I wish any of these are going to be as exciting as the Montgomery Brawl. There’s no hat flip, no swimming, no chairs, and no boats.

Some of these stories, however, do have a connection: over-privileged older white women.

The most thin-skinned animal on the planet. Loud enough to get others to try and fight for them, but too afraid to actually step in and get their hands dirty. You just know that first shove on the dock guard was precipitated by the drunk mom leaning over and saying, “Billy, you gotta protect our boat!”

That woman and the following must be cousins.

Groupie Grumps

Where are these people living that “I’m with the band” still works in a post-COVID world? You need passes, badgers, stickies, laminates, escort privileges, guest lists, and then you might be allowed to the ultra exclusive…waiting room with a Red Bull cooler. Or backstage.

Which if you’ve seen backstage areas indoors, it sounds a lot cooler than it is. There’s a reason we put up pipe and drape. It’s just wires and containers in dark spaces. You really can’t see the crowd. You have to be really into sweaty clothed butts to want backstage passes.

A group of women, over-served and over-tanned, started a fight out front out front because they were still living in 1979 — when “I’m with the band” worked for what I can only assume was cocaine and quaaludes.

So, I have to back up. Yes, they were actually with the band.

Which band you ask? Someone cool like a mega headliner national touring act?

Or maybe the moms of an up-and-comer?

Surely it must be someone noteworthy to throw hands with college co-eds on a Saturday night.

Yes, they were with the band.

The backing band. Of the first opener. Of a non-sellout show in the venue’s third smallest room.

And these women had the caucacity to sneak past one of the largest humans in any given area.

But I wasn’t the one who was angry. No, that rage belonged to the women at the front of the line. At first, I had to talk down the co-ed HBIC from attacking me, thinking I would just roll over for these California Raisins. After some assurances, the HBIC lashed out and started a verbal beatdown, or so she thought.

Listen, these women haven’t worn ear plugs to a show in over 40 years. They didn’t hear a damn thing you said. Their morning hairdryer also spews more hot air than you ever could.

Sensing a loss of her precious space at the front of the line, the HBIC laid a hockey check into a Raisin.

It was like seeing a toddler play with am inflatable clown — it looked cool for a hot second before the clown beats you back.

The Raisins and Co-eds are now pushing and shoving by the entryway. My entryway. By the time I saw a hand stretch out for a glob of hair I yelled for the crowd to stop or none of them would get in.

Remember the no ear plugs comment I just made? Yeah, I should’ve known better, too. Nobody stopped doing a damn thing. More hair than I was able to grow in Covid was pulled in such a short amount of time, though still much less than the aftermath of a Lil Baby show I worked.

A band member rushed outside and tried to vouch for the Raisins to no avail. He said he’d even go inside and grab some cash.

I never saw him again.

I finally stepped in because as “hot” as the layperson would think six women fighting is, it’s never like in Stripes or Old School. If anything it more or less plays out like the dress scene in Bridesmaids.

Yelling. Screaming. Spewing bodily fluids. And some poor woman ends up in the street.

The Raisins lingered a few more minutes more until the adrenaline wore off. One of them received a moment of post-hair-pulling clarity — either get beat down again by a much younger generation, or go to another bar to be someone else’s problem. They walked down the sidewalk and hailed a cab.

And by that I mean they yelled at a passing Uber driver until he relented for $20 cash.

No, I didn’t let the women at the front of the line in, either.

Because where’s a folding chair when you need one?