Yet I said yes to every one because of three simple, wonderful, magical words; words I believe Jesus himself used to convince so many people to attend his crucifixion.
“It’s open bar.”
Is that four words? Whatever. Counting contractions is confusing. But drinking free booze? That ain’t.
I will attend absolutely anything that involves open bar: A lecture on ideal asphalt temperatures in road paving, the Bris of a 44-year-old stranger who just converted to Judaism. Shit, if some freak on Craigslist asked me to sit in his dark basement for a month because he liked to keep people chained down there and didn’t want to risk police involvement by making it involuntary, just promise me unlimited liquor and enough slack in the cuffs so my hands can reach my mouth.
Because open bar is the best. Think about all the stupid things you’ve said were the best before today. I’m here to tell you you have no idea what you are talking about. Bacon is the best? Does bacon come with all the tequila you can inhale until you collapse? The beach is the best? How much did those Landshark Lagers you stuffed in the cooler cost? Family is the best? OMG don’t. Not with me. Family is the reason you drink (the you here being me).
So what’s the best? Say it with me: Open. Bar. It’s not just about getting drunk on the cheap though—okay, A LOT of it is about getting drunk on the cheap—but there are other super reasons to embrace everything about open bars.
Ever wanted to try a drink but had serious qualms about wasting $15 bucks on the chance you hated it? “Barkeep, let me get seven Mojitos.” Is it disgusting? Well now you can walk outside and smash six stupid glasses full of rum and sugar water into the pavement and release all that frustration.
Then walk back and order a Bud Light.
But odds are you won’t hate it. It’s booze. You might even fall for it. I’ve been in love ever since an open bar three years ago. Scotch had repulsed me, but I wanted to sound cool to the lady in line behind me, so I ordered a scotch and soda, fully intending to chuck it a minute later if it sucked. Now I don’t drink anything else. What’s your wedding drink? Awful. Switch to scotch and soda. It sounds so cool to say when people ask.
And at open bars, tipping gets you miles further. Since every person is a stingy asshole, no one tips at an open bar. But whereas a buck will get you a glare after a $13.50 margarita (even though all it fucking is three ingredients and some shaking), a properly-timed bill will get you served with a smile all night. Have a $20 on you? Give it to the bartender before your very first drink. Full cups of liquor are your reward all night, as well as, if you want, nine beers at once so you can hide in a corner away from society.
But that’s not just it. At an open bar, you can flip between drinks so much easier. Go sit at a restaurant and order, in turn, a Prosecco, an IPA, a gin and tonic, a stout and a Miller Lite. What the fuck is this guy’s problem, they’ll think? But at an open bar, no one judges. RIGHT ON!, they say. Drink some more of this delicious booze.
So sure, go ahead and tell me that a sunny Saturday afternoon in May is the best. Or Eggs Benedict. You are wrong. Because none of those are open bar.
Follow D.C. on Twitter and read more of his shit at Meeting Girls on Metro.
[open bar image via ShutterStock]