How an Entry Level Job Scam Had Me Almost Move to Nashville.

I noticed I needed to get a new job after my tax return indicated I made less than $18,000 a year. Which, according to poverty guidelines, makes me $4000 short of the poverty line (sort of). Well, this got me thinking; I could continue to be a college town bartender making 2.13 an hour and clearing up sweet smelling regurgitated margaritas, or I could get a real person job.

After a month or so of relentless internet job searching I have concluded that there are no real jobs on the internet. 

Most of the job offers I got were scams centering around the old selling steak knife sets to complete strangers ponzi-scheme. 

First of all, who the fuck buys stuff from door to door sales people now days? The elderly? The cripplingly lonely?

And to get around the fact that well, no-one has ever wanted to be a door to door sales person, they mislead accordingly. One trick is to use as many professional buzzwords as possible to spell out the most basic of information. For example, I received this email yesterday.

As an Insphere Agent, you'll be able to provide a consultative product approach to create an innovative solution that best fits the needs of each individual client. A multi-line product portfolio also provides an increased ability to cross-sell existing and new clients. 

What it's actually saying: You will be working in a call center. Your "clients" will be a bunch of fucksticks that can't turn on their computer without suffering a minor brain hemorrhage.  

Now that's talk about Nashville Business Consulting. They called me in for an interview. Luckily, I researched them before buying a plane ticket to Nashville. Here's what I found:

They don't pay you, and more bizarrely, they participate in terrible, terrible team building exercises.

Needless to say, I ain't goin' to Nashville.

Break News! American Ad Agencies are a bunch of racist, sexisit

After being exposed to American T.V for seven months now and enduring a stream of awful shows and truck adverts complete with huge manly letters falling from the sky, I noticed that interracial couples were completely absent.



This article does a pretty good job of providing examples to the contrary, yet something seems amiss. The TV we get down here is going to be different, and I bet advertisers up North don't have to pander to the lucrative racist Southern dollar.

This is where I get to say a big fuck you to the ad agencies and their clients.

Ever since Mad Men blew up, the perception of the ad (wo)man is that of a creative genius, combining a Machiavellian brand of psychology with the vision of an artist.

This is utter bollocks.

The ad agencies have been and will continue to peddle to the lowliest dregs of culture. For example, here is a hilarious Miller Lite commercial.




Oh, I get it. It's funny because he's a weak vagina-man for not drinking Miller lite. By the same logic, does drinking 20 Miller Lites give you cumulative manliness? If so, that time I drank a case of the stuff, vomited in a sink and fell down a flight of stairs was, in the perverse mind of the ad agencies, the same level of manliness as ripping a crocodile's tongue out and clubbing it do death with it.

This may seem off topic, but one has to really point out the absurdities to really show how fucking bad American commercials are. While the gender marketing and outright sexism of the commercials highlight the sleaze and bigotry of the ad companies and their clients, the lack of interracial couples in adverts shows their cowardice in challenging the remnants of Jim Crow. After all, why risk annoying the rednecks who swear by your otherwise shitty product?

Ad companies please stop insulting women, men, minorities and, my intelligence.

Business Class is the Perfect Marriage of American Isolationism and British Anti-Socialism

I had the pleasure of being bumped up to business class during my recent London to Houston flight. What I didn't realize is that amidst the pampering and cocktails (Yes Kanye, I have in fact drank champagne on the plane) is that business class is hilariously awkward, even more so than sitting next to a repugnant bloater in economy class. The reason- the optional screen that seperates you and one other person.


The problems start soon after takeoff. You are faced with a decision; put the screen up and look like an elitist dick, leave it down and feel like an invasive twat, or do nothing and see who blinks first. Fortunately, the other guy reacted first by pressing the button. The two seconds it took for the screen to rise were just enough time for him to give me a "Sorry, you invasive pleb" smirk. But I understand it! The screen serves as a physical barrier between two people that would only have the ability to make awkward small talk anyway. And everyone knows that the British hate talking to strangers in close proximity more than anything, especially so if the guy sitting next to you is potentially a Texan.

So I abandoned my quest at connecting with my business class travel mate and settled in to blessed isolationism. And yes I hate to admit it, but whacking that partition up after the stewardess brought me another flirtini was sort of gratifying in a Jabrone-Thoreau way.

The Big Easy

I lost all my money in New Orleans. No, I don't gamble and no, I didn't misplace my wallet (actually, I did - more on this later). I literally drank THREE HUNDRED dollars worth of TWO DOLLAR beers....IN THREE DAYS. This I believe warrants caps-lock shouting.

Because all of my time there congealed into one big bolus of drinking, I've decided to share my favourite memories of New Orleans. However, as I lost complete control of my quango stick at around 4am, I will leave you with a guest writer who was there, to fill in the gaps.

(Un)fortunately, few pictures survive of the evening and the ones that do don't make much sense. What we're left with is a skewed narrative......

We arrived at the hostel at around 4pm, drinking beers. We decided to attend a St. Louis Slim gig on Frenchmen Street. On the way, we decided to stop off and order wine by the pints. This was no ordinary wine; it was truly the piss of Satan that had been fermenting in his goat bladder for several weeks. During the stop off, one of the guys from the hostel tried to reach behind the bar and pour himself a beer. Obviously, this did not go down well with the bartender who clotheslined him off the stool he was sitting on. To emasculate him further, the bartender bitch slapped across the face and drug him out.

This was all fairly standard New Orleans behaviour as we begun to find out.

Fast forward 20 minutes and we're at the Spotted Cat Club. I'm doing shots with the bassist from the band. One of the girls in our party is on stage playing trumpet, although she's never picked up one in her life. This is where it gets a little hazy, and henceforth the baton gets passed.

------

Shortly after the trumpet solo finishes, we move on to the next club where Josh continues his devil-may-care pace. After bellying up to the bar a few times, he finally returns to the group with a pint. A pint of straight scotch.

Finally, drinking at a reasonable pace.

It is at this point that Josh then grabs the nearest girl (read victim) he sees and drags her to the empty dance floor where the zideco music completely takes his brain for the next hour. As the group trails out for the next bar, Josh goes too, leaving a trail of his own.

Credit cards, bits of cash, and oh yeah his wallet were just a few things left in the path.

I pick up his possessions and put them back in his pocket, but as soon as we walk into the next bar he repeats the fumble. A man noting Josh's drunk state then approaches (not knowing that I had taken Josh's wallet moments before) and this is the conversation that follows:

Shady Guy: You know man, you really ought to be more careful with your money many, people might try to take advantage of you

Josh: DRSHGaokgha....YEAH MAN.

Shady Guy: Well I was just looking out for you friend, here let me get you a drink. (At this point he hands him the drink in his hand) You can't really count so give me what's in your pocket and I'll count the change...

Josh: Chugs beer, reaches in pocket pulls out all that is in them-a bit of lint, hands it over and walks away.

A million pints in and still out hustles a hustler.

But its the walk back to the hotel where the real party began. At this point Josh is not so much man as he is drink, so while maintaining ability to bring glass to mouth, he has now left the less important functions, such as walking and thinking to Alice, Flavia and I.

At this point I should note that as you walk along Bourbon St all you will smell is piss and vomit because that is the cocktail that lines the gutter day and night. Upon hearing Flavia shout "Party in the puddle!" Josh proceeds to splash, frolic and soak in the gutter.

The novelty of this was soon replaced, however, with Josh's next drunken conviction-that "New Orleans is THE BEST TASTING city in the world." When I asked him to prove it, he then hurled himself onto the hood of a Jeep truck and licks it.

To complete the mental image, while all of these events are transpiring, Josh was constantly stripping off his shirt and chucking it at me, then moments later looking at his bare chest, then frantically asking what has become of his shirt.

Such ends our first night in New Orleans.

Redcoat's Handy Guide to Receiving a TABC Certification

Hello there! Want to work in a bar in Texas? First, you will have to take a tedious and pointless online course - the TABC. Luckily for you, I have already completed mine. Keep reading for my handy tips and pointers not only for passing the TABC, but for being a a super-awesome Texan bartender! I have included screenshots from the actual course for your viewing pleasure.

Intervention

Refusing to serve someone is called an 'intervention' according to the TABC. Intervention? I thought intervention was the process of confronting an alcoholic (as seen in hilarious fashion here). Because if you're underage or drunk in Texas, you are powerless to your addiction. So much so that as a bartender, you are legally responsible for the wrong doings of every drunk in your bar. And as you work in a bar, that's going to be a fucking tonne of drunkards. The writer of this guide recommends saving now for those pesky lawsuits!

Minors

People under the age of 21 will sometimes seek to drink alcohol. Luckily, the TABC gives us subtle hints and tips to identify these persons. The picture below is a perfect example. While not mentioning it explicitly, minors caught with alcohol are likely to be:

A. Homeless

B. Dirty

C Anarchists with hand tattoos.

D. Un-American

Underage males may be hard to identify due to facial hair. But don't fret, as identifying underage women is easy breezy- simply stare at their tits! Don't believe me? Think looking at tits can't be part of a paid position? Look at the picture below.

It says to look for "underdeveloped appearance of girls." Remember, when a woman with a B cup or less wants to buy a beer, refuse to serve her with discretion, as her undeveloped chest may be a source of embarrassment.

Minors these days can also be identified through the latest fashions, such as class rings (?) and yes, school uniforms. The school uniform in particular is a fashionable ploy to double-bluff you, the bartender. Don't hesitate to intervene.

Intoxication

You must be able to identify those who are intoxicated. As the limit for intoxication for someone of my weight and gender is around 3-4 bottled beers, 95% of the patrons at your bar will be intoxicated. You might even be intoxicated whilst reading this.

Signs of intoxication may include:

A. Poorly constructed briefcases stuffed with underwear.

B. Looking like a sex offender whilst being trapped in a psychedelic nightmare.

And if you get caught selling to minors, you only get a year in jail and a $4000 fine for the first offense! (side note: You probably get less jail time in the U.K for punching a police officer in the face with a brick).

It's not all bad though. Just think of the hunky members of law enforcement just waiting to apprehend you.

The Worst Place I've Ever Stayed

I am a reasonable man. I don't require fancy furnishings, cable TV or even a working trouser press. Baring this in mind, I can safely say that the North Austin Plaza 'hotel' is the worst place that I have EVER stayed.

To put this into some sort of perspective, the shady motel that we stayed at in Lubbock- a place that has the honour of having the highest gonorrhea and chlamydia infection rate in the country FOR TEN YEARS STRAIGHT - was better.

We were greeted by a a chalk outline of a person at the bottom of a small flight of stairs akin to the murder scene from a film noire. The outline, with its bloated limbs and head looked as if it had been booted off the top step and landed flat on its face. Odd, but relatively harmless I thought.

Looks as if Joseph Merrick's long lost great grandson fell down a flight of stairs

We were on the bottom floor. As I dragged our case of beer from the car I noticed that all of the handles had been broken off the room's doors. Our roof seemed fine enough except for the smell- a mixture of sweat and week old wet towel.

Little Friends

The real fun started when we noticed something crawling across our sheets. After seeing something small and squishing it and having it ooze human blood, it hit me that we had bed bugs. A quick check under the mattress revealed a small infestation of the fuckers. Bed bugs? I thought they only existed in third world shit-holes and cheap package holidays to a'Spaiyn [sic].

We told the woman at the front desk, who moved us to a different room. The look on her face seemed to say "aw fuck, not again'. Sadly the new room was devoid of our little friends. However, it contained a smorgasbord of new 'treats'.

Trucker Love

The first treasure the room held was a series of white stains on the bed's brown blanket. Madison at this point informs me that the motel isn't required to wash the blankets in between customers. It seemed that the only thing standing between me and a night in Billy-Jo's love juice was a well informed American. Confirming my trucker-prostitute scenario, was a large toothpick (especially large for gap-tooths I presume) to the left of the bed.

Family Friendly

'Do you and your family want something juicy and delicious to eat? Well here at the North austin Plaza Hotel, we highly recommend Bikini's Sports Bar & Grill-where tits, fried chicken, tits, tits, burgers and tits meet! So much so, Bikini's tit adorned menu will be the only menu in your room!

[Side note]- Bikini's hilariously describes itself as the 'the fastest growing sports bar and grill concept' - like having half naked women serving food and beers is some sort of new glorious new enlightenment. Furthermore, on the about us section of their website the founder Doug describes his moment of clarity:

While sitting at a bar on the Australian coast... an attractive server approached and asked, 'wanna beer mate?'. At that moment, all Doug could do was smile. Life suddenly made sense to him. He thought to himself, 'This is a nearly perfect combination: relaxing, drinking, sports, girls..."

Holy shit! Doug's experience of Australian tits and beer were nothing less than a religious experience. Move out of the way clothed, unattractive waiting staff of the geocentric world- Party Copernicus is here with tits and beer!

Pictured: party.

Until next time......

Thoughts on leaving College Station

I have finished my year long tenure at Texas A&M University, and as a fitting send off I tried my hand at the ring dunk. The ring dunk is traditionally done at the beginning of senior year, where students have to earn their aggie ring in the most mainly way possible short of strangling a bear for fun- by chugging a fuckton of beer. This metric fuckton of beer, or a pitcher in layman’s terms, took me around 50 seconds to drink.

The first forty seconds were smooth sailing. Well, if burping back into a drink you’re drinking is considered smooth. Around the 30 second mark I started to feel nausea. By 40 seconds that nausea had turned into full blow panic nausea, which is only experienced by weak flyers and those who are lactose intolerant at a frat hazing session. I finished the chug victorious. A bloated, vomiting inebriated victorious at that. You can view the video here

On a more serious note, my year here in Texas has probably been the best in my life. It’s given me opportunities to do stuff that I’d never thought I‘d do. I finally got my own radio show. I saw Vegas. I started to write. And I even managed to convince a girl to have sex with me more than once. This year has also given me motivation to not be complacent in my final year of university. Hopefully I will get around to forming the Victorian society in all its absinthe tea party glory.

I’ve had great teaching this year. On the off chance that they’re reading this I’d like to thank David Myers and John Tyler for helping me to expand the breadth of my knowledge and to realize that higher education isn’t just about drinking and disgusting sex. Your enthusiasm, passion and effort will be sorely missed next year.

Oh yeah, and I also learnt the true value of the beer pong slam dunk: