Bar scene Q&A with Condy J. Menthol 

Dear Condy

DEAR CONDY: Recently my boyfriend informed me that, because of the economy, it was too expensive for both of us to order mixed drinks downtown. He said that he has acquired a taste for Grey Goose martinis over many years and should therefore keep ordering them, but I am a newbie drinker and so draft beer ought to be good enough for me. Is he right? Signed, Newbie.

DEAR NEWBIE: Oh, honey, you got you a fine fellah there. He's looking after you. Let me ask, does he pick out your clothes for you each morning and leave a list of chores for you to complete before he gets home after a long day of hanging out at the underground video poker parlor? If so, then mark your territory. Latch on like a Rottweiler in heat to that one. Like a vintage bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, those qualities you describe in him will just keep enhancing through the years.

DEAR CONDY: I enjoy nothing better than a Saturday night at the local pub shooting pool with the guys. Unfortunately, whenever I take a shot, there are a few clowns who would rather watch my butt than watch the game. I'm quite sure they don't do this when their buddies bend over to line up an eight ball in the corner pocket. So how do I make the gawkers cease, desist, and let a lady shoot pool in peace? Signed, This Is A Pool Game, Not A Porn Flick.

DEAR NOT PORN: Sweetie, we used to have this kind of trouble all the time down at my old haunt, the Tinkling Creek Bar 'n' Grill. What we figured was that those boys were sending us a subtle message by ogling our behinds and rubbing their crotches like they were three-year-olds that have to go to the potty. And that message was that their prostates were all swolled up and they were fresh out of Flomax. So me and a couple of the girls got together, grabbed a few pool cues, and solved that problem real quick. In fact, I didn't see a single one of them head off to the little boy's room the rest of the night. They don't call me Nurse Condy for nothing.

DEAR CONDY: How do I get my boyfriend from tweeting when we're on a pub crawl? I'm tired of playing second fiddle to a Blackberry! Signed, No Twatter For You.

DEAR NO TWATTER: I'll have to get back to you on this once the uncontrollable giggling stops. I think I wet my grannies.

DEAR CONDY: I used to be able to sidestep the whole wine-snobbery thing by ordering beer, but now with all these microbrews and craft beers popping up, I'm right back in the same sad position of not knowing a "bready malt backing" from a "hint of

caramel and coffee." Is it time to ditch the bar scene altogether and stay at home? Signed, The Dog Ate My Flavor Notes.

DEAR THE DOG ATE: You say "stay at home" like there's something wrong with a night back at the double-wide, sprawled out on the sofa in your britches and wife beater, with the flat-screen playing your favorite story, a sixxer by your side, a jar of pickled eggs at the ready, and some bologna fryin' up in the pan. Stand up, junior. You gotta fight for your right to drink yourself silly on "served cold so you can distinguish it from horse squirt" beer and stumble out the front door and fire a couple shots into the air in the middle of the night.

As a 60-year veteran of the bar scene, Ms. Condyloma J. Menthol welcomes any and all questions about the customs and etiquette of all places where brown bottles clink, pool cues are chalked, and the exchange of bodily fluids is negotiated. Condy's column may not be the most widely syndicated in the world, but that's only because them damn liberals controlling the print media don't know good writin' when they see it. Get you an earful of her advice by sending your questions in today.




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