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Travis Drinks a Gorilla Fart with Hope Solo

Do you know how to make a Gorilla Fart?

[Insert high fiber banana joke here]

I had a fellow last week order a dirty gin martini for his lady friend and a Gorilla Fart for himself. He asked me if I knew how to make one and I lied saying of course I know how to make a Gorilla Fart. I rushed to my iPhone and starting looking up the recipe. Oh boy! It’s one of those drinks that I don’t like making. While we carried both of the items needed to make this drink, I really didn’t want to make it because it causes too many problems when people start putting them down. Gorilla Farts have a more common name and it is a drink that I don’t pour—a 252.

To make a Gorilla Fart pour a shot of Wild Turkey 101 over ice and top off with a floater of Bacardi 151. This was clearly a case of being bitten by my own snake. Fortunately we were slow enough last Thursday that I didn’t have to worry about him throwing up all over himself and his date. Bacardi 151 is a joke. It’s diesel fuel that has more business cleaning fine china than making its way into your cocktail glass. I have always be averse to Bacardi 151 since my 21st birthday when I threw up all over a bar after taking a shot of gin with a 151 floater. I can still taste the dirty carpet on the floor of the bar after empting my stomach on a pool table, flight of stairs and my date.

A middle aged woman once ordered a 151 and Coke at the club. She was married and looked as if she came from some money. I told her that I don’t pour that at the club and she gave me grief because she drinks them all the time back home. I figured back home was trailer in Kentucky but who am I to judge? Drinking 151 means only one thing: you have made all of the mental peace with yourself to be fine with whatever poor decision you’re going to be making that night. There are no big boardroom meetings you’ll be leading the next day, screwing the first lucky guy who comes your way is on the table and waking up in jail or a dumpster is not a problem.

Bacardi 151 is the liquor equivalent of Coors Light. You have to be a moron or pedophiliac to order one. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. As a bartender, the window to somebodies soul comes from the drink in their hand and I only see demons and a rich history of sexual abuse from people ordering these two drinks. I’d think more of a person who orders a Pedialyte and vodka than a Coors Light drinker. At least they’re trying to stay hydrated.

My brother Pat and his wife Annie are preparing for their first child in late November. They’re having a boy and we’ve been swapping back and forth a couple of ideas for names for his son. So far he has suggested the following names: Shamus McDougal Raskin, Jason Varitek Raskin Jr. and Falconcrest Pontchartain Raskin. He’s leaning towards the last one because Cresty Raskin sounds like a great sports announcer name. I think he should go with Brocius Danger Raskin. A name like that guarantees the kid will do nothing but kick ass and eat pussy. Cresty sounds like he’ll kick pussy and eat ass. I leave it to the readers to suggest a name. God knows ours aren’t very good.

The one thing we were in agreement with is that Travis is a horrible name. I have over 550 friends on Facebook and zero friends named Travis. Thank God! Travis is a French word (figures) that means bridge or crossing through a gate. Bridge or Gate is a superior name to Travis every day of the week and twice on Sunday. At the club, anyone named Travis tends to drink Coors Light and look developmentally disabled. They love Affliction shirts and mouth breathing. I hope I never live long enough to hear this line in a movie, “Travis, excuse me, I mean Mr. President…” Pretty certain I won’t have to scream “Baloney!” at the screen with such a ridiculous line. The only time Travis works on a male is if that person plays first base for the Chicago White Sox and bats fourth in the line-up. Unless you know you’re infant will grow up to go yard and dig off-thrown balls out of the dirt, stay clear of the name Travis.

It was sad to see that Ernest Borgnine had passed away at 95. He starred in one of my favorite TV shows from my youth, “Airwolf,” played Detective Lieutenant Mike Rogo in “The Poseidon Adventure” and won an Academy Award for “Marty.” I haven’t seen “Marty” and I pretty sure neither have you. I doubt I’ll live to see 95 but if I do, I am praying I look half as good as Borgnine. I recently turned 38 and I figure that I reached the halfway point in my life. To live to 76 will be pretty good considering how bad I treat my body. The fact that several news sources reported how tragic Borgnine’s death was seemed ridiculous considering he was almost 100-years old. He lived more than 19-years longer than my projected life. Nonetheless, the world is a worst place with the absence of his iconic laughter and toothy smile.

As my buddy, Johnny Electric said: “Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends.” He was very quick to point out that this timeless toast also works with shampoo.

More bar talk: I think I know why my job is difficult at Keys On Main. I have recently noticed that people speak way too softly for such a loud club. I love having friends come to the bar for me to pour them drinks but it is so loud that there is no way we can easily have a conversation when I am behind the bar. I am horse half the time because I am yelling every time I ask somebody what do they want to drink. It is the nature of the club. It’s loud and aggressive and lots of fun. A quiet dueling piano bar is a lounge and that is certainly not what the show is about.

The problem is that the people who need to the most help ordering a drink have the vocal decibels of a field mouse. I am pretty good at reading lips but there are multiple parts of the night where I honestly believe people are messing with me. I am loud because I am half-Irish, usually half-crocked, barrel chested and I love the sound of my own voice. Not everyone can order a Miller Lite with the command of a quarterback barking off an audible at the line of scrimmage but whispering a drink to me is tiring. I am going to have to start bringing a dry erase board to work so I can figure out what type of non-alcoholic daiquiri you want. Egad!

Hand signs are appropriate but if I misread what you want, you’re still paying for it. Holding up an empty bottle and pointing at it is good unless you wanted more than one. Get your fingers out. There is no excuse to ever rattlesnake me but if you started a tab and are sitting at the bar, I will keep putting drinks in front of you until you tell me to stop. A good rule of thumb and I’ll think I’ll call this the Rule of Borgnine is to order every drink loud enough for me to hear with a big smile. Throw in a little bit of patience and tip a $1 per drink and we’ll all have a great time. Don’t just do it for me. Do it for Ernest.

Want to know how to do a spot-on douche bag impersonation? Just use the word “Bro” four times more than feels natural and slur the O more into an A. Let me give you a couple of examples that will set you on the path to being fluent in douche baggery. For our purposes, let’s pretend you want to order a bunch of Coors Lights for you and your friends. Naturally you’ll want to get make sure you string order the drinks and have absolutely no idea in how you plan on paying for the drinks but I’ll streamline it for you to perfect this process. “Bro, bro, Hey Bro! I need, bro, four Coors Lights bro. Bro, how much does, bro, four Coors Lights bro cost? Bro, $12, bro? Bro, that’s bullshit. I can, bro, get a 12-pack for $12, bro. Bro, bro, bro, bro why, bro, does, bro, Coors, bro, Light, bro, cost, bro, so, bro, much, bro? Hope you don’t think, bro, that I am tipping you, bro. Bro, bro, bro, bro, BRO, BRO, BRO….”

See? Fairly simple. Another good rule of thumb is to just substitute bro for any proper name or pronoun and throw in a bro during any natural pause in a conversation. You’ll see miraculously your ability to intermingle with d-bags with no problem. Much like how the French dislike us for not speaking their made up language, d-bags expect a certain level of bro in order to properly communicate with them. For the record, I swear to God that I had that conversation with somebody last Saturday. I thought he was having a seizure with the level of bros he muttered at me in a 15-second conversation. I almost put a wooden spoon in his mouth to make sure he didn’t bite off his tongue.

Who likes women’s soccer? I do and so should you. It is the only team sport in the summer Olympics that I openly root for because I think they work so hard to get to the point of competing against the world and I feel a sense of national pride when the women bring home the gold. I got a chance to meet Jillian Loyden on the USA national team two Saturdays ago. She couldn’t have been cooler if she tried. She drank like a warrior, tipped great and I might be reading too much into this but was even flirting with me. Jillian probably wasn’t flirting with me because she’s a professional athlete and I look like a bag of frozen yogurt covered in rotting apricots with my shirt off. Nonetheless, USA played a friendly against Canada that night and she and some of her teammates came to the club for some post-game fun.

There was a member of her team that was not as cool as Jillian. A striking looking woman with over-plucked eyebrows and piercing blue eyes accosted me at 1:15 demanding more 7&7s. I politely told her that it was after last call and no dice on anymore #14s. She was livid. She read me the riot act that my fellow bartender ignored her the entire night and was an asshole. For the record, the bartender in question is Zach Bluth a graduate student up at the U who studies engineering and is one of the nicest guys I have ever met. She said he was a shitty bartender and that she wasn’t ever coming back to the club again. I apologized again but at this point of the night there was nothing I could do. I knew that I recognized her but I couldn’t quite place her. It wasn’t until later in the week did I recognize this fiery woman. It was Hope Solo. I only placed her after I saw that she tested positive for banned substances as she gets ready for the Olympics in London. It wasn’t that she was a wild alcoholic who needed more whiskey that caused her to browbeat me and my co-workers—it was roid rage. It all makes sense now.

Ben Raskin bartends at Keys On Main Wednesday through Saturday. Follow him on Twitter @BennyRaskin. Check out his podcast, the SLC PubCast, on iTunes. Give it a review and rate it. He really dislikes Coors Light drinkers but is looking forward to the ass-whipping he’ll receive from the first literate Travis who reads his blog.

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About Ben Raskin

Born in El Cajon, raised in Las Vegas, educated in Reno and living in Salt Lake City. I bartend, write, box and live in Sugarhouse UT.

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