“Yes, please tell me more about how you went to bartending school,” the bar manager will internally muse to himself as “men” convinced that attending a one to two week course at [insert name of any scam artist “school” here] will make them shoo-ins for a position at the establishment of their choosing. Because, yes, “learning” to daintily mix together an old fashioned, negroni or some other cocktail that no one at the shithole bar you end up working at will order is really going to bolster your candidacy.

And yet, in the mind of the flaccid (usually blanc and hoping for the most effortless way to dip his toe into the working world) “man” faintly aspiring to make a fast buck in NYC–specifically Brooklyn–when he’s not trolling for pussy that’s just as effortless, the motto is: the less toil, the better. This also tends to be their philosophy in the boudoir as well (much to de Sade’s dismay). If only they could mix up their material in between the sheets the way they do in between the cracks of martini glasses as they sloppily pour in their ingredients to fill a row of them up (no cum pun intended). So yes, maybe a “degree” (a.k.a. certificate) in bartending can get your foot in the door, but it’s going to get a foot to kick your ass right out of it even faster than you got hired, too. ‘Cause ain’t no preparation for the fuckery of an NY bar other than to start out as a dishwasher (or alcoholic). But what would a “man” who can afford to go to bartending school do that for when he can just flounce in bandying his little certificate? Which is probably still much larger than his little dick.