You know what’s truly pathetic? The crowds of trust-fund influencers desperately trying to get a bartender’s attention, only to drop fifteen bucks (plus tip) on a watered-down lavender-ginger cocktail with crushed pink sea-salt on the rim and a splash of Grey Goose. Meanwhile, there’s a far more effective and much cheaper solution available to have a great night: two Ativan and a Modelo tall boy. You could even save another 75 cents if you switch to a Milwaukee’s Best, but it’s good to have some standards.
Let’s crunch the numbers: even if you don’t have health insurance, or your doctor refuses to give you a script because you’re “Just fine” it wouldn’t take but 5 minutes to find someone in the Rite Aid parking lot selling benzos dirt cheap. Meanwhile, these idiots line up outside bougie bars to drop their rent checks on drinks named after fuckin’ characters from The Goonies or whatever the shit.
“Oh, but it’s about the experience,” they whine. Sure, if your ideal experience involves a crowded, unlit “speakeasy” with a garbage early-2000s indie-folk playlist berating your eardrums while you sip on a $19 Pineapple Macha Rum Punch. You know what’s a great experience? Dissolving a few Xanax in a box of wine and floating on my back in a public fountain until the police escort me away.
Let’s be honest — bar culture is a scam. They charge you $5 to strain jackfruit pulp through a mesh screen and garnish your drink with a sprig of rosemary. You know what garnishes my drink? Crushed Ambien on the rim of a Gatorade bottle spiked with homemade potato vodka, enjoyed on my fire escape as I shout incoherent insults at passersby. Assuming I stole the Ambian from my mom and the Gatorade from 7-11, the entire evening is free. And I did!
“But what about the community atmosphere?” These hashtag-trend-chasers protest. Please. The true social butterfly knows nothing brings people together better than the thrill of mixing Zippo fluid fumes with the questionable Vicodin a guy just handed to you on the subway, then asking strangers if they have any strong opinions on Israel.
So keep your $26 turmeric-cayenne Mezcal concoctions on your carefully curated TikToks feeds, losers. I’ll be out here pioneering the real artisanal cocktail movement. One that involves stealing mini-bar shooters from housekeeping carts, forging an Oxycodone prescription, and having a nightcap at the most exclusive club in town — the floor of a Taco Bell bathroom — knowing I’m smarter than all of you.