Don’t Ruin Your Local Bar

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Don't Ruin Your Local Bar

It takes a special level of dickishness to get kicked out of your local bar. It takes an even greater level to create the kind of situation that leaves you telling your friends you can “never, ever go there again.” Most of the time, it’s all bullshit and you will find yourself back there a few weeks later after you have gotten over the embarrassment of publicly tongue wrestling a girl who looked like the doppelgänger of John Goodman. Every so often, however, there comes a time when you know that you have achieved a perfect storm of Jägermeister and inherent fuckwittery. You have done the unthinkable. Without realizing it, you have ruined your local bar.

The local bar is the natural habitat of the drunken, testosterone-filled college guy. Let’s face it, we aren’t a breed with sophisticated taste. We aren’t the kind of people looking to sample local craft beer; we are the kind looking to sample girls who will let us raw dog and leave without the pretense of exchanging phone numbers.

That is why it is so devastating to get banned from your local bar. It’s a place that is comfortable, where you know exactly which fluorescent light to stand under if you want to make a subprime prospect’s acne problem disappear in an instant. It is where you know which day you can get drunk off your ass on happy hour prices, and where you can slip a bartender a few dollars so you can jump the queue and avoid mingling with the rest of the unwashed masses.

I remember the last time I got kicked out of my local bar. This was a place you could get away with almost anything. Being the cheap bastard that I am, I’d regularly try to sneak cans of warm domestic beer inside in my pockets. Inevitably, the roided-up Polish bouncers would pat me down and find the beer. Instead of sending me on my way, they would usher me inside and keep the cans for themselves — most likely to wash down the lethal cocktail of cocaine and protein powder that I think kept their pupils dilated and the veins in their temples throbbing.

It was a paradise. It was one of the few bars in the area. It drew an eclectic and invariably slutty mix of college students, young professionals, and girls who would make manager at McDonald’s one day. The last night we were there, it must have been close to Christmas — skanky Mrs. Clauses were looking to unload Santa’s sack at every turn. The argument started when a friend of mine decided to call out one of these subpar Santas for having a girlfriend who was way out of his league. Credit to the little house elf, he gave as good as he got and before long, we were downing our last shots and forced out onto the street.

The lack of time to prepare meant that as the bar’s security dumped us on the sidewalk, some of us didn’t have time to use the urinal. It wasn’t our fault that the alleyway we decided to use to drain all of the cheap booze backed onto the smokers’ area of the bar. My friend certainly didn’t realize his warm stream of piss was aimed directly at the leg of a guy who looked exactly like a mid-1990s WWF wrestler.

It may have been our fault when — after the poor man’s Stone Cold Steve Austin rightly threatened to tear off our dicks — another friend launched himself at the grate separating the alley from the bar. As he hung there like a demented King Kong telling Stone Cold exactly where he would shove his own dick, you could see his face drop and he jumped clear off the grate like it was an electric fence.

“This guy is fucking huge. We better run.”

So we did. We bolted away from certain death — and our favorite local bar — as fast as our legs could carry us. There was always another bar, another happy hour, another dance floor of girls with questionable morals and no standards. But there is nothing quite like the loss of your local bar.

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