The 10 Types of People You Meet in Dive Bars

It doesn't matter how much game you think you have, no nightclub bartender wants to talk to you. Sorry, bruh. They're inundated with like-minded douchebags on the regular and it's hard to carry a conversation over a dubstep remix of Taylor Swift's "I Knew You Were Trouble." If you're looking for a whiskey-fueled therapy session, a dive bar is your best bet. Bartenders aren't slammed with Jagerbomb orders, so they can entertain your laundry list of played out "Yo Mama" jokes, and even muster a sympathetic laugh.

Dive bars rely on a steady stream of neighborhood regulars to keep their doors open. And because their driver's licenses have been suspended for multiple DUI's, neighborhood regulars rely on an establishment within walking distance to sustain their alcoholism. This mutually beneficial relationship creates a family of tank-top adorned Wal-Mart shoppers. And blood Budweiser is thicker than water. Don't say we didn't warn you.

Door guys at nightclubs carry flashlights, wear suits, and know the subtleties of PhotoShop. If you're 19-years-old and carrying a fake I.D., you have no chance at getting by a dude with a wireless ear piece. It's a sad reality of growing up. But when the gatekeeper is in his ninth semester of junior college and pushing an '01 GMC Sonoma, your chances of sitting on a bar stool with your older brother's driver's license increase exponentially.

Beautiful women gravitate towards places that serve Grey Goose with sparklers. It's a fact. With their eight-foot-ceilings and wood paneled wall treatments, dive bars are a fire hazard for slow-burning pyrotechnics. Thus, no hot girls. The number of beautiful women in a bar correlates directly to the kind of status statement they can make with a Facebook check-in. Since there's nothing to #humblebrag about in a place that decorates with mounted moose heads and NASCAR memorabilia, you'll rarely find anything more eye catching than a neon Miller Lite sign in a dive bar.

The pool table, like bathroom graffiti and horrible lighting, is a dive bar staple. The crafty billiards veteran hangs out by the green felt and he's ready to take you for every dollar you have. He buys your trust with a few complimentary tall boys and gains your confidence by letting you win a few games. Then he doubles down, makes a few "lucky shots," and threatens to break your legs in a back alley unless you can come up with the $3500 you owe him. Suddenly bottle service and bathroom attendants don't seem like such a waste of cash.

Forget tax reform, the key to turning around America's small businesses is in our country's reserve of loudmouthed television personalities. Seriously. All it takes for a failing bar to be successful is 48 hours worth of interior renovations and exaggerated head nods by Bar Rescue's Jon Taffer. If your local watering hole has a filthy kitchen or an aloof general manager, it's only a matter of time before Gordon Ramsey of Kitchen Nightmares kicks down the door and starts screaming the place into cash cow. If the neighborhood inn sells barbecue burgers lathered in Ranch dressing, Guy Fieri's redlining his GTO there to grab a bite.

Dive bars offer the rare opportunity to monopolize the night's soundtrack and this guy's more than willing to oblige. We hope you like David Lee Roth because the jukebox hero has six dollars worth of quarters and he'll be playing Van Halen until last call.

Whether it's a biker bar or one that attracts dudes in extraordinarily tight jeans, you're bound to find a white guy with sleeve and several facial tatoos at the dive bar. When most of your disposable income goes to inking up your arms and buying cases of Marlboro cigarettes, cheap beer becomes a way of life.

Because their most worthwhile attractions are dart boards and out-of-order Golden Tee games, dive bars have to pull out all the stops to create a lively atmosphere. By "all the stops" we mean booking a hackneyed rock band that covers Journey and The Police. When "Pour Some Sugar on Me" breaks down, the place will go buck like a prepubescent girl at a Justin Bieber concert. It's like the dance floor at a bad wedding. The hardwood is sticky, it's loud as hell, and white people are going absolutely bananas.

Nothing gets local yokels turnt quite like $6 pitchers, UFC on Fox, and AC/DC on heavy rotation. As a result, Saturday nights at the dive bar feature haymakers and bottle-to-head overhand swings as part of the live entertainment. Unless you want to test your endorsement of Obamacare with a pool cue to the face, keep your mouth shut. If you keep the conversation to Dale Earnhardt tributes, praise for Sarah Palin, and salutes to John Cena's toughness, all you'll have to nurse on Sunday morning is a domestic beer hangover.