Gettin’ Ripped at Striker’s Bar

There is only one bar in the Twin Ports that has a miniature golf course alongside it. And it’s a miniature golf course that, as long as you are sober enough to find your balls and putters, you can play for free. This is the kind of giving back to the community that makes Striker’s Bar a shining example of American entrepreneurialism.

Located on the corner of Broadway Street and Banks Avenue in Superior, Striker’s Bar apparently gets its name for being located next to a bowling alley—Landmark Lanes. It’s also located near World of Wheels Skate Center. We might as well call this area the “Dream Date” district. Of course, I’m suggesting that you’d be having a dream about a date you had prior to 1983.

Naturally, such a location attracts an interesting crowd. And when I say “an interesting crowd,” I mean “about ten dumbfucks.” Of course, as a registered dumbfuck myself, I like it here.

Tonight, it takes me about seven seconds to pick out my favorite dumbfucks. I walk into the bar and the first thing I hear is a chubby guy in his mid-20s saying: “My balls and my nipple hurt, and my middle finger is still tingling. I’m not going to forget that shit.”

Sitting two feet away from the chubby guy, and not paying attention at all to his story, is a dude with a can of Ruby Red Squirt in front of him. Further observation reveals that he actually bought this can of pop from the cooler, and has been ordering shots of vodka to go with it.

In an attempt to outdo him, I sit down and tell the bartender, “I’ll have a McGillicuddy’s/Butter Shot.”

“What?” is her completely predictable reply.

“I’d like you to mix Dr. McGillicuddy’s and Butter Shots.”

“You want to drink peppermint and butterscotch schnapps together?”

“Not really, but that’s what I feel like I have to do to get ahead around here.”

Most bartenders aren’t good enough sports to put up with this kind of bullshit, but she is, so I help her out by telling Squirt guy: “She’s a good bartender. You should tip her more.” That’s just the kind of guy I am, you know. Always helping people.

“You know what would go good with that?” Ruby Red asks me. “Bailey’s. Think about it.” Shuddering, I sip at the molten candy concoction the bartender has placed before me, and it’s actually not bad at first taste. It’s a lot like eating an ice cream sundae topped with Aquafresh toothpaste, except that it has the look and texture of polyurethane sealant. About halfway through, I start to feel like a 7-year-old on the morning after Halloween, but it’s a small price to pay to keep my dignity in a place like Striker’s Bar.

I get up and head into the pool-table room, where an average-looking man has just approached a woman who is obviously into cosmetics. He asks her if her long fingernails are real or fake.

“These are sort of my real nails, but I have acrylic tips,” she says, thrilled that someone could be interested in her inane grooming details.

“Wow,” the guy says. “You must be the best nose picker in town.”

So, where is the chick selling roses when I need her? I want to buy that guy a flower. At the very least, I should buy him the 8 oz. can of Shasta ginger ale in the cooler and introduce him to my Ruby Red friend at the bar.

On my way to do that very thing, I walk past chubby guy, who is still yammering on with his buddies. With the juke playing and other distractions, I don’t end up paying much attention to him as I stand at the bar nearby. Then, suddenly a sentence pops out of him a little louder than the rest.

“You haven’t seen a guy’s ass until you’ve seen mine.”

I’m not sure I like where this night is going, but I know I need another glass of tonsil varnish to get there. And I know I’m going to end up at Kosta’s Gyros at the end of it all. And I know I’ll be crapping out the tinfoil gyro wrapper until Wednesday.