Post by kito on Oct 18, 2020 3:33:24 GMT
Hello all. This is the place in which I take out the rage from my job and post cocktail recipes accompanied by scathing shit talk of the type of people who order them. I will also occasionally post punk and metal songs that adequately convey my rage about aforementioned job. You're welcome.
As a warning, these posts will be incredibly UK-centric. If you're confused about any terminology or expressions, feel free to ask. But for the most part, suck up and sup up.
As a warning, these posts will be incredibly UK-centric. If you're confused about any terminology or expressions, feel free to ask. But for the most part, suck up and sup up.
Today's recipe... one of my most hated. The Pornstar Martini.
Recipe as follows:
- 25ml Vanilla Vodka
- 12.5ml Passoa
- 12.5ml Gomme
- 12.5ml Caramel Syrup
- 12.5ml Passion Fruit Puree
- 12.5ml Lemon Juice
- 25ml Pineapple Juice
Pour all ingredients into boston glass. Shake with ice. Strain into coupe glass and garnish with passion fruit half. Serve with a shot glass of prosecco.
I see you. You think you're original. You strut up to the bar with your high heels and terrible hair extensions. I can't see your skin for the three layers of foundation. You purse your lips and ask the question that haunts my sleep.
"Can I avvv..... a pornstaaar martiiiniiiii?"
You sure can. But I see you. You planned this entire thing ahead of even stepping out of the door. You knew you were coming here. You know you were going to order this exact cocktail. You know I make 200 of these a night. Yet you still had the nerve. The nerve to think you're special. You are not the only girl here tonight ordering this drink. You are one of possibly 500, if not more. At first you want it for your Instagram. Then you get a taste of it and order more.
Not only do you order more, you order them with your whole cohort of friends. You block up the bar ordering this garbage cocktail and you make sure to order them one at a time. No group orders here, you want to watch me shake each one as my soul slowly rots with each shake. At least one of you doesn't know what a passion fruit is and asks what I'm putting in their drink. Calm down bitch, it's garnish. It makes your drink look nice. For your instagram. I'm being paid to facilitate your instagram.
Don't get me started on the boys who order it. They'll make sure to laugh as they ask. They're embarrassed and have no need to be. It's a fucking drink, get over it. But they feel the need to inform me that they don't usually order cocktails, and their missus wants two of them. No problem mate, coming right up. Except there is a problem. You're so insecure in your masculinity that you feel the need to justify why you're ordering cocktails. You needn't have bothered. Your girlfriend isn't laughing at you and neither am I. At least I wasn't, until you felt the need to ask for "one of those porn things". Yeah, you aren't fooling anybody. You could've kept it simple. But you chose to be insecure, and now I'm going to tell all of my coworkers about the funny guy who was scared to order a cocktail. Joke's on you.
Please order literally anything else. I'm sick of this cocktail. When I die, my soul will still be here, making pornstar martinis. And it's because of you.
I see you. You think you're original. You strut up to the bar with your high heels and terrible hair extensions. I can't see your skin for the three layers of foundation. You purse your lips and ask the question that haunts my sleep.
"Can I avvv..... a pornstaaar martiiiniiiii?"
You sure can. But I see you. You planned this entire thing ahead of even stepping out of the door. You knew you were coming here. You know you were going to order this exact cocktail. You know I make 200 of these a night. Yet you still had the nerve. The nerve to think you're special. You are not the only girl here tonight ordering this drink. You are one of possibly 500, if not more. At first you want it for your Instagram. Then you get a taste of it and order more.
Not only do you order more, you order them with your whole cohort of friends. You block up the bar ordering this garbage cocktail and you make sure to order them one at a time. No group orders here, you want to watch me shake each one as my soul slowly rots with each shake. At least one of you doesn't know what a passion fruit is and asks what I'm putting in their drink. Calm down bitch, it's garnish. It makes your drink look nice. For your instagram. I'm being paid to facilitate your instagram.
Don't get me started on the boys who order it. They'll make sure to laugh as they ask. They're embarrassed and have no need to be. It's a fucking drink, get over it. But they feel the need to inform me that they don't usually order cocktails, and their missus wants two of them. No problem mate, coming right up. Except there is a problem. You're so insecure in your masculinity that you feel the need to justify why you're ordering cocktails. You needn't have bothered. Your girlfriend isn't laughing at you and neither am I. At least I wasn't, until you felt the need to ask for "one of those porn things". Yeah, you aren't fooling anybody. You could've kept it simple. But you chose to be insecure, and now I'm going to tell all of my coworkers about the funny guy who was scared to order a cocktail. Joke's on you.
Please order literally anything else. I'm sick of this cocktail. When I die, my soul will still be here, making pornstar martinis. And it's because of you.