Whilst in Montreal, relentless shill for the legalization of rape Roosh V got beer poured on him by a woman he thought himself in the midst of seducing.

The Party Foul Heard Round The World™ has inspired Roosh’s broskis-in-arms to rail against this unfettered defiance of women — A Voice For Men founder Paul Elam has decreed that a man might be justified in killing a woman for spilling her drink on him.

We have thus been served another round of “equal rights, equal lefts”, this time with a tasteful lemon wedge garnish. It is facism and marxist decadence to say that men who believe women should accept rape and coercive relationships as a necessary burden to save the family unit shouldn’t be in a fucking bar, where people trying to have a good team or let off steam or pointedly predated upon in an intoxicated state by bearded babyshits.

The future perfect of Paul Elam is an angry, bitter white guy in every bar, waiting for a woman to bump into him or tip her glass too far to one edge so he can enact his righteous retribution for female-kind’s disrepect to the righteous Roosh V, who doesn’t think rape should be a crime but reported the beer-spilling to Montreal Police.

And the script of polite discourse commands that we of visibility and voice say “don’t buy into their game, don’t escalate” — the onus to manage and navigate the excesses of male violence is again put on women. Well, take the biggest sharpie you have and right “FUCK. THAT. SHIT.” on the script and send it back to the writer’s room.

While we wax and wane the nuances of aggression to patiently explain why throwing a cold drink at a dude’s face is not the same at men physically sexually assaulting women or encouraging other men to do the same, women are meanwhile targeted for harassment and violence by men.

If a dude who thinks legalizing rape on private property would keep women in line comes into the bar you’re drinking in, if he puts his hands on you without checking for consent or makes unwanted lewd comments at you, pouring your drink on him can be an effective means of self-defense and attracting the attention of other people in the bar to the aggressor. Roosh V literally trains dudes on how to corner and encircle women; do not give me any of this “just walk away from it” bullshit.

The poured drink will inevitably fall into the purview of fashion, much like the date-rape-drug-detecting nail polish and feminine-colored rape whistle, the drink you pour on your potential rapist will have implications of your taste.

So what to chase the creep out of your life (if you don’t drink: I assure you, that pun was fucking cheeky)?

I, your humble ex-bartender, don me now the hat of a past life for your enlightenment.

credit to The Oak Wheel

Moscow Mule

4 0z Ginger Beer, 1.5 oz Vodka, 0.5 oz lime juice

(Garnished with lime)

Before it was the vanilla of liquor, vodka was the hot piece on the side of America in the 50's. It was reintroduced to the US by way of France after WW2; the “white whiskey” had previously floundered as a by-itself beverage but experienced renewed life as a cocktail base.

The copper mug is purely aesthetic, a holdover of its creator’s aggressive marketing campaign. It’s a good drink if you like a sort of stinging sweetness with a tangy aftertaste. More of a dessert or summers on the lawn jam.

It says “I’m sophisticated with my detachment from expectations on how to behave like a responsible adult.”

Best “served” with a faux-concerned “oh no, did I get cultural marxism in your eyes? We need to get you to an eye rinse.”

When he says “aaahhhh, you bitch! I’ll fucking get you — and ‘cultural marxism’ is associated with the Frankfurt School, which is in Germany”, that’s your cue to let rip with your breast-cancer-awareness-branded rape whistle.

Colorado Bulldog

1 can of Coke, 1.5 oz vodka, 1.5 oz Kahlua, 1 oz cream or half & half

(Usually served with crushed iced as opposed to cubes)

The name alone makes for a hearty and effective fedora-repellent: neither the drink or its individual components have any ties to Colorado. While he purses and squints, wrestling with the most effective way to “well actually” himself into a seat of conversational power, find the most irritating song on the jukebox and put all your change into it. If your bar has a DJ, just go up and tell him “oddly I find myself more compelled to read paper books lately because even e-books feel invasive now”. They’ll know what to do.

There is a palpable prejudice against Kahlua drinks within the bar scene, and perhaps this isn’t wholly unjustified; never order a cream cocktail anywhere you wouldn’t eat the food. A Bulldog is something The Dude’s excitable younger brother would drink in between jabs at his screenplay about society, just to lord over his relative youth with his reckless tolerance for refined sugar.

It’s got a robust, well-rounded flavor, like a chocolate milkshake. The sweetness of the coke cascades over the dry nuttiness of the liquors and the smothering mouthfeel of the cream.

With the thin straws (lest you get a ‘stache) and heavy components, a bulldog is a good “this is the one drink I can have tonight” beverage. It says “I’m conscientious of how to smuggle every gram of protein into my diet”.

Best served with a pre-toss blowing of bubbles into the drink. Work up a nice lather. Saturate beard or mutton chops or Tapout shirt thoroughly. Yell “I hope your beard develops fleas and the caffeine in this drink enables them to cultivate a culture that demands unquestioning productivity and then one of them starts doing workshops where they fear-monger about the evils of caffeine and everyone hates them because that is the best macro-metaphor for your place in the world right now.”

credit to IGN

Midori Sour

1 oz Midori melon liquer, 2 oz sweet & sour

(1 oz whiskey and/or a dash of Sprite is optional. Garnish with orange slice or maraschino cherry.)

This is my favorite drink. It’s like giving a SweetTart the best oral sex of its life. Like any cocktail with remotely redeeming value to your taste buds, it’s maligned as a “girly drink” despite having the aggressive, bordering on hateful tartness of a Warheads candy.

We started seeing each other when I was in college. There was a local strip club that had a student discount, and one or two of these plus gas money was my fee for being the designated driver of my art school friends. Swirling the neon green drink gave me something to focus on when I felt dysphoric or confronted by other people in the bar with their glares and comments. I later found that in many bars, the DD can get free drinks as long as they’re non-alcoholic. By the time I realized going to a place I felt uncomfortable being in as a favor to the friends who inevitably abandoned me once we got there to flirt with strippers just because I got free Shirley Temples was stupid, I had diabetes.

Say the word “piquant”. The motions of your mouth; that’s what this tastes like. It’s a perfect “out clubbing” drink, with it’s sugariness and propensity to send drinkers into tiny convulsions. In the vein of reducing waste, since I doubt I’ve ever been to a bar that composts, I’d like to see something like melon rings or orange wedges replace the orange slice as a traditional garnish. First, the MRAs, then the IBA! YOLO, IDK, LOL.

The drink says “I’m nostalgic for the nuclear wasteland I was promised and denied in my youth.”

If your drink came with a cherry garnish, it’s best served with the phrase “will you leave me the fuck alone, pretty please, cherry on top?” If you get an orange slice, it’s good form to ask “Orange you glad this place doesn’t serve scorpion bowls? I bet listening to you fill the post-sex silence with boasts of how nice a guy you are because you cried at Aerith’s death in FFVII would be just as enriching as having a live scorpion placed on my face and then made into a Vine.”

Adios Motherfucker

0.5 rum, 0.5 gin, 0.z tequila, o.z vodka, 2 oz Blue Curacao, 2 oz sweet & sour, 2 oz Sprite

(Garnish with lemon wedge and cherry)

The AMF hadn’t bothered to change it’s legal name when I was in bartending school. My textbook identified it as a Miami Ice.

“If a guy comes into your bar and he’s got a goatee and tons of chains and a polyester suit and he asks for a ‘Miami Ice’, then give him a ‘Miami Ice’. Otherwise it’s just an Adios Motherfucker, or a Blue Motorcycle.”

I love the idea of the names of foods and drinks varying on the presented identity of the consumer. It’s very inclusive! For you it’s a “buttermilk-battered rhode island red, served atop a bed of rocket and nightshade” — for me it’s the #3 chicken sandwich combo. I think we ought not to merely embrace the pleasures of cheap food as a struggling class, but to emphatically eat them wrong. Eat your chicken nuggets or donuts with a knife and fork. Use a straw with your wine. Ask for American cheese on top of your crab cakes. Disparage your food and liberate it from its inflated class trappings!

The AMF is part of the Long Island Tea family, a nightmare dynasty of nemeses plaguing the competitive bartender. It’s very punchy, with the brightness of lemon-lime overlaid with sweet Valencia orange, bitter gin, and the earthiness of tequila. It’s like a “you’re the best around, no one’s ever gonna bring you down” congratulatory bouquet you buy yourself.

Since a lot of bars don’t often interface with the bartending school graduates who’ve memorized hundreds of cocktails demographic, you should always know the recipe of the drink you’re ordering unless you have to introduce it as a concept to your bartender. They may say “no, too complicated” to a daiquiri, but deem a rum with simple syrup and lime juice doable.

(Yes, the wink is implied.)

With that in mind: this drink says “When it comes to overengineering even the simplest aspects of my day-to-day life, it’s really just love of the game, ya know?”

This drink would be best bought in pairs. You buy one for yourself and one for him, but instruct the bartender to give it to him separately.

“This is for you.”

“What’s this?”

“Adios, motherfucker.”

And then you throw yours in his face.

Bellini

2:1 of Processo to peach juice/nectar

(Garnished with peaches and a contempt for the gentrification you have at times unwillingly contributed to.)

I don’t miss my old coworking space as much as I’ve professed to. Tech-trolls in the Bay Area wage a silent war of shadow intelligence against the syndicate of brunch spots that have subdued our very eating habits. Bottomless mimosas are for many, the make-or-break on trying a new brunch place over the weekend. Those places are reticent, however, to advertise endless alcohol to the sort of entitled brats that figured out a way to sell public parking spaces and restaurant reservations. Every morning, FaceSpace Invaders congregate in elevators to trade insider info on where you can get white girl wasted in broad daylight without reprimand.

Mimosas are overdone and overrated. It’s a discontent MILF that desperately wants to be a cougar before its time. Bellinis are the hot aunt who sometimes experiment and takes you to get your green card. I have a tradition, every Pride weekend, of staying indoors and drinking Bellinis. I moved to the Bay because I wanted to make a difference, in my personal life and to the world. I’ve now come to realize a million other people had that same thought and didn’t care too terribly much if that “difference” did anyone any good. So in times of reifying gentrification, I take up as small a space as possible and drink the B-team of brunch drinks. Sometimes that’s all you can do — besides, you know, move back to where you came from or use your resources to offer support and solidarity to local business that are beset by exploitative landlords or hey maybe just go to the laundromat and bring a book instead of necessitating a god damn app to drop your shitty underwear off with a stranger.

Bellinis are chill; subtle suggests that the aromatic lushness of peach and the dry bite of Prosecco might go unnoticed. It’s a smoother, more relaxed cocktail.

It says “you fucking Mimosa evangelists take the fun out of day drinking”.

Maybe Roosh V and Paul Elam, being men who use the internet to make life worse for the rest of us, are fans of brunch. Maybe they long for the odd night off.

Say suppose you should find one sidling up to you, seeing the lone unoccupied site in your sidewalk-facing table.

He tells you you’re the most beautiful woman in this outdoor seating, even if the monte-cristo sandwich you’re working through won’t do your thighs any favors and others watching you might think you’re on your period or pregnant.

You rustle the ice in your Bellini and you tell him that it’s okay for men to say they’ve been hurt by patriarchy. Men can suffer from sexism without it being the fault of women.

But: his apartment, his student debt. He’s willing to appreciate your point, but his lifestyle, his platform can only be maintained through the extremity of caricature. It’s not feminists who pay the bills — why should he pay them any mind? He’s gotta go where the demand is, even if it’s for the heads of women who speak out.

We can worry about that tomorrow, he says. Today let’s just celebrate each other. Let’s you and him be a grassroots movement of 2, with an agenda of share each other in the moment. He’d be happy to take you out on the town under flag of truce — if you order the salad.

You pucker up and get the last few drops of that locally grown peach juice — California produces 60% of the US’ peaches. Isn’t it wiser to live to flame war another day? Wouldn’t it be something to pretend, to lie to yourself, that maybe at heart we all want the same thing but act out in different ways to that aim?

You sigh. There can be no truce, because there is no war. War has rules.

You motion to your server, who dunks the whole pitcher of Bellini on his head.

You saunter over to him and pick a lone peach off of his shirt. You idly squish it with your fingers.

“It’s funny how fuckturtles like you get famous from being so descriptive about what you want to inflict on women, but the moment one of us jokes about killing a man out of fear of the violence they’ve proven to be capable of, even our own will insist we’ve stepped too far.”

Not seeing anywhere it can reasonably compost, you toss the peach to someone’s bored-looking dog.

“If the fear of having a beer poured on you or having your shirt ruined keeps you from inviting men to use rape as a tool to subjugate women” —

You lean in.

“I’d say that sounds peachy keen to me.”

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