So a pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel attached to his genitalia. The bartender says, “Sir, do you realize you have a steering wheel attached to your genitalia?” The pirate says…
As a female bartender, making small-talk with the guys is a fairly significant part of the job description. This can lead to trouble whatever your middle name is. I was working the downstairs bar in Bar B. when a guy in his forties, likely a builder of some sort or maybe a dockworker sat in front of the Piraat tap. Piraat is a Belgian IPA weighing in at a hefty 10.5 abv. It is yeasty, hoppy, malty and funky. Not suitable for someone most accustomed to a nice, cold Bud.
My unionized customer cracked a variety of pun-oriented jokes such as the one above as he worked his way through some of the taps. This is a dangerous endeavor in Bar B. which is a Belgian bar. 3-4 drafts could turn a burly working man into a drooling child. He hadn’t reached this point before ordering the Piraat (and thus making the joke) so I humored him. I warned him that while it is considered among the best beer in the world, it’s funky yeast makes it an acquired taste.
Of course he did not heed my warning. Why would he? I was just the bartender. He took a big sip and spit spit it out, cartoon-like. “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.” I allowed him to cleanse his delicate palate with a much more accessible Hoegaarden.
Meanwhile he had gone from gleefully tipsy to flirtatious making pointed comments about the cut of my shirt. Again, I humored him. Part of the job description is to humor customers as long as they don’t stray across the line. I joked back with him. That’s my style–teasing and insulting customers while educating them about the finer points of adult beverages. It’s all in good fun.
At this time an angry bleached blonde, also in her forties, walked in.
“You haven’t been answering your phone. I can tell you are ignoring me when it rings twice and goes to voicemail”
“I’ve been drinking a beer, dear,” he said, in a pirate voice, of course.
She glared at him then whipped her head around toward me giving me the once over.
“I this why you’ve been here so long? You’re drunk!” She snatched the beer out of his hand and pushed it across the bar, toward me. She bored her eyeballs into me and said, “he’s drunk, he needs to go home now.”
Part of my job description is NOT to get involved in inter-couple drama. I quietly slipped his (enormous) check in front of him. He was ga-ga-la-la in a sort of Lebowski way, although with-it enough to pull out his credit card and leave me a generous tip. The moral of the story is that it pays to laugh at bad puns but make sure it’s the happy drunk guy and not his angry wife who leaves the tip.