefully to make sure that Johnny Walker is indeed Scotch.
Yesterday was a horse race, which means lots of people in fancy clothes drinking lots of alcohol with fancy names. (And yes, the ladies love to wear hats!) As I have said before, men in suits are just plain attractive. That is, until they open their mouths and you realize that any compliment or conversation they're about to attempt doesn't count because they have had one too many.
In some romantic sense, the person working behind the bar is a sort of gatekeeper of society. They're the ones that keep people from having too many and driving afterwards. They can be therapists and counselors (this hasn't happened to me yet). They try to make alcohol something you can enjoy without feeling like you've been hit by a Mac Truck the next morning. To do this well, you have to know the anatomy of a drunk…
Anatomy of a Drunk
Eyes: probably a little red, not quite focused
Mouth: elocution is out the window, diction is history, dangling participles everywhere
Brain: muddled
Liver: mad
Kidneys: also mad
Hands: unable to play Jenga
Feet: can't line dance because they can't walk in a straight line
Love and tacos,
LMS
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