I went to Sweeney’s last night in St. Paul, and was immediately reminded of why I don’t go to St. Paul. Because it is all historic and old, there is no parking. After driving around for 20 minutes, and finally parking in B.F.E (which I don’t really mind, until I’m stumbling back to my car in the middle of the night, worried about getting a rapin’ from one of the locals). Difficult choices I had to make in haste because I didn’t want to miss out on valuable happy hour time.
That should not have been a concern. The bastards at Sweeney’s don’t have drink specials until 9; I don’t stay out THAT late on weeknights when I am working (I use that term loosely) the next day, thus by the time I get to nine pm, I have usually been drinking hard enough I don’t NEED drink specials. And because I was in St. Paul, I needed to be coherent enough to navigate my way back into Minneapolis, which is now more difficult because of the fucking bridge being down. So this translated into no double fisting action.
To make everything more craptacular, the bartender kept hitting on me, before and after my friend arrived. Then I feel obligated to flirt back because I want the most potent drinks possible (that is the WORST thing ever, a watered down drink) and I don’t want him to spit in my drink.
There was one bright spot in the this turd of a night, this old woman was teetering down the stairs on her way down from the banquet hall, and she had to grab on to a tall potted tree to keep from falling down! My eye almost popped out of it’s socket from trying not to point and laugh. I shouldn't be complaining, I got drunk; mission accomplished!