And now in the realm of completely inexplicable things, there’s been this strange phenomenon at “Work”, as opposed to “The Library”, “The Marriage Counseling Center”, or “Church.” (Ed.: If you don’t what the fuck I just said, ask Moose.) Anyway, one day I’m sitting at the The Rail, and River Rat yanks out this gigantic bottle of Hawaiian Punch from the cooler. I don’t think I’ve seen that shit since I was 12. Or 38. Who knows. So I ask, “what the fuck?” River Rat proceeds to explain that someone brought in a whole bunch of Hawaiian Punch. It might have been Tumbleweed, I don’t recall.
“What do you mean a whole bunch?”
“I mean a whole bunch.”
Note Big Black looking on in curiosity. And what the hell is that middle one. Hawaiian Punch Light!? Seriously? Sure — instead of feeding your kids scoopfuls of sugar, let’s just pump them up with artificial chemicals instead.
“Here”, River Rat says, as he polishes off a pony of punch …
“Yah know, River Rat … that would make an excellent hat.”
“Indeed it would, Steakhouse, indeed it would.”
And there you have it. Is there nothing The Rail can’t do?
Holy fucking fuck. So I
stumbled walked into the bar and calmly planted my ass on my favorite stool, ordered my usual, and I hear some words that I pretty much just ignored. I then ordered my usual AGAIN, and once more … I’m hearing just BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH … I mean what the fuck. C’mon, man … Finally, I decide, well, maybe I should actually pay attention to what I’m being told since I still have yet to have a beer in front of me.
“We have no Hamm’s.”
“Say what, mother-fucker?”
“Talk to the distributor.”
Holy fucking fuck. Yes, I said it again. The Rail is out of Hamm’s. Now you could order a buttery Hamm’s, but, well, that’s your choice.
One funny outcome, however, is that River Rat decided to announce this on The Brass Rail, uh, “announcement board” — for lack of a better term — and instead of writing “No Hamm’s”, he wrote “No Hamm’s Hats”. When questioned about this, he thought about it for a second and realized that he just kind of wrote it without thinking about it. I find this amusing and poignant at the same time.
So there you have it. Stay tuned for further details.
Oh, and P.S.: New chips. So you got that goin’ for ya.
Here’s River Rat serving up some delicious tasty aluminum goodness for a happy patron. And look at that — he decided to dress for the occasion. Now I must confess I don’t know the whole story behind this particular shot — this pic was forwarded on to me by the lovely Margarita — but I assure you he ain’t opening up that can for himself. Oh no no no … there is absolutely NO drinking behind the bar. (There are also no Matties allowed behind the bar, but that’s a different story.)
Not only is that a despicable unlawful practice in and of itself, but if a Brass Rail bartender were to make such a foolish move, the camera would slowly pan to a shot of Fu Dog sitting in his recliner, taking a nap, when all of a sudden his eyes would suddenly burst open with laser beams shooting forthwith. Word to the wise: Don’t mess with Fote. He can kill you WITH HIS MIND. True dat. I saw it once.
Here we see River Rat apparently collecting for Danny’s trust fund. I really have no idea what that last sentence means, other than that’s what I was ‘tweeted’, or whatever the fuck the kids call it these days. I really hate the Internet. But you know what I do like? Hamm’s. And Hamm’s Hats. Yup, that’s pretty much it.
Looks like there are three quarters in his mitt. Know what six more quarters would get you? I’ll give you one guess.
Ah — twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the bar, not a creature was stirring, not even a, uh … um.
Ummmm … oh fuck it.
Anyway, it was a wonderful Wednesday night at The Rail. With a four-day weekend for most on the horizon, everyone was having a good time. Various folks brought in food, which was pretty damn awesome. River Rat once again was the lucky recipient of a Hamm’s Hat, so here’s me making sure it is ready for deployment.
After determining said headpiece was of a sound and robust nature, I handed it back to River Rat who seemed at a bit of a loss what to do with his new-found chapeau. Seeing as it was the holidays, I offered my assistance and got down to work.
And here we go:
And now for the back-side …
both of us all of us some of us a handful of us us at Hamm’s Hat Dot Com, Happy Thanksgiving! (Albeit a few days late.)
Because the Brass Rail is a black-tie kinda place, it only makes sense that folks come in dressed to the nines. To wit:
But please: no tuxedo t-shirts. That’s just not classy.
I guess it goes without saying — if you’re gonna get into a plastic knife fight, bring two Hamm’s Hats. That’ll do the trick. Just sayin’.
[Ed.: What the hell are those red things, anyway? Pepperoni off of a delicious Premium Butch’s Pizza? Mmmmm … Butch’s Pizza.]
Here’s River Rat enjoying a cool refreshing Hamm’s after his hard day of work at The Rail. Yup — we’ve got some fresh meat behind the bar … Cool Whip chose to step down and handed over the venerable reins to this fellow here. What a better way to finish off your shift, then to win a Hamm’s Hat. Is that rewarding or what!? River Rat tweeted (twatted? twitted? who the fuck knows) this pic so you know we’re on board with all the latest kids’ technology ‘n shit.
Instead of subjecting you to the possibility of earworms that will burrow deep into your noggin, forcing you to grab the closest meat thermometer, jam it in your ear, and beat it with a mallet, I present to you River Rat.
Insert stupid 80s references here.