Booze school

Welcome to the nightmare of learning to serve alcohol

There’s a point during my Responsible Beverage Service (RBS) training course where a Sesame Street-esque puppet named something like “Boozy Bob” is modeling the dangers of excessive drinking. It’s at this moment when my soul leaves my body and I ascend to the next level of human existence. It’s such a profound “how did I get to this point?” feeling that it forces me to thoroughly reexamine every choice I’ve made in life up to now—like watching your life flash before your eyes even though you’re not dying, but you kind of wish you were.  

In August, a law went into effect where everyone who serves alcohol at their job must complete state-approved training on how to do so. These trainings cover the effects that booze has on the body, alcohol-related laws and punishments, how to spot fake IDs, etc—all of which boils down to “alcohol is bad for you and the community, but it makes a lot of money for restaurants, so, you know, capitalism.” 

The material is all pretty common knowledge, but for some reason, the powers that be (ie the Alcoholic Beverage Control) deemed that this training should take three hours to complete, which servers are expected to complete on their own time (and, in many cases, pay for out of their own pocket). Did I really need to pay for someone to tell me that one way to spy underage drinkers is to look at their fashion? 

I’m not saying training like this is entirely a waste, and I support the precautionary steps that make our communities safer. But as a drinker, sitting through this kind of stuff feels like punishment. All respect to people who’ve given up drinking for any reason, but it’s just not a vice I’m ready to quit. Those of us who drink casually prefer to not think too hard about our relationships with booze. We keep it surface level, and round down when answering medical questionaires. Too much analysis might lead to self-improvement, and that sounds like a lot of work. 

(Side note, I enjoy seeing people on social media celebrating their sobriety, but I feel like I should also be celebrated for nearly 20 years of consuming alcohol with minimal side effects besides premature aging and the inability to ever lose weight.)

Perhaps the only positive aspect of being forced into government-mandated learning is that there are a number of ABC-approved training providers that you can choose from. Because the ABC provides a text syllabus of the regulations that the RBS training has to cover, it seems relatively easy for any video production company to create their own and get it approved. So of course you’re going to get every second-rate Hollywood types producing their own material, including a handful of “comedy” versions. 

It goes without saying that there’s an overwhelming sadness and desperation about amateur comedians finally finding an outlet that forces thousands of people to watch their material, but it’s also probably the best opportunity they’ll get during the two decades they’ll spend trying to “make it” in “the scene” (jk, comedians, I love you). 

I chose a company called Comedy Seller Server because, frankly, how can you say no to this website? I don’t know if I’ve seen anything as questionably legitimate as this. The late ‘90s vibe, the squished jpegs, the clip art—it’s a masterpiece. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a dancing baby gif holding a mug of beer. 

But this was only the beginning. For the next three hours, I traverse nightmarish video content that reshapes my concept of humor, and perhaps my very soul. 

It’s immediately obvious that Comedy Seller Server relies heavily on the Adult Swim-style of comedy that balances horror, absurdity, and intentional ineptness, but without really understanding how all of those should work. It’s like someone in production was like “let’s get weird!” and a bunch of uncreative people nodded their heads. 

The training begins with a schlub passed out on a couch. He’s got a noodle hanging from his mouth! The pure savagery of this humor, right off the bat. He wakes up and turns on the TV, and channel surfs between programs that relay information needed to pass the ABC certification test. However, in this universe these programs are parodies of already-existing shows, which makes for a nightmarish fever dream, a Freudian descent into inadvertent uncanniness. There’s the aforementioned Sesame Street-style puppet show with alcoholic puppets, a slithery Bob Ross character (“Rob Boss” LOL!) who double downs on the idea that seductive whispering equals comedy, and a Guy Fieri knock-off that slices off his own finger. 

Certainly, for mandatory training, it could be worse—it could be a dull powerpoint presentation or a super serious talking head simply laying out the facts. But there’s a desperation to Comedy Seller Server that feels like the opposite of comedy. Every time they get going on a bit, they have to interrupt the flow with actual facts. 

The worst part is you become so accustomed to the underlying creepiness of each skit, that you suddenly realize you’re taking notes while watching an anthropomorphized intestine wearing a t-shirt deliver information on how it absorbs alcohol. For a brief moment of lucid clarity, you go back to the ABC website to double-check if this is, in fact, government-approved material. It is. 

Dear god, it is. 

I will hand it to the animators for realistically capturing what a person looks like at each stage of inebriation. It’s easy to imagine this guy with .08 BAC talking about how bike lanes will hurt businesses. 

And then at .15 BAC, he’s thinking about that one time he almost hit a cyclist with his car and the cyclist yelled at him, so now he thinks all cyclists are mean, revealing the true reason behind his deep-seated anger toward bike infrastructure.

PS this is a sign that you might be drunk. 

Which, of course, the puppets are going to demonstrate. 

There’s also a Family Guy rip-off for some reason? Don’t ask. 

In the middle of everything, there’s an interview with a mother who lost her daughter to a drunk driver. It’s such a jarring tonal shift that you don’t know if it’s real or if the producers are just fucking with you. 

All I can say is that I’m sorry for the mother whose segment ended up between pervy Rob Boss and a skit featuring the crew of a Hooters-esque restaurant named “Balloons” (get it??) 

At the end of the training, I can’t say I’ve learned much, except the extent that desperate actors will go to make a buck. If the whole experience wasn’t so creepy and sad, I might have asked for my money back, because the test is easy enough to pass without the training. If anything, I could’ve used the money to buy a cocktail, because after those three hours, all I really wanted—nay, needed— was a drink. 

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Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Instagram.