Doing The Kurt Cobain

There’s 74 teenagers in the house, and guess what I’m serving. Yep, water. I don’t mind serving water, per se. But when that’s all you’re doing, you start to question, why did I get a College Education again?  It goes something like this: Could I get a water, please?  Sure.  I just need a water. OK.  Is water free?


At these moments, I blow my brains out.

I do it for the door person’s benefit, usually. And I try to be sneaky about it. Sorta. And I’ll do an all-out production. We’re talking, Steppenwolf, old-school John Malkovich.

Sometimes, I’ll go as far as taking my shoe off, then my sock, I’ll sit on the stool, prepare the invisible shotgun, put it in my mouth, get my toe on the trigger, and BOOM. Brains all over the place. And of course, you’ve got to throw yourself off the stool, for maximum effect.

The only problem is, I realized when singing in my band at the Mews, you can see EVERYTHING the bartender is doing, when he or she is at the register, because there’s a naked light bulb blaring down on that area.


So this guy, a rapper, comes up to the bar, we’re having a conversation, and he says, funny story, Clint, a friend of mine was all pissed off the other day, he was performing here, and he texted me after the show, who’s the asshole bartender behind the bar?  When I was on stage, I saw him FAKE-BLOW HIS BRAINS OUT.

Aww, that’s just Clint.

Needless to stay, I’ve stopped the mercy killings, at the Vaudeville Mews.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.


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