Guy walks up. No, wait, staggers up. Disheveled. Beer stains on his long-sleeve rugby polo. Looking for the way inside.

I stop him. We deny him. He looks around, confused. Bewildered. Eyes glazed over like the last Krispy Kreme in a gas station’s plastic showcase.

“Why? You need my ID.”

“No, sir. We feel like you’ve had too many to go in.”

“I’m fine. Totally cool, bro. Not even drunk.”

“Sir, we saw you almost hit that stop sign down the block. It’s not gonna happen tonight.”

“What’s your name? Why aren’t you letting me in?

“We think you’re too intoxicated.”

“So, your name’s Chris?”

…

…

…

“Sure.”

A lot to unpack in this edition. It was Sunshine’s last weekend. I met a guy who told me he just got drafted by the Yankees, and we had a girl call the cops on us! Oh, and I hit seven IDs for the 10th time. Fun.

Sunshine’s Last Stand

The line was unbearably slow on Saturday, but when it was moving, it’s important to keep the ramp and stairs clear for incoming and outgoing traffic. What shouldn’t you do in this situation? Stand on the ramp.

Or in the doorway. Or on the side of the ramp. Or on the other, other side of the ramp. You know, just be inside the bar. Why are you even standing on a ramp near the entryway of a bar? It’s a bar. Go inside and drink and try to talk over the loud music. What? You find it patronizing that I have to duck 2 feet to listen to every other word you have to say? That sounds like a you problem.

What was I on?

Oh, the ramp, yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

So I ask Peanut to move these two girls and a guy from the doorway (base of the ramp) into the bar. We might have some people leaving in a bit and that’s about the worst place you could loiter. So, he moves them. But, like a boomerang, they return to the ramp. Only a few seconds later, mind you.

I tell Sunshine to move them as Peanut is now having a smoke break.

Sunshine heads in and asks them to move. At this time, people are, in fact leaving. And the next people in line happen to be a pair of siblings, one of which has cerebral palsy and needs his brother’s assistance getting up the ramp.

The two girls and a guy start talking shit to Sunshine, who was very upfront with them that he was an employee and all they needed to do was move off the ramp. Simple, right?

Nope.

The PHBIC (perceived head bitch in charge) took suggestions so badly that she leaned into Sunshine and swore him out. Like making contact with an official in sports, this also counts as an immediate ejection for us. Sunshine gets her out of his face and starts walking behind her, motioning them to not only get off the ramp, but out of the bar altogether. The PHBIC stood at the gate and said, “I am sober and I am calling the police!”

The police?

For who? For what?

You refused to move three times and then claimed assault when you made the initial verbal putdown. All while blocking our primary point of egress.

The cops often never come out for someone getting kicked out of a bar.

Oh, you know she was white, though. This was probably one of the worst things she thought happened to humanity in the last 20 years.

This was her 9/11.

How dare she be treated like, checks notes, a regular person.

Within 10 minutes, two cruisers and five cops show up.

For reference to how fucked up this response was, the bar called the cops for the following reasons (with response time and presence):

Broken Glass Door: 2 cops, 25 minutes (found culprit, released despite bloody hands and detailed photos and video)

Brass Knuckles: 1 cop, 35 minutes

Death Threat: 1 cop, 42 minutes

After Hours Gang Knife Threat: 1 cop, 55 minutes (after close)

To add insult to absolutely nobody’s actual injury, the cops took statements from everyone in PHBIC’s group, including two drunkards we kicked out. And Sunshine.

But not me. Not any other witness. Or the manager, who had tape access.

What a way to end your bar career, geez.

Party Bus From Hell

One fake ID, two people passing drinks from beyond the patio, one country bro tucking a cocktail in his waistline, a drunk chick log rolling over the fence, and an overzealous waiter/bartender/boyfriend who was bragging to the wrong people.

The girl with the fake kept trying to say she was almost 22 and that she was about to spend her 22nd birthday at the amusement park down the way. This ID was beyond bad, but she kept sticking to her story even though there was a fully-stocked party bus she managed to get on right behind her.

The two drink passers were trying to give Six Red Flags their drinks over the fence, to no avail. The second one who got caught was escorted out but then ran around our patio to jump over the gate. Her dress would not comply with this tensile strain, so she log rolled over (not the outdoor sport, the medical log roll where you attempt to roll over length-wise). She didn’t make it. Well, she did make it, but it wasn’t graceful and ended it laughable disaster.

The covert drink carrier was met with my hand and received a nice wet spot I’m sure ended up in pictures. I’ll pay for those pics FYI.

As for the boyfriend who was bragging that he knows his girlfriend’s ID was real because he “checks the bar book every month and catches fakes all the time,” he was laughed off the block.

“I check the book every month. I know what’s fake and what’s not.”

“Just for curiosity’s sake, how many do you have?”

“Like, 4 or 5.”

Sunshine had 39, and I’m up to a scant 628.

Rookie Move

A young gun tried walking right into the bar around 11:30 p.m. and was met with, well, me. Instead of taking the hint to talk to me about getting inside, he walks over to some random stranger drinking a vodka cranberry and tries to bribe him with getting in.

Again, tries to bribe someone with no power over the situation.

After the guy explained he wasn’t “the guy” the Boy of Summer made his way to me and asked how much he could offer to get him and his buddies through the door.

I don’t tell him a number. In fact, I never say a number.

He tells me that $50 for five should work. I said, “sure, show me the fifty.”

He turns to his friend behind him.

“Dude, there’s only three of us.”

BOS changes the terms of the deal.

“OK, then $20 for three?”

Me, being a dick, “No, I still like the sound of $50. So, that for three.”

BOS gets angry, swears up and down that he can buy and sell me, and that I’m a f***ot and so on, but the one thing I didn’t expect was his brag that he’s a Yankee.

A New York Yankee.

Just drafted from the University of Michigan.

Don’t bother googling who it was, he was lying.

The Boy of Summer claimed that he had just signed a $200,000 signing bonus and that he could shove $5,000 down my mouth right then and there.

I opened my mouth and pointed.

He opened his wallet and took out the money.

All $62.