Praising the Bar

I love to watch people. They're fucking hilarious, especially when they're trying to get laid. Of all creatures on the Earth, human beings really look the most awkward during coitus. Seriously, there's nothing on the Discovery Channel that can hold a candle to us when it comes to fugly mating rituals. This is probably because there aren't too many other animals that try to meet their potential mates while shitfaced in bars.

It's not so bad if you can toddle the line between sober and happy. "Happy", being the first step toward "tanked", at the far end of the scale of inebriation. For extra points, you can be considered one step back from "tanked" down to "plowed" if you can actually SAY the word "inebriated" while you're being hoisted by your underpants into the king cab of your friend's truck. If you don't stop drinking at "happy" you may experience severe visual distortions and lapses in good judgment. As a public service warning, this scale may help.

0 - Sober
Supermodel = Supermodel

1 - Happy
Girl behind bar = Supermodel

2 - Tipsy
Best friend's girlfriend = Supermodel

3 - Hammered
Best friend's mom = Jennifer Anniston (you'd do her, but she's waaaaay too fucking old to be a supermodel, even with your beer-goggles on)

4 - Shitfaced
Anything with breasts = FUCKKK ... WHO CARES ABOUT FUCKING A GODDAMN SUPERMODEL. A SUMPERPOODLE WOULDN'T FUCKIN' TALK TO ME, ANYWAY. SO, FUCK THAT BITCH.. FUCK THAT BITCH OVER THERE TOO GIVIN' ME LOOKS AND SHIT. I LIKE.. (hic) I LIKE FUCKIN' REEEAL WOMEN.. LIKE, FUCKIN A, MAN..YEAH FUCK EVERYBODY.

5 - Plowed
You = Person who is not quite sure if they put their dick back in when they left the urinal. Don't look down! That'd look weird. Maintain, goddamnit!

6 - Tanked
You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Your friends don't really want you to stay with them, either. As a matter of fact, we really think its a better idea if you DO, in fact, go home. Go home. Seriously. Now. DRIVE SAFE!

As you can see, alcohol can definitely throw you off your game.. or into the arms of seventy-six year old Mamie, whose tan knee-highs you mistook for black thigh-highs and whose adult diaper fit so snug you thought she wasn't wearing anything at all under that leather skirt.

Oh God. That's not leather. .. and that's not a skirt.

By about 10pm, most of the bar is somewhere between "happy" and "tipsy", and people are having a great time talking to each other. If they're experienced bar hounds, this is the peak time that people begin selecting those individuals that they want to continue talking to all the way through "hammered". Depending upon environmental variables such as lighting, background noise, and crowd density, said individuals are often recalled to memory by a combination of their clothing and most obvious physical characteristics, such as:

Tall brunette, green shirt, no tits.
Short blonde, red shirt, big tits
Tall blonde, short shorts, check for dick later.

Experienced partiers know that it is important to make these selections before 11:30 or so, when people start doing shots. Once someone starts that shot-buying shit, then EVERYONE feels obligated to be a badass and buy some too. Everybody downs a shot (or ten), starts running out of cash, and that practically guarantees that whatever drinks that people buy AFTER shots will be strong as fuck, you know, to make 'em last.

If you haven't already picked someone to try and sidle up to between shots and closing, you might as well pack it in and go home a bit before everyone else does. He who hesitates is lost.....  to Mamie.