Here Comes A Regular

I'm not the kind of person that seeks out new bars. You've got to drag me if it's a place I've never been. It's not that I don't like new places, or even that I don't enjoy being in new places. Rather I'm just a creature of habit, and I enjoy myself most when I'm somewhere I know. I also love the idea of being a regular. Being a regular takes time and energy. You have to pay your dues. A very long time ago I decided that I wanted to become a regular at my favorite bar and I succeeded. I didn't formulate a plan or hatch a scheme, I just got drunk there all the time until people started to remember me. I made friends with the staff and a lot of the regulars and before I knew it I was also a regular. Now I've been a regular for so long that I'm old school, and I like that as well.

I count the staff at this place among my friends. I'm genuinely happy to see them and I believe they're happy to see me as well. This is not friendship for the sake of cheap bar tabs and plus-ones to get into the show. This is friendship that comes from hanging out on weeknights and making stupid jokes. It is true that I value getting served first, and I value impossibly low bar tabs. But I think they value knowing that I'm never going to make a fool of myself. I'm never going to make trouble or over-step my boundaries. I think the trick to being a good regular is to never expect to be treated differently. Would you go to your friend's house and expect them to bend over backwards and do you a million favors? Then why would you expect the same from your bartender?

As I said before, my favorite bar is a popular place. On any given night my girlfriend (also an established regular) and I might have ten friends meeting us at the bar or at a show. The first question is always "Who is your tab with?" I'm starting to hate this question. Because that question really means "Hook me up with cheap drinks." So Baby and I have made a decision. We're going to only pay our portion of the tab unless we specifically put others on ours.

Am I being petty? I'm trying to avoid the hassle of collecting money from 76 people after a night of drinking, and I'm trying to let my bartending friends know I'm not trying to take advantage of them. Nevertheless, I know people are going to complain. Does this make me a dick?

This Stupid Job Is The Reason Why I'm Broke, Dick

People like the stories where I do something stupid and everyone points and laughs at me. I usually like those, too. But today people are probably pointing and laughing at me at work, and I don't think it's the slightest bit funny.

I work in a giant maze of cubicles. Clients never visit our office, we go see them. The atmosphere is generally relaxed. The employees have lobbied for years to loosen up the dress code to the point where they can wear jeans to work, but management is steadfast. I honestly don't care one way or the other. Sure, it would be nice to dress down sometimes, but khakis and a polo shirt is not exactly a three piece suit. And frankly, I don't want to see some of these fat asses in their relaxed fit denim monstrosities.

About a week ago management started a campaign to raise money for Katrina relief. The company offered to match donations dollar for dollar, and to sweeten the deal they handed out free 'tokens' for every ten dollars you gave. Tokens could be exchanged for the special privilege of wearing jeans to work any Friday between now and the end of the year. Naturally everyone gave and got tokens, so now we essentially have casual Fridays through the end of the year.

Well, not everybody.

You see, I didn't have any fucking money to give. I'm flat broke. I'm practically a charity case myself. So I just avoided all discussions about the charity campaign last week. I figured it would be over once they stopped with the pep rallies and the email campaign. Wrong. I keep getting asked why I'm not wearing jeans. People are genuinely amazed. It's as if I'm wearing no pants at all.

This morning I went with the very lame excuse of "I already gave before the campaign started." A downright lie, and one I'm not proud of. I've got no qualms about not giving, because I know I would have had I had the money. I also know I would have given immediately, rather than wait two weeks like my coworkers did. But as the day has worn on I've grown progressively defensive. Now I am defiant. "You can't give money to charity when you've got no money to give." Take that.

So I'm feeling pretty resentful. Pretty resentful that the precious allure of blue jeans is what it takes to get people to open their wallets. Pretty resentful that I'm made to look like Scrooge because I can't afford to give anything. And pretty resentful that the company would do something so tacky. This is not exactly altruism at work here. I feel humiliated, but I'm sure glad everyone is comfortable with their shirts untucked.

Life Is Good (Because The Cowboys Suck)

I have trouble describing how much I hate the Dallas Cowboys. I'm fairly satisfied with my vocabulary and my ability to insult others, and yet I still cannot adequately capture my utter contempt for them. The closest I can get is this:

I hate the Dallas Cowboys more than I hate the New York Yankees.

Seriously, it's that bad.

I hate the city of Dallas, the entire goddamn city.

I hate their retarded half-roof stadium, I hate their hot ass cheerleaders, I hate Troy Aikman and Tom Landry and Jerry Fucking Jones.

I hate their legions of mouth-breathing, pick up truck-driving, Coors-guzzling mongoloid, redneck fans. I hate the fact that even the black people who root for the Cowboys are rednecks. I hate the pomposity with which they've declared themselves 'America's Team.' I hate that douchebag who was holding up the sign last night that said "Daniel Snyder May Have Bought The Redskins, But The Dallas Cowboys Own Them."

(OK, maybe they have ONE clever fan)

But I love beating the Cowboys. I live for it. And lately I've been on life support. No one gave us a chance to win last night. My own girlfriend, a diehard Redskins fan, went to sleep and wrote us off. Al Michaels (you ultra-conservative Republican fucktard) had a field day bashing us. We looked dead in the water. But I never lost faith. True, I did spend most of the fourth quarter devising a way to suicide bomb Derek Jeter and Bill Parcells at the same time, but I knew we were going to pull it out. And pull it out we did!

Final score: Karmic Justice 1, Crybaby Bitches 0