Hot Bartenders -- A New Guy Rule

Last night was poker night again. The conversation steered towards bartenders. I am not talking about those dudes that listen to us blabber and keep our glasses full. Hell no!! That would be boring, and a little strange for a bunch of guys to be talking about. We started talking about those super Hottie bartenders that are so prevalent in the local drinking establishments all over the country. I am talking about the ladies that could work at Hooters during the day and then bartend at some club during the night. These babes are incredible.

Before I get to the meat and potatoes of this blog, let me ask the guys a question. Would you rather hire a bartender that can mix every known drink on the planet and do all those fancy schmancy bartending tricks that Tom Cruise did in "Cocktail" or would you rather hire the hot babe with the boob job and the perfect ass?? Come on… this shouldn't take too long. There you go!! Of course you would hire the Hottie. That is why "Coyote Ugly" is one of the best movies of all time!!

Anyway, the guys started talking about trying to pick up some of these hottie bartenders in the clubs around town. I couldn't believe my ears!! These guys are so naïve, I felt sorry for them (Most of them are at least 4 or 5 years younger, Shit, I feel like a wiseman)

After several of the guys had spent about 15 minutes rambling on about their failed attempts to pick up these goddesses of alcohol, I had to jump in. I informed them that it ain't going to happen. "How do I know?" was asked. Well, let me tell you.

When I lived in Austin, I was lucky enough to date a hot bartender and sometimes shot girl (No, we didn't meet in the bar). I dated her off and on for over a year. It was about the third week we were dating and I told her I was going to stop by the club she was working at. She sat me down and said "Don't get mad or jealous when you see me there."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. She proceeded to tell me all about her life as being a female bartender. She told me how she wears her tightest jean-shorts and a tight shirt that showed her ample bosom. She told me how she would flirt with the guys, listen to them, tell them they were cute, do shots with them, etc. She would come home with the phone numbers of 4 or 5 guys and crumple them up and toss them in the trash. Why did she do this? For the $$$. On a good Friday or Saturday night, she could make $300+ in tips. She guessed that she made close to $1000 a week in tips. Hell, that is more than I make and I have a master's degree!! (BTW: She went on to become a bartender at the Coyote Ugly in Austin. If you ever watched the Coyote Ugly search on CMT, she was on there. Still working there last I heard. If you go there, tell Cheryl that Eric says Hi from Iowa. She may laugh or slap you, so be careful)

You see, a bartender plays the male species just like a stripper does. They tell listen to us, they tell us we are hot and are good dancers, they drink with us, they laugh at our lame jokes, and always have a huge smile (If you ever actually get to look at their face).

So, the meat and potatoes of this blog is a new Man Rule. This rule will be official for all guys that go to bars and clubs with Hot as Hell bartenders. That rule is: Hot Chick Bartender is Not Going to Fuck You.

Seriously. I know this. Not only did I date a bartender, I also have tried to pick up numerous Hooter type bartenders. After 6 beers and a few Jack and Cokes, I'm drooling over the chica behind the bar, telling her for the hundreth time that I'm crazy about her and want to start a family with her or at the very least, bury my head between her legs for a good half hour. And when I stop to take a sip, or breathe, or sometimes vomit, there are six other guys who chime in with the same gameplan.

See, the bartender is the only woman in the bar who has to talk to us guys. At least, she has to acknowledge us. No one else has any such obligation. So the bartender hears it. And if she's ridiculously hot, like our friend in the photo above, she hears it non-stop, start of the shift right up to last call. Drunken idiots in our Old Navy shirts, thinking we can score the babe who's working the tap. Or that we're the first guy in the world who's told her that joke or complimented her on her ridiculously tight, round ass. Or that we're the only dude she's ever shown that tattoo.

But in the end, it's always the same. Her Levi's get stuffed with tips. I walk out with nothin' but a headache. And a raging hard-on. And it's go home, puke, take the intravenous Vitamin C, H2O and aspirin exlixir, then come back again tomorrow because I'm sure she'll eventually cave. We men never learn!!!