“In my opinion, if you don’t have a bartender at your party, you’re a loser,” said Dustin Terry, who lives a floor below Ms. Argiro and said his job was to get models and Saudi royalty into hot clubs. “The bartender brings class and sophistication. If you can’t afford to hire a bartender,” he added, “you shouldn’t be having a party.” That seems to be the consensus of a growing crowd of 30-something New Yorkers who wish to signal they’ve graduated from post-collegiate squalor to young professional coming of age. No matter how small their abodes, they won’t invite friends over for cocktails without the assistance of a bartender — even if there’s barely room for the bartender to stand.

– New York Times, “Mixing Drinks, Adding Class.”

I have seven bartenders in my apartment right now.

One of them is a Saudi Royal.

They say that the Saudi Royal bartender is “the black sheep of the family, but he still has hoofs of gold,” and that is why I make him wear metallic, spray painted converse sneakers at all times. Especially when he rubs the lotion on himself. Hearing the gentle shuffle of his sneakers against the closet as he desperately tries to tunnel his way out, well, it really reminds me that I’m not in college anymore.

Some people call this kidnapping. I call it coolness-napping.

I didn’t always used to be this awesome. There was a time when you might have come by my apartment and seen normal stuff, like chairs and books and a ficus, not just a flock of bartenders desperately muddling mint for mojitos at musket-point. Those were days before Dustin Terry taught me to be a winner.

Sure, for a while, I tried to hire bartenders when I was having an official party. I thought it would be okay. I thought it would be enough. But I never knew when parties would occur. Sometimes they’d just occur for no reason. I’d be out at a party, and friends would say “Let’s go back to Jen’s place. I hear it is swinging! I hear it is hip! I hear we like to forcibly inject a Mad Men vibe into absolutely everything by speaking in stilted sentences!”

And I would say “yes,” but I would get scared, because I would know there was no bartender. Then they’d walk in and their faces would crumble into grimaces. “Here,” I said, “have some delicious homemade fritatta. Wash it down with some champagne. Would you like some of the chocolate chip cookies I baked? You can take the massage chair!” And my friends – not friends anymore, not now that they’d seen my true colors – stared at me, and, without moving their grimace-crumbled faces, said “why do you have no bartender? How could you put us in a bartender free situation, you asshole? Why are you such a loser?”

And at that moment – there, with the frittata still clutched in my hands – I realized, every day is a party! AUNTIE MAME IS IN THE HOUSE!

And that is when I became a criminal.

I didn’t want to be a loser. That’s why I’ve been kidnapping people left and right. I just stride into “the hot clubs” and slap an ether rag in the face of the first person I see with a martini shaker. Sometimes it’s not ever a real bartender. “Do you have class?” I ask, as I toss them into the back of my van as easily as I toss down cocktail olives, “do you have sophistication?” They had better, because otherwise I might feel like a total dirtbag.

Mostly, I use tactics I gleaned from the Liam Neeson movie Taken but I use them for evil, not good. Good is for losers.

Sober losers.