Blog, Deep Archives

Welcome to the Skank Bar

There were several important lessons to be learned this weekend. The first is never go to a bar in Kansas when you can go to a bar in Missouri. The Second is Cougars are most definitely not Courtney Cox. Finally, the third lesson is being the designated driver is simultaneously the most fun and annoying aspect of partying with friends at bars.

The Red Balloon

As a general rule of thumb, my friends and I normally do not spend a lot of time at bars. For starters, if you go to a place where you can sleep on the floor, no one has to worry about driving home, and you can usually buy a large bottle of your adult beverage for the same price as one or two drinks at a bar. When we do go to bars, we almost exclusively wind up at one in Westport or the Crossroads district of Kansas City.  Both of those sections of town are on the Missouri side, but more on that in a bit.

This past weekend, though, we were attending the going away party for a friend, and that party was being held at The Red Balloon’s Karaoke Night. So we all piled into my car (I often end up being the designated driver) and headed to Kansas City, Kansas. We were warned in advance that it was a bit of a skank bar, and that we should probably avoid using the rest rooms or touching anything if we didn’t want to catch Bond #7.

When we first got there the bar itself wasn’t super full, but it was already apparent that it was too small for any sort of crowd to gather there and let me still be comfortably separated from everyone else. Long way I may have come, I’m still not ready to deal with insane crowds of random strangers. We should have also heeded the major warning signs of any bar being trouble, which include repaired furniture and a “Cash Only” payment policy.

If a bar doesn’t let you open a tab, you shouldn’t be there.

The next warning sign, and the problem with every bar I’ve been to on the Kansas side was the prices. I have a full on rule that you should never pay more than $5 for a pitcher of cheap beer (and I’m talking PBR) and the cheapest beer at the Red Balloon was $9.50 a pitcher. I think that’s a pretty crazy pricing scheme when their “Top Shelf” drinks are only $6. Another note, top shelf drinks for less than $10 means the bottom shelf is a scary, scary place where “Premium Rum” sits waiting in it’s plastic jug.

For some reason, though, we decided to spend a few hours here.

Enter the Cougars, Exit any form of sex drive I’ll ever Have Again

Let me start off by saying that I am aware of the existence of some amazingly attractive older women. I am not aiming my new anti-cougar policy after you. As a large person, I am also aware that body-appropriate clothing makes a huge impact on whether you look or feel attractive. This is why I am advocating a new rule:

If you are over 40, your skirt should be longer than your underwear.

Trust me when I say, it isn’t going to get you a hot young stud in his mid twenties. What it is going to get you is laughed at by a table of people that spend a great deal of their time honing their ability to insult everyone around them. It will be brutal, and we will not be apologetic.

It does not make it better for you to stand on a stage (thus putting your exposed crotch at eye height) and belt out only the chorus to “We are Family.” Trust me, you are not redeeming yourselves in the eyes of my friends by accidently flashing taco while dancing horribly. We will laugh, we might take pictures, but be assured they are destined for a “People who don’t realize they’re too old for that” tumblr.

The Drive Home, or “How My Friends Made Me Snap.”

As the rivalry between the two cougar packs that were already their began to have a violent steam to them, a party bus pulled up to the Red Balloon with another 40-80 middle aged drunks offloading into the parking lot. We decided it was time for us to get the hell out of Kansas and back to the sane part of the world, Missouri.

Quite a bit of driving was in order before we decided on what we actually wanted to do, and after several unsuccessful attempts to procure a vast quantity of alcohol for our own private consumption, we finally decided to just get some late night vittles at Chubby’s, a fairly well known dinner in Westport. Of course along the way through the city at 1:00 in the morning, my friends, all of whom were somewhat intoxicated, decided to play some loud techno music and dance violently inside the car.

I was worried at one point it would flip over.

By this time, I was getting fairly grumpy from the sheer volume of people I had to spend the evening pretending to ignore, and I finally just snapped at all of them at one point. I regret doing that. In retrospect though, I think this particular explosion actually came from the fact that I had not really had anything to eat since much earlier in the day and I hadn’t actually drank anything at the Red Balloon.

Note to all bars everywhere: You should give Designated Drivers free soft drinks. This will increase your sales on alcohol by quite a bit, since the dd won’t be in as much a hurry to leave, and soda costs you next to nothing when it’s on tap.

The moment we pulled into the parking lot at Chubby’s though, I smelled the bacon, heard my stomach growl and immediately felt a million times better.

All in all, it was a pretty nice end to a pretty nice night. My only regret is having a couple of ladies with us made it feel like it would be a bad idea for Chris and I to get involved in the drunken bar fight that was moments away from erupting when we took our leave of the Red Balloon. I really would like to strike, “Get into a bar fight,” off of the list of awesome things to do in your life.

One last note, in case my evening of terror and skanks didn’t put you off of the Red Balloon, I should share that, according to the aforementioned ladies, the bathrooms there are horrible and if you use them, you probably shouldn’t be surprised if you get herpes. Although if you do go there, be sure to repeat Chris’s wonderful joke, “This place is nice, someone should build 98 more of them.”

Published by M.A. Brotherton

M.A. Brotherton is a writer, blogger, artist, and fat-kid from the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri. He’s tasted a little bit of everything the Midwest has to offer, ranging from meth-tweaking rednecks in massive underground cave complexes to those legendary amber waves of grain. When he’s not writing, he spends most of his time screwing around on the internet.

11 thoughts on “Welcome to the Skank Bar”

  1. Sara Olson-Liebert says:

    Amend your cougar rule. Around here, the skanks don’t even bother covering the hairy taco to go out. So it ought to be “Your skirt MUST BE longer than your crotch.”  Also, The Red Balloon? Looks like every bar here. Every single one. Kansas and Verm., SD must be mating.

    1. M.A. Brotherton says:

      Really, to be fair, in my opinion no one should be showing off their lady garden in a random bar, unless they’re a professional. That’s what twitter is for, right?

      I think skank bars are skank bars, no matter where you are in the world.

      1. Sara Olson-Liebert says:

        I don’t necessarily understand showing off the scary taco in situations where public drunkeness could very well lead to it getting vomited on. Also, really shouldn’t that be a warning about the state of things? “Your crotch can get vomited on. Take precautions.” Because that seems like some sort of rule that ought to be in a life manual somewhere.

        1. M.A. Brotherton says:

          I’m adding it to the list. It is the new Rule # 15. “Your crotch can get vomited on. Take Precautions.”

  2. Canaan Roling says:

    It was a very interesting night indeed. Next time we want to go to a “bar” I call the Levee or Riot Room. We could also go to the Flying Saucer where my other writer friend works…but it’s in the KCP&L District and the only reason to go is to see her.
     

    1. M.A. Brotherton says:

      I think it’ll be a while before I have the gumption to go to a bar again.

  3. Joshua L. Brotherton says:

    I assure you that you are a far better designated driver than I am.  When I am your designated driver it means I will come back for you tomorrow.  If you get drunk enough to vomit, or worse to lose consciousness, I will leave your backside where you land.  Sometimes, if I am feeling that you are a really stupid drunk, I will strip you of your belongings and leave you laying in a stairwell.

    And that’s what I do for my friends.  If I’m not particularly fond of you it could get much worse.  I have very little patience for inebriation.

    1. M.A. Brotherton says:

      Yeah, if I was more like that, then I probably wouldn’t be expected to drive ever. Unfortunately, I’m not a complete jerk to my friends.

  4. Stereo.* says:

    And this is why I refuse to be any type of designated driver – I will put you in a taxi, tape your home address to your head and pay the driver up front but that’s as far as I’ll go.

    Sounds like an epic night of fuckery. I wish you’d snapped a few shots of the Cougars; I’m sure there’s a website out there somewhere we could have used those pictures for.

    1. M.A. Brotherton says:

      Really, all in all being a DD isn’t bad, but Bars should embrace them as the heroes they are instead of treating them like shit because they aren’t ordering drinks at 1900%  markup.

  5. deb_jerry_brotherton says:

    Man,
    Sounds like almost every bar in Montana. At least no one said to you, “See those bullet holes there beside that water pipe…” I’m glad the evening ended up OK. But that’s what friends are for.

Comments are closed.