As someone who tended bar for a while back in graduate school, I not only believe alcohol reveals character, I believe drinking alcohol in public reveals character publicly.
So, as I contemplate the cast of characters running for president, I wonder what they might be like as bar patrons.
Donald Trump. Drinks top-shelf liquor. Tips well, but you have to listen to him tell you about how good his business is doing, how rich he is, how hot his wife is, how well he plays golf and how he got the better of everyone who ever tried to “screw” him.
Bernie Sanders. Cheap draft beer. Never buys a round. Asks you if you’re in a union. Complains about the prices. Eats three bowls of the free popcorn. No tip. Tries to bond with construction workers at the bar, but they ignore him.
Hillary Clinton. White wine. Average tip. After three drinks, she cries and tells you about her husband’s infidelities. After four, will go home with anyone.
Carly Fiorina. Light beer. Decent tip. Says nothing. Leaves alone. No one notices.
John Kasich. Comes in. Has one beer. Leaves without telling anyone. Comes back. Has another beer. Tips with change, but it adds up to a couple bucks.
Jeb Bush. Good bourbon. Hits on the prettiest girl in the place. Gets shot down. Calls his dad for a ride home. He doesn’t tip, but when his dad shows up, he gives you $5 for taking care of his son.
Marco Rubio. After one martini, he tells you his immigrant father was a bartender. After two martinis, he tells you his immigrant father was a bartender. After three martinis, he tells you his immigrant father was a bartender. You don’t care what he tips. You just want him to stop talking.
Ted Cruz. Tells you his evangelical faith is opposed to alcohol. Drinks straight tequila. Makes a grab for the waitress. No tip because you throw him out. Beaten badly in the parking lot by the waitress’s boyfriend.
At the end of the night, you count your tip money. The $100 bill Trump gave you really made the night for you. Still, you hope he doesn’t come back.
Five minutes till closing, Barack Obama walks in, sits at the bar, lights a cigarette. Plays “Stormy Monday” on the jukebox.
“Have I got time for one, Chief?” he asks you.
“Yeah,” you say.
You pour him one and one for yourself.
“You know,” you say. “It might be time for me to find something else. This place is much weirder than it was when I started and that’s not even 10 years ago.”
“Tell me about it,” he says.