Do Office Drones Dream of an Electric Happy Hour at T.G.I. Friday's?

Soon I will be joining the ranks of the nine to fivers and weekend warriors. This is something I have been avoiding all my life but as my schooling comes to an end so must my wild years. I wonder how I will adapt to change.

Am I going to become one of them? Waking up at the same time everyday? Eating my meals at the same time every day? Looking forward to the weekends? Will I be slave to the clock?

I see these folks come into my restaurant all the time in a hurry because they only have half an hour for lunch, then they wait in line to eat on the weekends with the rest of the sheep. It somehow seems pathetic.

The one comfort I have is the fact that I will still be in the industry which automatically elevates me above regular douchebags. I can still bathe in my disdain for civilians. I'll try to keep rockin' folks.

So if you see me with my wife and kids waiting fifteen minutes for a table on a Saturday night, kill me. They shoot horses, don't they?

Music:

Stonehenge - Spinal Tap

Holy Diver - Dio

Defender - Manowar

Stand Up and Shout - Dio (by request)

The Ballad of Dwight Fry - The Melvins

Shotgun - Junior Walker and the Allstars

If 6 was 9 - Jimi Hendrix

Bury My Body - The Animals

(Don't Worry) If There's a Hell Below We're all Gonna Go - Curtis Mayfield

Built for Comfort - Howlin' Wolf

Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya - Dr. John

Tupelo - Steve Cropper, Pop Staples, Albert King

A.J. The House Fly - The Barkays


Films:

C.H.I.P.s Clips
For Your Height Only

An Excerpt:

"Someone buy me a fucking drink." I say this much too loud. People are staring at me, some look on in disgust. I am completely oblivious to the fact that I spilled my last two beers and have long since been cut off. Brett grabs me and leads me to an open table.
"I'll get you a drink. Just sit here and calm down." He returns to the bar to order. I look suspiciously at the beverage he places in front of me moments later.
"Did you fucking just fucking bring me fucking water?"
"Nah man, its a gin and tonic. Drink up."
"Why is it in a fucking pint glass?"
"Keep it down. The bartender thinks its for me." I take a sip. Too fucking sweet.
"What the fuck is this?"
"Dude, its a gin and tonic. You're so fucked up that you can't tell. Just drink it and chill the fuck out."
I take a few more sips of the shittiest gin and tonic I've ever had then grab the case of beer I somehow managed to procure earlier and head to the door.
"Fuck this place. Lets all go to my house and do some real drinkin'." Again, I say this much too loud.



I would like to thank Brett for lying about the Sprite as well as sincerely apologize to the Bartender at the Clinton Street Pub.

Not Quite Vegan

How Much is that Doggie in the Window?