Pretty much to spite the weather we held a neighborhood backyard do over the weekend: sometimes one must piss against the wind. 1
The usual suspects, kids and pets were all in attendance. The conversations invariably led back to Clint and The Chair 2: “Yeah, we were at Lowe’s looking at lawn furniture…say, did you see the Eastwood thing? You know, during the…oh what was that? Anyhow, Clint’s lecturing this chair…”
After the food had been devoured, the de rigueur badmitton birdies batted, and the munchkins safely wrapped in Disney’s overly saccharine embrace, the hard liquor came out and the talk turned to many things: kid’s shoes; why the hell anyone would eat cabbage 3; will climate change eventually boil the seas; whether pigs have wings…you get the idea.
At some point we started discussing what we were drinking. A couple of first time invitees (friends of friends) are in the biz, so to speak, and regaled us with tales of mythical drinks: bacon vodka, peanut-butter and jelly vodka and the like. This soon morphed into bar talk, which caused someone to ask – “Have you ever run across this dick bartender down at REDACTED? The idiot thinks making a drink is fucking rocket science!”
Turns out all of us had a similar story. If not two or three.
And so we dedicate the following to all the dick bartenders in Kansas City. You know who you are. Get a clue…