What a Suite Snatch.

Went on my monthly pilgrimage to Snatch last night. I must say, that bar rules. For those of you who aren't familar with what I'm talking about, it's the hot hot spot on the Beach. People sell their babies to get in.

Here's Suite (Snatch's upstairs, replete with the MOST ANNOYING WEBSITE SOUNDS EVER - Seriously, who thought that was a good idea?!)

Here's Snatch.

It's the only place I want to go out when I go out anymore. It's fucking fun.

And after that, we went to Automatic Slim's.

Fie on Slim's. Fie, I say.

Or, in less archaic language, Automatic Slim's is DEAD TO ME. FUCK AUTOMATIC SLIM'S. FUCK IT IN THE EYE.

My primary goal in going to Slim's was to see my Cocktail Waitress BFF who-shall-remain-nameless in this blog, because I don't want someone googling Slim's and having her name turn up. That'd be bad. It would be good, however, if someone Googles "AUTOMATIC SLIM'S" and "MIAMI BEACH" or "SOUTH BEACH" and "FLORIDA" and "WASHINGTON AVENUE" and "33139" and reads this blog. That would be good. Back to my cocktail waitress -- she's from Maryland too, I met her on New Year's Eve, and since then, she's probably one of the reasons we still go there.

That, and sometimes Slim's is fun. But Snatch is funner. And who cares if there's a $20 dollar cover? Whatever.

I have pretty good rapport with most of the bartenders at Slim's, and all of the cocktail waitresses, even the busted ugly one. Mario, the outside Bouncer is okay. Honey, the Bouncer, bouncing with her ugly-faced bitterness, and horrible curly red hair, and her I-worked-at-Slim's-but-then-quit-to-work-at-RokBar-and-denied-working-at-Slim's-Ever-When-Questioned-By-
Lesley-once-when-Lesley-Was-Drunk-And-Trying-To-Get-Into-RokBar-and-Honey-Was-All-Like-"We're only doing bottle service tonight..."-when-they-weren't-and-"No, I never worked at Automatic Slim's!"-but-she-did-and-then-she-must-have-gotten-fired-at-Rokbar-Because-She's-Back-At-Slim's-Which-To-Quote-Her-Is, "A much better working environment, so much less stressful"-even-though-a-far-less-prestigious-bar-at-which-to-bounce-and-what's-so-fucking-stressful-about-standing-around-saying-bottle-service-only-
and-looking-like-someone-shoved-a-lemon-up-your-ass face, is not that okay. But she does her job of standing outside looking like a bent piece of straw, and telling large groups of guys that they have no chance of getting in "Unless they buy a bottle" (Which, honestly? You guys aren't a Bottle Service Kinda Place, Slim's.) Once we actually bought a bottle to "Get in" (desperation was running something fierce...I think it was during Spring Break and it was impossible to get in ANYWHERE besides like...Playwright or the Delano) and they couldn't even handle that...they basically melted down trying to get the bottle to the table, which, Spencer promptly broke... But once I broke a bottle there too (someone else's) and promptly had to get out before I was on the line for Fo'Hunnit Dolla.

I have to stop Digressing. Bottom line? Honey sucks, but on a scale of One to 10, with 10 being the suckiest Bouncer ever, Honey sits at a comfortable 7.2. And she's an ugly witch. Sometimes, when she's being nice, I can actually see her die a little bit inside.

Anyway, we went to see my Cocktail Waitress, and so I could get her number and figure out where she was going to work after she graduated and quit Slim's. We exchanged digits.

I bought five beers, because, by that point in time, it was like 2:30 and I was wasted. As was everyone else. And to me, it seemed like a really good idea. Note to self: Stop treating everyone to rounds of drinks and buying their dinner, it's getting expensive...

So, ridiculously drunk, it became, time to go. But not before I had visited all my friends, like my buddy, the Haitian Bathroom Attendant, who knows me (Jesus, everyone at fucking Slim's knows me...) and not before I closed out my tab for all the drinks I bought that went undrunk, because we were all too drunk at that point.

Yes. Everyone at Slim's fucking knows me, and what a rokstar tipper I am. Everyone except for "The Braided Bitch." Whose name shall live in Infamy.

Actually, I don't know her name. But I fucking hate her. She's an evil little cunt. And I don't throw that word around casually.

So I stumble up to the bar, and after three minutes of Braided Cunt ignoring the 100 people trying to get drinks, by focusing intently on drying a cocktail shaker, I finally make eye contact wtih The Braided Bitch, hereinafter known as ("B.C.", which is short for Braided Cunt).

I tell her I want to close my tab out, and she asks for my last name, which I give her. She looks in one glass with credit cards (and my driver's License in it) and here's the exchange:

B.C.: Your card's not here.

Me: Yeah, it is. I have a tab running, which I need to close.

B.C.: Yeah, well, the card's not up here. There's nothing I can do.

Me(starting to bust a blood vessel in my eye): Yeah, well, you have my debit card and my driver's license and I need them back.

B.C.: That's (whoever's) tab. She has to close it.

Me: Okay, well, can you get her to close it?

B.C.: No. There's nothing I can do.

Me: Well, how about you do your job and get her and close out my tab, so I can get my fucking credit card and my license.

B.C.: You'll have to talk to (whoever.)

Me: Thanks a lot for all your help, you fucking bitch. (I think I said that. I sure hope I did. Julie, did I say that? Is that how the exchange went down? I think it is... from what I remember, and that was sort of a clear spot of the evening.)

Eventually, I make eye contact with the Blonde Curly Haired Bartender, who, I really like. She's professional, and fast. I wonder why I never learned her name. I 'splain my situaton to her, and, in two seconds, she has my card run and my license. I give her five dollars, (FOR CLOSING OUT MY TAB) with the instructions that it's for HER, for helping me get out of there.
I guess they share tips at Slim's. Which brought me great chagrin. Blonde put it in the Tip pitcher. I told her, "No, that was for you, for helping me. I don't want that other bartender to get any of it." My pleas fell on deaf ears. I hope the B.C. uses the dollar and thirty three cents of that five bucks to buy herself a razor, with which to slit her skanky braided wrists, and die horribly in the street. Whore.

I draw a line through the tip part, and sign my name. And, because I'm drunk, and retarded, and at this point belligerent, I write, "Fuck the Braided Bitch" on the receipt. At the time it seemed like a really great idea. In retrospect, not the nicest thing I could have done. Also, probably not a great idea to be writing profanity on receipts with my name on it. But I don't think it's a crime.

Nevertheless, Classy. Very. Classy. One of my prouder moments, I must say. But whatever. If that stupid bag of shit had just gotten me my credit card I could have gotten the hell out of there and not inconvenienced the other 6 people we had to cram into the car waiting for Julie and me to close my tab. Her refusal was not just annoying because she could give two shits that I needed my IDENTIFICATION and WAY OF GETTING MONEY back, but it was the typical Miami work ethic of, "That's not my job."

(Confidential to Braided Cunt of Miami Beach, Florida: You work in a bar. Your job is to open bottles and pour liquor. Your job is to smile. Your job is to put up with drunken bullshit. Your job is to accept payment for drinks, and give change. Your job is also to run credit cards, and return those cards to their owners. At Automatic Slim's of South Miami Beach, Florida, your job is to perform these functions in a skimpy outfit. Your job is also periodically to get up on the bar and dance, jiggling your unimpressive and square Irish frame to songs such as, "You Can Keep Your Hat On," or, usually, "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Pouring sugary mildly-alcoholic "shots" into upturned mouths is also in your job description. Periodically, your job is to get freaky on the stripper pole in the back of the bar. Usually with another female bartender. To put it succintly, anything having to do with the procurement, preparation and service of alcoholic and nonalcoholic beverages, and anything having to do with managing and completing the monetary exchanges which constitute consideration for the contractual relationship formed by a drink order, and that also reimbursing Automatic Slim's for the same... is your job. You dumb sack of shit.)

So, having scrawled said profanity on said receipt, I grab Julie and I'm like "We gotta go. Now."

As we pushed our way out of the crowded bar, Julie pushed a large..."Woman" wearing a white tube dress and white high heels.

(Confidential to the Bitch in the Tubedress: I know it's Miami and anything goes, but...like...white shoes before Memorial Day? Faux. Pas. Not that you care, as you thunder around with your three hundred pounds of flava' snugly encased in, what, at this point, I can only remember as rhinestone-embellished lycra.)

(POST IS IN PROGRESS, TUNE IN FOR THE END!)