I’ve been to a lot of bars in my time. I’ve been to bars where a jacket was required and the scotch cost more than I could ever hope to afford. I’ve also been to bars where I was afraid I was going to be stabbed. It’s fair to say I’ve had my share of experiences, both good and bad.

That said, this weekend in an unassuming strip mall in Perrysburg, Ohio, I found the worst bar of all time.

The wife and I went there with some friends on Saturday. Before we got there, they told us it was a little sketchy. Seriously though, we thought how sketchy can a bar in a bedroom community like Perrysburg be? We used to hang out at bars that clearly displayed signs asking members of biker gangs not to wear their colors inside. There’s no way this could be anywhere near that, right?

Well, it wasn’t. As a matter of fact, it looked to me like as haphazardly a thrown-together bar as I could ever imagine.

The first thing I noticed was that the whole bar was probably as big as my freshman year dorm room. It was all of 400 square feet, maybe. The proprietor had painted the walls a deep red and hung a few neon signs up, but that was about it for decor. The floors, in fact, were the same gray, concrete slab that were laid when the building was constructed. There was no tile, carpeting or anything else.

None of that really bothered me, though, I mean I’ve hung out in places that were far smaller. Places so dark that you can’t see the floor — and God help you if you did, because judging by the way your feet stuck as you entered, mopping was a foreign concept.

Anyway, we weren’t even across the threshold yet when a young, seemingly high, young bartender shouted — and I mean shouted — “Hello!”

I wasn’t sure, was she asking us our order, was she carding us, I didn’t know, because she didn’t say anything else. She just stared.

Our friend JMT walked up to her and asked if she had any specials. No, the bartender said, but she recommended that we order two Budweisers and two Michelob Ultras. Really? No thanks. JMT ordered a Budweiser for her husband B and a Bud Lite for herself.

So far, besides a bartender who was either drunk or had been smoking a lot of weed just minutes before (or both), this place didn’t seem so sketchy. As a matter of fact, I was kind of impressed with their beer selection — the one listed on their menu, anyway.

As we were looking at it, the perky bartender walked away and another one approached. This guy had a lazy eye and the kind of perpetual smirk you only see on the faces of the mentally handicapped, clowns and child molesters.

Me: I’ll have a Dead Guy Ale.
Retarded bartender What?
Me:shouting over the crappy acoustic music being blasted over the amps in the corner Rogue…Dead Guy Ale.
RB: Is that on the menu? Show me.

So I pointed to where it lists it on the menu. The guy glanced at it and walked over to the cooler. He dug around for a few minutes, stands up and looked at the bottles of beer on the shelf. First just kind of stood back and scratched his chin with his hand like he’s Isaac fucking Newton postulating on the theory of gravity. After a few seconds of that, he stood on his tippy toes, squinted and put his face right up to the different bottles. I guess he didn’t see it up there, because he turned and walked back over to us with that stupid smile on his face.

RB: Sorry, we don’t have it.
Me: Fine, I’ll have a Boddington’s.
RB: Do we have that?
Me: Ummmm….it’s on the menu. And you’ve got a giant neon Boddington’s sign on the wall.
RB: Show me on the menu.

Again, I point. Again, he walked over to the coolers and went through the whole routine. Again, he walked back with that shit-eating grin on his face and told me he they didn’t have it.

Me: Seriously? For fuck’s sake. Fine. I’ll have a Stella. I know you have it because I see the tap right there.
RB: OK, sorry about that.

So he returned with the beer — which was skunky as hell by the way — and asked the wife what she wanted. She doesn’t drink beer, and after that whole debacle, there was no way she was ordering a mixed drink from this idiot. She asked for a reisling.

Again, he had her point at it on the menu. Again, he walked over to the cooler and dug around. Again, he came back and said they didn’t have it. The wife wasn’t as patient was I was, however, and she just gave up on the idea of having a drink at that bar.

The guy was nice enough (I guess) to give me my beer for free for all the trouble. More likely he didn’t know how to run the cash register. I’m convinced he can’t read. What a fucking joke.

Suffice it to say, we didn’t stay for a second drink.