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Notes From a Dive Bar VI

05/28/2015 06:36 pm ET | Updated May 27, 2016

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Turn away now if you are disgusted by the description of a bar's grim lavatory. This is not for you. Come back next time to Notes when the talk will be of love and cocktails garnished with fresh fruit. Sadly, this grim description has to be done, a sort of psychoanalytic cleansing of the bar life and its variety of expression both physical and wretched. I'll give you three dots to press another button to escape the toxic trench...

For those of you going on, have a bucket handy. Think of abstract warfare expunged and exploded from the tanks within. The ordinance tonight delivered by that most volatile of products -- a pint glass half-filled with Guinness combined with a depth charge shot of Jameson and Baileys. It's not an advisable combination of Irish food groups. Ask your nutritionist. Stick to the corn beef and cabbage.

Some still order it as an Irish Car Bomb, which is deeply insulting to Irish people. Many perished in real car bombs on the Emerald Isle during the Troubles. So, stop it. But these bros in front of me have not graduated in the Humanities. They are in sales, in town for a convention. A small herd, there are eight of them in the Car Bomb chain. And they are firing seventy dollar rounds at me, let's do more! Four rounds in 15 minutes sets the fuse. The bar owner of this dive, he can think about getting a brand new Cadillac every year with this type of profligacy. The clash between American bros and dear old Ireland is upon me.

The herd moves on to other drinking holes. But then a messenger comes to the bar with news from the latrine, you had better go back there. The stall looks like an Irish cow's udder has exploded in it. Cream deposits float on black bile in the pan. The walls, floor, even the ceiling is dripping. It's like being inside an abstract painting, the pallet puke, the expressionist vile. And there he is, the fallen, wrapped around the bowl like a dead calf, left behind by a herd of salesmen, about to be devoured by the man in charge of this alcoholic slaughterhouse -- me.

You drunk bastard, I yell, pouring ice water over his head. Spluttering, he rises, and I toss him into the alley behind the bar where he will likely be chased by wolves that lust after the taste of salesmen brushed with the boke of Irish cream.

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