This Week for Happy Hour: Three Kings and Two Contests

Happy Friday and Happy Halloween!  Come get the Halloween weekend started promptly at Happy Hour today!  Half-price food and drinks from 5-9pm, as usual, then the party goes all night upstairs.

But that's not all!  (...nor is it ever, really.)  Come in tonight for the first of two special costume contests.  The first one is for the bartenders, and they're going all out.  We thought it couldn't be done, but it is happening: three Elvis Presleys on one floor!  And all of them slinging drinks, throwing up high kicks, and saying, "Thank ya very much," when tipped.  Las Vegas, eat your heart out.

Somebody bring me a lei and I will look exactly like this.

Halloween starts today and goes all the way until Wednesday, when it officially culminates with the Rhino Bar Costume Contest, with a grand prize of $500!!  With pint-sized red bull vodkas on sale for $5, that's basically red bull vodkas for life.  Well, it is for most of you.  For the rest, you know who you are, and frankly, you likely won't be in the running anyways.  Either way, it's gonna be a party!

See you tonight!  Dress to impress! 
Cheers!

This Week for Happy Hour: Bullying, Criticism, and Sexual Intrigue

It’s October, people!  The craziest month of the year at Rhino Bar.  We’ve got so much to look forward to: unadulterated weekends, football, Halloween, and so much more!  But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.  Let’s not forget that every October begins with a fairly young annual event: Bullying Awareness Day. (Cue the sound of the disappointed trombone: wah-wah.)

Did you hear that story in the news about the overweight Wisconsin news anchor who was “bullied” by a viewer about her weight?  The viewer said he didn’t want an overweight person as a TV role model.  Her response, which went viral, basically said that she was offended by the viewer’s cruel bullying.  She then reached out to other viewers who had been bullied because of their race, sexual preference, or other disability.  Really?

First of all, there’s nothing inherently wrong with being a big fat fatty.   Let’s not forget there have been some supremely husky, and loved, icons in our recent cultural history.  Some of them even advertise it.  Some even put it in their name:

Then you’ve got the fat, happy Buddha.  Jesus had a six pack, but Buddha smiled.

For me, the bigger issue from the anchor woman story was that the term “bullying” has become twisted in our PC culture.  The viewer wasn’t just being mean, he was making a criticism.  Perhaps he was a jackass, fine.  But a bully, he was not.  He wasn’t saying, “Neener neener neener, fatty fatty fat fat.”  He was expressing a social opinion about a choice that she had made.  

You don't have to agree with the guy.  But the bottom line is that being overweight is a choice, to some extent or another.  Yeah, there are those people who never gain a pound, and those who fight their weight their whole lives.  But it’s not the same as the color of your skin, the size of your boobies or willy, or whatever other condition your genes drop on your head.  Some things you can change.  Some things you can’t.  And besides, some folks like big folks, chase the chubbies and all that.

All of this is of concern only because, as a society, we seem to have reached a place where criticism is nearly tantamount to bullying.  People don’t like to be criticized – it makes them uncomfortable, and can feel a lot like bullying.  But let’s remember that criticism – and responding to it – is an important part of understanding reality and growth.

I’m saying, shit, maybe they shouldn’t have the Presidential debates this month because they are just going to bully each other.  Maybe 2+2 should = 5 sometimes, you know, to prevent bullying.

Jeezy Louizey.  Two shots of Jameson plus two shots of Jack = four shots of whiskey (though you only pay for two at Half-Price Happy Hour!).  And Obama and Romney should duke it out.  I’d rather see them fist fight on stage than this:

Speaking of kissing, however, what is to be done about bully-flirting?  What is bully-flirting, you say?  Oh, you know.  Remember in elementary school when little boys pull the hair of little girls they like?  And then we grow up and it becomes that weird thing where girls respond to being semi-ignored or teased.  You probably know what I’m talking about, but just in case, guys, try this:

If you really want a girl to like you and she texts you, “how are you?” you respond:

“Great babe how arp you”

Exactly like that.  Misspell “are” and no punctuation at all.  Like you don’t give a fuck.  Didn’t even bother to check the text.  I’m not entirely certain, but I’m pretty sure that is dead genius.  The lesson is: it’s not bullying if it creates sexual intrigue.  Ladies, that one is on you.  Own it.  And guys, seriously try it and get back to me on the results.  My prediction: dead genius.

Speaking of dead, today is the one year anniversary of Apple King Steve Jobs’ death.

Marvelous.

We’ll celebrate all this, as usual, with half-price food and drinks at the white marble from 5-9pm.  We will test the line between teasing and flirting, and see if there is any difference after sobriety has been bullied into submission.

See you there!

Cheers!

This Week for Happy Hour: Pour It Down Your Squash, Monkey!

Happy Friday, you beautiful babies, you!  Come down to Rhino for Half-Price Happy Hour, 5-9pm today, then the party continues all night upstairs.  Today we’re celebrating the birthday of one Mr. Daniel James Cortese, who turns the beige age of 45 tomorrow.  Happy birthday, you animal!

Remember me?  Yeah, probably not.

Some of you will remember Dan Cortese from his years as an MTV video disc jockey and host of MTV Sports, from back when MTV used to play music.  Some of you will remember him, as Wikipedia informs me, of his recurring role in Melrose Place (and y’all pricks can choke on some oblong produce).  And some of you will remember him from his spectacular cameo as Elaine’s mimbo (male bimbo) boy toy, Tony.  Hey dude, ja'better step off:

And then,

Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love, Jerry.

Really, I want to thank Dan Cortese for reminding us about this inescapable fact of the human condition: morons are everywhere.  We all agree on that, right?  I mean, pro wrestling is the number one show on cable television.  Okay?  They're everywhere.  They come in all shapes and sizes, all colors and creeds, ugly and beautiful alike.  Problem is, when mediocrity has fortunate bone structure, or when it’s dapperly dressed, us humans get confused.  We can’t see the mediocrity for what it is.  And friends, that’s a problem.

Why do you think news anchors are all hot chicks now?  Why do you think sports commentators wear suits?  That silliness isn’t necessary.  But our stupid monkey brains get confused.  (I’m talking to the guys now; ladies for you, it’s the nesting – oh sweet Jesus, the handbags.)  Your monkey brain doesn’t know she (or he, if Anderson Cooper is your thing) is on TV, 500 miles away, and so it sends your gullible frontal lobe these base lower-hominid subliminal signals:  Pay attention to her.  If you act interested, she might select you as a mate.  Lord.

Or, there's that approach.

And Charles Barkley in those polyester three-pieces is just the best.  Oh, and John Madden, in a $2,000 suit, cramming his swollen paw into the ass end of a Thanksgiving bird in order to precisely illustrate to the increasingly alarmed TV audience the three layers of a turducken.  But we bring that shit on ourselves, people.  Because our gut tells us that the guy in the Alpha clothes must know what the hell he’s talking about.  And we watch like the mouth-breathing primates that we are.  Hey, that’s what we are, at least partly.  Nothing against Sir Charles or that giant heap of rotting chicken meat that is currently host to John Madden’s brain.  I’m just saying.

So that’s the problem.  Good looking and well dressed morons that trick us into paying them any attention.  (Seriously, happy birthday Cortese.)  Then, what’s the solution?  How to resolve this biogenetic predisposition towards the debasement of our species at the hands of pretty dummies?  Well, train for it, of course.  Blood, sweat and tears.  You gotta pump up your bullshit detector.  And how do you make a muscle stronger?  Challenge it.  It’s like how baseball players get in a few cuts with a weighted bat before they approach the plate – that way, their bat speed is quicker when it’s go-time. 

Well, in this case, our friend Mr. Booze is the weight, and your bullshit detector is the bat.  If you can get yourself rip-roaring drunk, and still see clearly, still execute perfect crane kicks on the wooden pylon when circa-1998 Pamela Anderson runs by to save the guy pretending to drown but really he’s just crouching on a sandbar a foot beneath the surface, then you’ll have the real world in the palm of your hand, grasshopper. 

Incidentally, I’d never suggest there’s anything wrong with being beautiful.  Just recognize it for what it is, and what it isn’t.  Try covering your eyes next time you suspect you might be talking to a bimbo/mimbo and see what happens.  Our monkey brains are good for something.

See you at the white marble!

Cheers!

This Week for Happy Hour: Go in Head-First!

Remember Pete Rose?  Me too.  Charlie Hustle.  Most hits in baseball.  A real stand-up guy unless he was rounding the bases.

He famously said, “Sliding headfirst is the safest way to get to the next base, I think, and the fastest. You don't lose your momentum, and there's one more important reason I slide headfirst, it gets my picture in the paper.”

On August 24th, 1989, twenty three years ago today, he was banned from baseball for gambling by Commissioner Giamatti, who, by the way, died one week later of a heart attack.  That’s right, he literally died of a broken heart after he placed Pete Rose on the ineligible list.  Pete was the manager of the Reds at the time, and even though there was no evidence to show that he bet against his own team, MLB rules explicitly prohibited gambling, particularly when in a position to influence the game.

My question is: what kind of rule is that?  Obviously you don’t want to have players throwing games to win money.  That’s what happened in the 1919 World Series when the Black Sox conspired with gamblers to lose.  That’s what seems to have become of American boxing, at least with respect to the judges.  And that’s no fun – money determining the outcome.  Integrity of the sport and all.

But what’s wrong with betting on yourself?  Why should that be prohibited?  Isn’t that basically what we are all doing all the time, in most of our major decisions every day?   When we consciously invest time and resources into developing ourselves through any number of mechanisms, from education to exercise to socializing, isn’t that choice to spend time and resources really just a bet – a bet that certain actions are better than their alternatives?  I think it really boils down to a question of semantics, and that’s the point.  We bet on/invest in ourselves all the time.

Intentionally causing failure from inside a network for financial gain is another animal altogether, however.  Often, that’s called being a traitor and is despised.  Sometimes, that’s called investment banking, and is rewarded with wealth and political office.  Break it down like that, and I’m on Pete’s side.

Put Charley Hustle in the Hall of Fame, and, if moral character is your thing, focus a little less on sports and a little more on the guys who actually run the world and where they place their bets, yeah?  Meanwhile, let’s not punish people for betting on themselves and sliding in face-first, as long as they’re not punching babies or something on the way to home base. 

This week’s Friday Happy Hour is the 1^st Annual Pete Rose Memorial (not dead, but post-MLB) Rhino Friday Happy Hour.  Half-price drinks and food, 5-9pm.  Order a cocktail, add a splash of Rose’s Lime Juice, and drink it with a grin: you might know something most don’t. 

See you there!

Cheers!

This Week for Happy Hour: The Wine and Spirits of the Olympics

Kick off the 2012 Olympics at Rhino Happy Hour, 5-9pm today!  Half-price food and drinks!

Okay, gotta get this off my chest first.  A few weeks ago the dynamic and preeminent Joey Chestnut won the Nathan’s hot dog eating contest for the 6^th consecutive time, tying Kobayashi for the most consecutive wins. 

Chestnut is the one on the left.

USA takes the gold for the men.  Japan took gold for the women’s division (the infamous “Black Widow” stikes again).  And that’s all fine and dandy.  But here’s the thing.  These people are talented, but, you ask me, they’re nothing but a bunch of Lance Armstrongs.  Not testicular cancer survivors.  I mean they’re cheaters.  That’s right, I said it.  Know why?  Because after each competition they go backstage and orally unload into a half dozen 55-gallon trash cans.  Yech.  I’m not saying they’re not great competitors.  What I’m saying, if that’s not unethical performance enhancement, I don’t know what is.

Imagine somebody claimed they could drink the most beer, and then after each beer they yacked it into the circular file cabinet.  C’mon.  Have you seen Beerfest?  Did those pros keep their business down and grind it out like adults or what?  Of course they did.  They’re not children.

Not children.

So, if you ask me, the real champion of competitive eating is the guy who can keep it down, this man: Manuel Uribe.

Above, Manuel doing his morning pull ups in Monterrey, Mexico.  He can do 100.

If Joey Chestnut wins the 100 meter dash, Manuel Uribe wins the marathon.  The endurance competition.  And he’s all natural, weighing in at over 1200 pounds.  No performance enhancing trash cans, mind you.

Anyway, the point I’m scarcely getting to is this: what makes the Olympics so great is the values and ideals of the Olympic movement.  Fair play and competition with integrity.  Great stories about athletes with real lives who don’t whine about how many millions they will make for moving an air-filled ball from Point A to Point B.  It’s too bad we’ll probably have to see the silly Queen of England (seriously, you Brits still actually have “royalty,” really?) and her stupid little dogs every day, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.  I’m excited.  Woo!

Heading into the opening ceremonies this afternoon, the Gold medal count looks like this:

USA: 1 (Chestnut, Men’s Sprint)

Japan: 1 (The Black Widow, Women’s Sprint)

Mexico: 1 (Uribe, Men’s Endurance)

Let’s have a great 2012 Olympic Games!  Rhino will be showing as many events as the networks will allow, so come in and have a pint and soak it in.  We’ll be open all afternoon on Saturday and Sunday too.

See you there!

Cheers!

This Week for Happy Hour: Apparently Lips are More than a Shot Glass Cushion

Sometimes we kiss.  Sometimes the mood strikes us and we touch the tips of our feeding tubes together, and if it’s a good one, we get tingles.  Europeans do that double-tap kiss hello thing.  So do Americans who recently traveled to Europe and think it’s just okay to still do.  Puppies open-mouth kiss everyone, even minors, and it’s perfectly legal.  Hey, sometimes we kiss.

But today, my friends, is not sometimes.  Today, July 6^th, is International Kissing Day!!  Let the kissing begin!

Come to Half-Price Happy Hour at Rhino, from 5-9pm today, and celebrate all kinds of kissing.  Wet kisses, dry kisses, French kisses, single-lip kisses, Eskimo kisses (are we supposed to call those Inuit kisses now?), and even blown kisses.  Just no butterfly kisses – with the eyelashes, that thing – because those little bitches are fraudulent and lame and they spread pink eye and gross.  Let’s stay classy, Rhino kissers.

Facebook is for kids and old people.  Follow Murphy on Twitter: @murphyabides 

 

We’ll have “Rock and Roll All Night” by KISS playing on repeat for four hours while booze is cheap as sin.  Everyone will make out like bandits.  Figuratively.  Meaning they will save a lot of money from all the cheap, cheap drinks.  And if you want, make out like bandits literally, which I guess would be where you kiss your kissing partner with pantyhose over your heads.  I don’t know, you’re the kissers.  Kiss!

Kissing party continues upstairs from 9 until close, and resumes Saturday afternoon.  Free shot for the longest kiss, the most passionate kiss, and the best Gene Simmons costume.  

See you there!

Cheers!

Smoochies!