He heard the voice easily above the murmur of the skimpy Friday night crowd, but chose to ignore it in hopes that it would go away.
“Dennis, come on God Dammit, help me get this roll of paper in the cash register.”
He heard it again, released his stare from the growing pool of water gathering at the base of the ice machine behind the bar, and looked at the pained face of Lori fumbling with the cash register on the formica countertop. He hated that she called him Dennis, preferring Scud, a nickname he gave himself after hearing it in a Megadeath song.
He walked slowly out from behind the bar and stood too close to Lori, almost rubbing against the fat tits spilling out of her stained tank top. He hated that this didn’t scare her, that she didn’t back up or break from what he thought was a menacing stare.
“The cash register is over here...” she said, stretching out the word here until it became a whine.
Dennis could see that she had tangled the roll of paper around the metal stem inside the machine and it was upside down to boot. He was shaking his head in exaggerated disgust when he noticed the two strangers leaning against the bar talking closely to one another. Didn’t recognize them, didn’t belong here. He pretended to be more interested in the problem at hand, slowing down the easy repair, taking time every few seconds to bitch at Lori for being a ”typical woman breaking stuff and needing a man to put it back together.”
Between tweaking the register and shaking his head at Lori, Dennis would sneak a peek at the two strangers, probably fags who wandered in to the wrong place, and he knew that they were pissed at being ignored. Lori saw them too, but when she started toward them, Dennis stopped her hissing, “I need you here, to help fix what you broke.” His voice stopped her in her tracks. That’s more like it Dennis thought.
Back to the register repair , Dennis working slowly, Lori watching. Dennis thinking of ways he could fuck up the night of the two assholes shifting from foot to foot waiting for their drinks. A filthy finger in the neck of their bottles, a shot of spit in a mixed drink, the dented metal bat hidden behind the bar . Lori wondering if she could increase her tips with her fat tits, or better yet, rip them off by short changing them.
One thing both were sure of, these two could never cause a problem in Longshot’s Bar in the heart of Redford.
The register was fixed, Dennis chided Lori again, more good naturedly this time as each considered how to fuck with the two strangers at the bar. Dennis absently stroked his straggly chin whiskers, Lori adjusted her tits.
Both were disappointed to see the empty space at the bar railing.
That was the fictional account of Longshot’s Bar in Redford. The following will be the factual, newspaper style account of that portion of the evening (remember, I am a trained journalist).
Longshot’s Bar is a disaster. The expectations of Friday Night Bug Juice during peak hours the night of a huge Red Wing playoff game were dashed in front of a gathering of fifteen (you couldn’t call a group that small a crowd). It may have been a mild spring evening outside, but it was stifling and smelly inside. Not cigs and stale beer smelly, dirty feet and butts smelly. The grimy bartender and the wench who walked the floor were interested in fixing a cash register, not serving beer. When they finally tired of the cash register, they continued ignoring us and instead turned their attention to the two huge bellies who had just waddled through the door. Though little brother and I were desperate for a beer, and the Red Wing game was in high gear, we put our money away and walked out the door. The Redford spring air never smelled sweeter, no better decision has ever been made.
Hey Longshot’s Bar...Fuck You!
What do two veterans of the Friday Night Bug Juice wars do when they strike out? They call on their vast knowledge of bars in the neighborhood, reviews from their prize winning website, and make a decision. On to Kicker’s Bar in Livonia ( see October 2008 review).
A funny thing happened on the way to Kicker’s...we stumbled into the Plymouth Roadhouse on the south side of Plymouth Road, east of Wayne. Never heard of the place, but there were cars in the lot and it got us drinking eight minutes quicker than Kicker’s. Made perfect sense.
Roadhouse is a neighborhood joint, easy to park and no cover to enter. It was appropriately dark and lined with televisions, many of the hi def, flat screen variety. Tony and I were stalking the bar, looking for a place to get a couple of beers when the young lady behind the bar motioned us over to an open area with a clear view of the Red Wing and Tiger games (bless her heart). $5.50 later, we were finally drinking.
This place has its act together in the broadcasting of sporting events. During intermission, they kick out the jams. But, when the playoff action begins, the music disappears and is replaced with the welcome cheerleading of Mickey Redmond (by the way, Mickey is on my Mt. Rushmore of local broadcasting along with Ernie Harwell, Budd Lynch and Lord Athol Layton).
Perhaps I failed to mention that both the young lady behind the bar and the waitress working the room were wearing bikinis. A couple of observations: Tony and I have always found that a bar with bikini staff means a leering crowd of guys and little in the way of ladies. It is no different at Plymouth Roadhouse, as there was exactly one woman among the forty or so Red Wing fans in attendance. Secondly, you better have a rocking body if you make a living wearing two square feet of fabric. These two fit that criteria, though the young lady behind the bar could have selected a better fitting bottom (I didn’t really notice, Tony mentioned that to me).
I have no idea what goes on at Roadhouse when there isn’t a big game to grab your attention. Maybe twenty-somethings dressed to impress sip martinis and prowl. But I doubt it. More likely, neighborhood types quaff a few, listen to tunes and have a low key good time. Nothing wrong with that.
We enjoyed our stay at Plymouth Roadhouse, possibly because the beer is cheap, it was brought to us at the end of a long, cold winter by two girls in bathing suits and the Wings raced past Phoenix 7-4. Or, maybe we had a good time because it wasn’t Longshot’s.
Cheers!
Jim
Longshot's Bar and Grill: 27189 Grand River Ave Redford, MI 48240
Plymouth Roadhouse: 34101 Plymouth Road Plymouth, MI 48150
“Dennis, come on God Dammit, help me get this roll of paper in the cash register.”
He heard it again, released his stare from the growing pool of water gathering at the base of the ice machine behind the bar, and looked at the pained face of Lori fumbling with the cash register on the formica countertop. He hated that she called him Dennis, preferring Scud, a nickname he gave himself after hearing it in a Megadeath song.
He walked slowly out from behind the bar and stood too close to Lori, almost rubbing against the fat tits spilling out of her stained tank top. He hated that this didn’t scare her, that she didn’t back up or break from what he thought was a menacing stare.
“The cash register is over here...” she said, stretching out the word here until it became a whine.
Dennis could see that she had tangled the roll of paper around the metal stem inside the machine and it was upside down to boot. He was shaking his head in exaggerated disgust when he noticed the two strangers leaning against the bar talking closely to one another. Didn’t recognize them, didn’t belong here. He pretended to be more interested in the problem at hand, slowing down the easy repair, taking time every few seconds to bitch at Lori for being a ”typical woman breaking stuff and needing a man to put it back together.”
Between tweaking the register and shaking his head at Lori, Dennis would sneak a peek at the two strangers, probably fags who wandered in to the wrong place, and he knew that they were pissed at being ignored. Lori saw them too, but when she started toward them, Dennis stopped her hissing, “I need you here, to help fix what you broke.” His voice stopped her in her tracks. That’s more like it Dennis thought.
Back to the register repair , Dennis working slowly, Lori watching. Dennis thinking of ways he could fuck up the night of the two assholes shifting from foot to foot waiting for their drinks. A filthy finger in the neck of their bottles, a shot of spit in a mixed drink, the dented metal bat hidden behind the bar . Lori wondering if she could increase her tips with her fat tits, or better yet, rip them off by short changing them.
One thing both were sure of, these two could never cause a problem in Longshot’s Bar in the heart of Redford.
The register was fixed, Dennis chided Lori again, more good naturedly this time as each considered how to fuck with the two strangers at the bar. Dennis absently stroked his straggly chin whiskers, Lori adjusted her tits.
Both were disappointed to see the empty space at the bar railing.
That was the fictional account of Longshot’s Bar in Redford. The following will be the factual, newspaper style account of that portion of the evening (remember, I am a trained journalist).
Longshot’s Bar is a disaster. The expectations of Friday Night Bug Juice during peak hours the night of a huge Red Wing playoff game were dashed in front of a gathering of fifteen (you couldn’t call a group that small a crowd). It may have been a mild spring evening outside, but it was stifling and smelly inside. Not cigs and stale beer smelly, dirty feet and butts smelly. The grimy bartender and the wench who walked the floor were interested in fixing a cash register, not serving beer. When they finally tired of the cash register, they continued ignoring us and instead turned their attention to the two huge bellies who had just waddled through the door. Though little brother and I were desperate for a beer, and the Red Wing game was in high gear, we put our money away and walked out the door. The Redford spring air never smelled sweeter, no better decision has ever been made.
Hey Longshot’s Bar...Fuck You!
What do two veterans of the Friday Night Bug Juice wars do when they strike out? They call on their vast knowledge of bars in the neighborhood, reviews from their prize winning website, and make a decision. On to Kicker’s Bar in Livonia ( see October 2008 review).
A funny thing happened on the way to Kicker’s...we stumbled into the Plymouth Roadhouse on the south side of Plymouth Road, east of Wayne. Never heard of the place, but there were cars in the lot and it got us drinking eight minutes quicker than Kicker’s. Made perfect sense.
Roadhouse is a neighborhood joint, easy to park and no cover to enter. It was appropriately dark and lined with televisions, many of the hi def, flat screen variety. Tony and I were stalking the bar, looking for a place to get a couple of beers when the young lady behind the bar motioned us over to an open area with a clear view of the Red Wing and Tiger games (bless her heart). $5.50 later, we were finally drinking.
This place has its act together in the broadcasting of sporting events. During intermission, they kick out the jams. But, when the playoff action begins, the music disappears and is replaced with the welcome cheerleading of Mickey Redmond (by the way, Mickey is on my Mt. Rushmore of local broadcasting along with Ernie Harwell, Budd Lynch and Lord Athol Layton).
Perhaps I failed to mention that both the young lady behind the bar and the waitress working the room were wearing bikinis. A couple of observations: Tony and I have always found that a bar with bikini staff means a leering crowd of guys and little in the way of ladies. It is no different at Plymouth Roadhouse, as there was exactly one woman among the forty or so Red Wing fans in attendance. Secondly, you better have a rocking body if you make a living wearing two square feet of fabric. These two fit that criteria, though the young lady behind the bar could have selected a better fitting bottom (I didn’t really notice, Tony mentioned that to me).
I have no idea what goes on at Roadhouse when there isn’t a big game to grab your attention. Maybe twenty-somethings dressed to impress sip martinis and prowl. But I doubt it. More likely, neighborhood types quaff a few, listen to tunes and have a low key good time. Nothing wrong with that.
We enjoyed our stay at Plymouth Roadhouse, possibly because the beer is cheap, it was brought to us at the end of a long, cold winter by two girls in bathing suits and the Wings raced past Phoenix 7-4. Or, maybe we had a good time because it wasn’t Longshot’s.
Cheers!
Jim
Longshot's Bar and Grill: 27189 Grand River Ave Redford, MI 48240
Plymouth Roadhouse: 34101 Plymouth Road Plymouth, MI 48150
