Richard brought his drink up to his lips, poured it into his mouth, and swallowed it whole in one swift motion. He coughed and sputtered a bit as he lowered the glass back onto the table. The bartender laughed as he took Richard’s glass and placed it behind the counter. “I know I shouldn’t serve alcoholics, but goddamn if the way you drink your beer like it’s a shot isn’t hilarious.” Richard just placed his forehead down on the table and sighed.
A group of young men, the oldest not a day over twenty-four, entered the building and sat down on stools opposite Richard and the bartender. Each man wore a cardigan, tight jeans, and a scarf. Their facial hair was cut and styled in interesting, yet unappealing manners. It could be supposed if any two were to kiss, their beards would not touch. The bartender went over to greet them. Richard could not hear the conversation but saw the bartender hand out menus and walk back over. “They didn’t order any drinks?”
“Nah,” answered the bartender, “they wanted to look over the menu first. They’ll probably order one of our specials, like the Orlando Handshake or a virgin Sex on the Beach.”
“Virgin? Why would they order a drink with no alcohol?”
“No, at our bar, a virgin Sex on the Beach is just a normal one but served in a glass with a smaller opening.”
“Anyway,” Richard transitioned as a smirk stole across his face, “these gentleman look exactly the type to order that drink I keep telling you about.”
“It’s not going to happen,” the bartender replied with a tone more serious than just previously. “I’m not naming a drink ‘The Awful Drink for Ugly Idiots.’”
“Oh come on. These hipsters are totally the kind of people that would be like ‘Look at me, I’m ordering this drink ironically because I’m so funny.’ Just write it on the Daily Special blackboard behind you; you don’t even have to add it to the menu.”
“What would I even put in it?” the bartender asked matter-of-factly.
“It doesn’t matter! As long as the name is in place, it will be ordered. You have nothing to lose.”
The bartender sighed but wrote what he was told on the Daily Special menu. Not long after, one of the hipsters caught sight of it. He began hooting and pointing until each member in his group also read the board. They all began giggling like schoolgirls who were taking their first sex ed course. They then began whispering loudly amongst themselves. Not much could be made out, but the word “irony” was sprinkled in liberally. Hearing this, Richard turned to the bartender wielding a grin so shit-eating, it could singlehandedly consume the Augean stables.
Shortly thereafter, each hipster had an Awful Drink for Ugly Idiots to call his own. Despite having yet to take even a sip, every one was taking and filtering pictures to promote the drink on their social media accounts and amateur photography blogs. One even called a friend of his to brag about being the first to discover such an “underground” bar. Being comfortable that this bar supported their particular brand of self-indulgent “irony,” many began to listen to songs by boy bands in the early 2000’s even though they “totally know it’s lame and are just messing around.” Some started to watch new children’s cartoons on their iPhones, which is “completely hilarious because, like, adults watching children’s cartoons? So funny and ironic.”
The bartender turned away from the scene to chuckle to himself. “Geez, all this free publicity and all I did was pour dishwater into some dirty glasses. Can you believe my rating on Yelp was only one and a half stars before today? I guess you were right Richard. Uh..Richard. Richard?” However, Richard was not listening. He was in a state of shock and horror. A meager murmur escaped his lips. “I-I messed up. I messed up.”
“Huh? You’re going to have to speak up, buddy. I can’t hear you.” However, interrupting the bartender’s request for clarification, a large group of hipsters began pouring in through the front door. Richard stood up onto his stool, point at the entrance and screamed, “The Horde!” The bar became swarmed. Tables and barstools were splintered and torn asunder. The jukebox’s capacity for quarters quickly reached saturation as hipsters became ravenous for their favorite little-known 60’s songs. There were enough bodies in the building to make the fire marshal weep.
It was hipster panda-monium, and they were all out of bamboo.
The bartender quickly leapt into action, grabbing a shotgun from behind the counter and jumping onto the bar. “Allllllllllright! Everybody who just came here from Whole Foods get out now before I put a bullet into every last motherfucking one of you!” He then pumped his shotgun and fired it once into the air to punctuate his point. Seeing the crowd rapidly clear, the bartender smiled, kissed his firearm, and put it back in its spot under the counter, right next to his framed picture of the 2nd amendment. A sparse fifteen seconds later, the only bodies left in the establishment were Richard, the bartender, and a dead beatnik, who had been crushed by chunks of ceiling that fell after being loosened by buckshot. Richard got down to move the rubble and debris but found only asbestos, a Cosby sweater, and a thick, pasty layering of mustache cream underneath.
“Any other bright ideas?” breathed the bartender as he attempted to cool off from the adrenaline that pulsed in his veins.
“Well, I guess you could add a couple arcade cabinets to drum in business. I’ve always been a fan of hits like Metal Slug and Gala-”
Richard was then forcibly removed from the premises and never allowed to return.
-William Best, Staff-Member