As the saying goes, “men” who are mixologists are mixed in gender. For one, a mixologist is really just a bartender, so we should all probably stick to calling it what it is instead of trying to glorify it with the excuse that there’s more pomp and circumstance to mixology. For another, a real “man” would never pass himself off as/call himself a mixologist. Because he knows the integrity of the drink is in the getting drunk aspect, not the contents.
Now here’s a bartender you can get on board with.
The main difference, if you must decide to put one there, between mixologists and bartenders is that a mixologist is okay with giving his drinks a culinary spin. But like, if I wanted a fucking alcoholic stew, I would just order a Bloody Mary and be done with it. Mixologists have this faux air of superiority because they think there’s no value to simply opening a can or pouring someone a drink. But you see, this is the most valuable task of all, and no amount of bells or whistles can make what a bartender does any less special than what a mixologist does. So you keep your garnishes and your infusions, and leave the hard stuff to the bartender.
Playing video games of any kind is automatically a sign that you have to play with a control of some sort since you don’t have a dick to play with. But at least when you’re playing video games at home, you’re not putting your dicklessness on blast the way you do when you freely pick up a fake gun to shoot at some innocent deer on the screen of Big Buck Hunter.
Does shooting at this buck make you feel like a man?
Available at most Williamsburg bars still left, like the Levee, Big Buck Hunter players not only have no shame, but they’re also statistically less likely to have a one-night stand with anyone who sees them playing this game. So if you have the urge to do something with your hands while at a bar, how about taking out your credit card to buy a lady a drink instead?
It is no great secret that the attention span of “men” rivals that of a coked up socialite, however, it is still consistently surprising when they seem to suffer from symptoms of amnesia in terms of acting mad into you one minute and then essentially forgetting who you are the next. Maybe it’s due to the premium on drug and alcohol use in Williamsburg (though this trend has sadly waned in the wake of the neighborhood’s parental takeover) or maybe there’s just too many women to keep track of who all sort of look the same with their brown or blonde or red hair. Whatever the reason, “men” should probably start keeping better track of who they’re hitting on if they want to go home successfully with another person.
It’s like Will Smith done used the Neuraliyzer on every “man” in Williamsburg
The key to not appearing like a disengaged, sociopathic lothario while in a bar and unable to remember who you just hit on is to leave the bar and start over again. Do not make the mistake of risking the repetition of the same pick-up line to the same woman. This will fail miserably, and she will tell everyone else with a vagina at the bar about it. Hedge your bets by flirting with people early on in the night while you’re still somewhat sober and your memory is intact. Or just don’t talk to anyone ever and pretend that you can only speak sign language. This might gain you the sympathy fuck and you won’t ever have to worry about trying to remember what specific women look like.
Let me start by noting, this is not about bestiality. This is about men who use their dog to allure the opposite sex. It’s pretty embarrassing for you and your dog when you use the unwitting beast to attract the affections of women. There is already an extreme lack of dignity in wanting to have sex in the first place, but not even being able to get it on your own merits just adds to the dishonor.
In Williamsburg, a place with one of the highest concentrations of dog-friendly bars, it makes sense that “men” would rely on this lazy tactic to draw in the oohs and ahhs, and the eventual opening of legs. If you’re ugly, try to use that modicum of charisma you’ve been suppressing instead of whoring out your dog.
In Williamsburg, the newest generation of babies/children are immune to most stimuli that might be alarming to a baby/child in, say, Kansas. Case in point is how often “men” and their “live-in partners” feel compelled to bring their offspring into the low-life setting of a bar. As someone who goes to bars often, I can attest to being a low-life surrounded among low-lives. For a baby to be in this environment–especially a male baby–for prolonged periods of time foretells a decidedly dickless future (or whorish one if said baby is a female). And so, a word to the wise, become an alcoholic in the privacy of your own home.
In Williamsburg, knowing the latest, most important bar or restaurant is paramount to your status as a human being. That’s why “men” like to refer religiously to Yelp for counsel on how to approach their existence. If something has less than four stars, fuck it, they’re not going.
To live and die by Yelp is one of the classic signs of being dickless. Is it really that difficult to choose a place to go based on your own impressions and opinions? Evidently, when you’re a denizen of Wburg. With quotes like “Almost never had a bad bite to eat here! I would caution, though, that the Black Bean Soup is pretty watery and bland,” it’s not only horrifying to note “men” who use Yelp’s overt missing of a dick, but also that one of their biggest problems in life is watery soup. Quelle fucking tragedy.