The dial drifts, searching for something colder. Something frozen. A tundra.

It’s anywhere in Wisconsin on a Sunday, and the Packers are on television.

An unmistakable sound appears: the clink of ice in whiskey glasses, the buzz of a packed bar, and a crowd that’s either about to celebrate or be escorted out.

Behind the bar, a nineteen-year-old with an empty tip jar and zero business sense is already plotting.

[Announcer Voice: Charismatic Midwestern philosopher with a strong accent. The vocal equivalent of a flannel shirt.]

If you just tuned in, you might want to recheck your dial. This is 94.1 FM, and I am the infamous Randy “Highball” Haskins, don’t cha know.

Tonight’s tale takes us to a small-town Wisconsin supper club where the prime rib is sacred, the Old Fashioneds could strip paint, and every single patron bleeds green and gold.

So pull up a stool. First round’s on somebody else. Probably Steve. Steve owes everybody.

Bartending, it turned out, wasn’t just pouring drinks—it was a graduate program in human behavior taught by Wisconsin regulars wearing novelty cheese hats. Every one of them came with an opinion, a life story, and the same joke they’d been telling bartenders since the Reagan administration.

I laughed every time… I’m a professional.

My fellow bartenders taught me everything that mattered: how to mix drinks, read the room, and, most importantly, when to keep my mouth shut—a skill I am still working on.

Eventually, I was trusted to run the bar solo on Sundays, which felt less like a promotion and more like being handed the keys to a very loud, very opinionated daycare.

That’s when I discovered something nobody warns you about bartending in Wisconsin on a Sunday: your tip jar depends entirely on whether Brett Favre can complete a third-and-seven. They should list that right under “must be 18 or older” on the job application.

Sundays were different from weeknights. Bloody Marys garnished enough to qualify as a salad bar, cases of vodka and orange juice for screwdrivers, and the occasional patron ordering the “hair of the dog” who very clearly had not met enough dogs the night before.

Sundays had a different rhythm. Slower. Friendlier. The kind of shift where conversations lasted longer than drink orders.

It was the perfect bartending job… right up until I met my greatest challenge. Not a difficult customer. Not an empty keg. Not a broken ice machine.

The Green Bay Packers!

When they won, everybody won. Drinks flowed, strangers bought each other rounds, and tips arrived like Christmas morning presents.

When they lost—especially, God help us all, to the Chicago Bears—a Wisconsin bar was the last place you wanted to be.

The energy turned dark. Ashtrays became projectiles. Swearing at the television became a team sport. Somehow even the free popcorn—which had never once done anything to anybody—wasn’t good enough.

And worst of all… my tip jar became collateral damage. It rose and fell with the Packers’ record like my own tiny glass stock market.

Big win? Heavy with bills.

Bad loss? A handful of change… and emotional damage.

That’s when it hit me. If I was going to save my tip jar from another Packers collapse, I needed a plan. A scheme. Possibly a small con.

So the next Sunday, the Packers were down and the mood around the bar started heading south. That’s when I impulsively blurted out, “No way the Packers score here. If Brett Favre throws a touchdown pass, drinks are on me.”

They were on the five-yard line. Favre always threw for the touchdown. I had, essentially, bet against gravity.

Touchdown.

The place absolutely erupted. I poured the drinks and they cheered like I’d just called the winning play.

The free round paid for itself before the glasses were even empty. Almost everyone stayed, ordered another drink, and settled back in.

The scheme had one fatal flaw. It worked.

It worked so well I kept doing it. Bears game, Vikings game—it didn’t matter. I bet against the Packers… and lost. I bought the rounds. Everyone stayed a little longer.

Week after week, the Sunday crowd grew. Some came for the Packers. Some came for the Bloody Marys. Most came because they knew exactly who would be behind the bar every Sunday.

Somewhere along the way, they also started coming back, interested to hear whatever trouble I’d managed to get myself into that week. New girlfriend, bad decision, house party shenanigans—college was extremely generous with the material. I’d spin a story, throw in a joke, and they’d eat it up like a Friday fish fry.

By the end of the season, I had become, as far as I know, the only bartender in Wisconsin quietly rooting against the Packers. Not because I wanted them to lose… but because Packers comebacks were very good for my tip jar.

Funny what you’ll start rooting for when your paycheck is sitting in a glass jar.

Bartending also taught me how to tell a good story. How much of it was actually true? That’s up for debate.

…and that’s last call from 94.1 FM, still looking for Steve, who, again, forgot to pay his tab.

I’m Randy “Highball” Haskins, reminding you that every bartender pours drinks…

…the best ones leave you with a story.

Don’t cha know.

Now back to your regularly scheduled program of static and laughter.