Please, and I’m going to send this one out into the universe…NO MORE GODDAM CLOTHESPINS ON COCKTAILS!!! Please. Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top? Scrolling yesterday morning while on the toilet, enjoying the void while voiding, I happened upon an EaterLa post about the new mega Mastro’s Steakhouse in Beverly Hills. As I side swept through the typical snapshots–the interior, a grilled steak, some shrimp–I was instantly triggered by the second to last picture.

Nooooooooooooo! Why oh why? Who does it and why did it ever happen? Whatever, whoever started this, it needs to end now. Not only does it make zero sense, it’s ugly, it’s the eponymous pork chop around the dog’s neck in order to get you to play with it. If I go anywhere and I’m served a drink with a fucking clothespin I’m going to immediately and delicately remove said abomination, pour the cocktail out on the bartop, place the empty glass on the floor, unzip my fly, carefully urinate into the glass so as not to spill one drop of precious yellow liquid, rezip, calmly take the piss filled glass, place it back onto the bar, reattach the clothespin with its accompanying garnish and walk out of the restaurant without paying. Just watch me, dude.

Ok. Harsh. Deep breath, deep breath.

I guess I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s personal preference or whatever, or just some trend that’s here to stay but I’d like a drink to not have anything weird on it. I’m fairly anti garnish in general. I suppose they do make drinks look nicer and help the servers recognize them more easily, but they have to make sense.

White screen, black type. All capitals.

The Bartender.

When the apocalypse comes and speak easies open everywhere, serving bathtub gin and such, I’m going to be like Denzel Washington in that shitty pseudo steampunk/western style post apocalyptic movie, except I’ll be the Sheriff of No Fucking Clothespins on Cocktails. No badge. They won’t know I’m coming. I can see it so clearly. A young bartender, so proud, in some shoddy, hacked together cantina wowing a couple of patrons. He reaches under the bar, hands shaking, he looks around nervously, everyone looks on with wonder at this rebel. He reaches up to fasten a garnish, perhaps a stale piece of gingerbread, or a dried rat tail onto the rim of the glass with a clothespin but before he does, the door flies open. There I am. Black leather trenchcoat. Mirror sunglasses. Sawed off shotgun already leveled at him. They all turn, terror in their eyes. Yes, Daddy’s here to exact his revenge. The bartender’s fingers are an inch away from attaching the garnish to the cocktail. I watch him. He pulls back a few inches. The crowd exhales a bit. My gun barrel descends. His hand drops further as the gun falls to my side. We look at each other and nod. Beads of sweat on his forehead. Nothing but a cold stare from me.

As I turn to walk out, my ears prick up at a sound. The bartender has moved his hand toward the glass again. Our eyes meet. In a flash he goes for the drink with the clothespin and I watch as he fumbles to affix his horror to the side. The barrel comes up once again and this time there’s no hesitation. I pump round after round of buckshot into him from close range. His limp body flying into the rows of bottles behind him as the force of my custom made shells take his pathetic life.

“Anyone else want to garnish a drink with a fucking clothespin?” I say.

A scrum ensues. They all come out of the woodwork. Some disheveled gang of former bartenders, all believers of the almighty garnish. Yada, yada. The same scene as any other movie of this type. I win in grandiose fashion. The bodies piled around me. Not even a scratch.

And there it is behind the bar, drenched in the blood of the bartender. A large box of those tiny clothespins. His stash. I pick it up and carry it back to my hovel, yet another of those cliches we see in these movies. The loner’s haven. A shack filled to the brim with booby traps and salvaged weaponry. Messy. Maybe an old dog on guard.

Inside, amidst the rubble of my former life before the nukes turned the world into desert and ash, pile upon pile of small boxes of clothespins. I toss the recent acquisition onto the stacks then pour myself a small dram of moonshine and sit down. The dog comes over to say hi. Unconditional love.

Then, a voice from outside. “We know you have the clothespins! Come out and we’ll spare you!”

I peer through the one thin slat to see a small standing army of former bartenders looking to exact revenge for all their fallen brethren.

Continued?