Bouillonnui, Rowdy and 5 Wisconsians saddled up to the bar at Union Pub on a recent Saturday night for some festive imbibing. The night was going well: our bartender was friendly, PBR pitchers were 8 bucks, and Bouillonnui had even pulled out his Scott Stapp impersonation. (Arms out in front, head bowed, every muscle in your face tensed up, and belt out your favorite Creed lyric, "I see your soul, it's kind of gray." Minus 90 points if you do it unironically.)
The real fun started, however, when a male employee began flirting with and groping some of his co-workers. His name was Brad the Douchebag. It was amazing to watch; he was like a starving hyena, latching onto anyone, male or female, who moved into his vicinity. Strangely, his co-workers went along with it. Maybe Bouillonnui and Rowdy are getting old, but watching Brad the Douchebag go to work made us feel a little queasy… Or, that could've been the PBR.
A few minutes later, another girl came into the bar. Brad the Douchebag walked up to her and started to flirt with her as well. We watched in amazement as Brad persisted, even when she obviously appeared to want nothing to do with him. We were absolutely positive there was no way this woman would give into him, and for a long time she continued to deny his advances. At last, however, she relented and gave him a little peck, and he walked away. One of our Wisconsians in tow, Battlecat, wasn't havin' it. She decided to have a chat with this girl about the incident.
BC: Hi.
G: Hello.
BC: I just want you to know that that guy has been flirting with and groping all the other wait staff all night. He's creepy, really creepy, and it's kind of disgusting. I'll pay for all of your drinks the rest of the night if you go tell him off right now.
G: That guy? (points)
BC: Yeah.
G: Ummm.
BC: He's gross.
G: Um, that's my boyfriend.
BC: (unfazed) REALLY? Cause he's really, really creepy. (Tisks and walks away)
On the upside, we did get to watch the couple fight for the next half hour. With any luck, they broke up that night. And perhaps that’s the best kind of night you can expect if you go to Union Pub. At least it was entertaining. But whether or not Brad the Douchebag and Girl broke up or stayed together, we can all take solace in these words, spoken by a man greater than I...
"Well I don't know if I'm ready to be the man I have to be
I'll take a breath, I'll take her by my side
We stand in awe, we've created life." (power chord)
- Bouillonnui
Showing posts with label Union Pub. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Union Pub. Show all posts
Monday, April 16, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Union Pub
Some bars you have to walk into with low expectations. More specifically, you have to walk into Union Pub with low expectations.
Upon entering, you'll notice that the owners have managed to somehow create an ambience that has all the coziness of some soulless bar you might find in a newly remodeled, Midwestern airport. Interesting choice.
God willing, you'll never have to set foot in this place, but if you get dragged there by some peripheral friend of some peripheral friend, the one consolation we can offer you is that they have cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap. There’s also ample outdoor seating which would spare you the indignity of actually being inside the place. At least, till you have to take a wazzer.
Some quick calculations: When your body has absorbed the 0.007% of Pabst which has nutritional value and needs to empty out the excess, you'll probably find that the bathroom is about 620 degrees Kelvin and you'll walk out drenched in a sweat that's about 43% alcohol and covers 98% of your person.
Another drawback is the jukebox. We were forced to listen to the late 90's rock station that they had chosen to put on, and while it was fun for awhile to try to name the bands—Filter, Tonic, Seven Mary Three, Lifehouse—when that one Three Doors Down song came on , Rowdy let out a snarl and made for the jukebox... Within 30 seconds, he could be seen jabbing at the jukebox with his phalanges and cursing like a Chilean sailor (trust us, those are some swearing-assed marineros). The jukebox, you see, was malfunctioning and it took him the better part of 20 minutes to get anything out of it. By that time, the scowl on his face as he wandered back to the bar for more Pabst sent women and children fleeing for the exits.
After a another beer and some idle chit-chat, Rowdy calmed down and our group turned its attention to the ongoing harassment of the female employees occurring at the hands of a male co-worker. (for more on this story read Hurray for a Child). After instigating a brief altercation, we slid out the side door and walked east, still slightly awed by the out and out butt-suckiness of the place.
- Rowdy Chowder
Upon entering, you'll notice that the owners have managed to somehow create an ambience that has all the coziness of some soulless bar you might find in a newly remodeled, Midwestern airport. Interesting choice.
God willing, you'll never have to set foot in this place, but if you get dragged there by some peripheral friend of some peripheral friend, the one consolation we can offer you is that they have cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap. There’s also ample outdoor seating which would spare you the indignity of actually being inside the place. At least, till you have to take a wazzer.
Some quick calculations: When your body has absorbed the 0.007% of Pabst which has nutritional value and needs to empty out the excess, you'll probably find that the bathroom is about 620 degrees Kelvin and you'll walk out drenched in a sweat that's about 43% alcohol and covers 98% of your person.
Another drawback is the jukebox. We were forced to listen to the late 90's rock station that they had chosen to put on, and while it was fun for awhile to try to name the bands—Filter, Tonic, Seven Mary Three, Lifehouse—when that one Three Doors Down song came on , Rowdy let out a snarl and made for the jukebox... Within 30 seconds, he could be seen jabbing at the jukebox with his phalanges and cursing like a Chilean sailor (trust us, those are some swearing-assed marineros). The jukebox, you see, was malfunctioning and it took him the better part of 20 minutes to get anything out of it. By that time, the scowl on his face as he wandered back to the bar for more Pabst sent women and children fleeing for the exits.
After a another beer and some idle chit-chat, Rowdy calmed down and our group turned its attention to the ongoing harassment of the female employees occurring at the hands of a male co-worker. (for more on this story read Hurray for a Child). After instigating a brief altercation, we slid out the side door and walked east, still slightly awed by the out and out butt-suckiness of the place.
- Rowdy Chowder
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