Damn Rookies

Amateurs annoy me. I’m a seasoned pro who has been exercising his liver for over thirty years. Nothing irks me more than watching rookies stumble around a barroom. I wish they’d stay home and play Wii or skateboard around the cul-de-sac—well, not MY cul-de-sac.

I posted up at a favorite hole last night to catch the parade of large hats and lips after Opening Day at the Del Mar Racetrack. Events like this always draw out the puppies. I recall the days when I first ventured into the arena. The goals were similar: get drinks, get drunk, and get laid. Now, my goals are slightly modified to: find a seat facing the door, admire unobtainable bartenders and servers, get low-carb drinks, get as close to 0.079% as possible without going over (I practiced by watching The Price is Right), and get laid. I still suck at the last part.

I observed the 2011 rookie strategy.

• Wear high hair.
• Type on iPhone while doing everything, including peeing.
• High-five every male friend and random strangers.
• Yell “Shots!” every five minutes.
• Ingest awful concoctions like Long Island Iced Tea and anything mixed with Red Bull.
• Seek older women because they have more money and less attitude.
• Make fun of friends with older women.
• Drink leftover drinks sitting on the bar.
• Beg bartenders for heavy pours.
• Say “fuck” a lot, often in the wrong context.
• Threaten to kick ass, but opt for shots of Jack.
• Drive home swerving past the police who waste their time pulling over the most expensive looking cars, which don’t include the Mom’s Volvo that the rookie borrowed.

All I wanted to do was sip my pinot while chatting with the local talent but no-o-oh. Instead, I endured the rookie game. I was Hopeless Solo sitting on the sidelines while a bunch of five-year-old girls swarmed around a soccer ball and face planted themselves repeatedly.

“Dude, how’s your night going?”
“It has been better.”
“Hey, you wanna do some shots?”
“No.”
“Come on, dude. Let’s do shots of Jäger.”
“No.”
“God, I’m so fucked up right now. Check out that hot fucking cougar at the bar down there. I’m totally going to hit on her.”
“That’s the bartender’s mother.”
“Cool. Maybe she can introduce us.”
“Probably not the best idea.”
“Whose drink is this?”
“No idea. It has been sitting there for awhile.”
“I don’t fucking care. I’m drinking it. Ugh, it tastes like water. Shit. I thought it was vodka.”
“Darn.”
“I need to do a shot. Dudes, let’s do shots!”

Lil Jon would be so proud. Li’l Phil wanted to backhand him. You see, rookies like this are attractive woman repellant. Any woman who I had my eye on would take a gander at the sloppiness around my section of the bar and assume I was the ringleader, limo driver, or uncle who won't ever grow up. My cock was blocked, so I left the game and lived to play another day.