Last night this punk-ass bitch walked into my bar. I could tell he was a punk-ass bitch by the way he got snotty when I asked to see his identification. You'd a thought I was asking for his sister's phone number the way he moaned and bitched like a punk-ass bitch. I told him the only way he was ever going to get served in this bar is to show identification.
So he hands me his license, grunting and cursing the whole way, and I'm looking at his date of birth (he's 22), thinking what a little punk-ass bitch-ass bitch this bitch is and how, if he's this much aggravation now, how agro is he gonna be later, when he starts getting boozy.
"You know what, dude?" I said, tossing the license on the bar, "I don't think I'm gonna serve you tonight. How about you come back when you think you can handle stress a little better."
"Fuck you," he said, giving me the finger and storming out of the bar.
I don't understand why so many people make such a production out of being carded. Why the resistance? It's only going to take that much longer before you get what you came for—a coldy in your grasp and a Jenny in your crosshairs—and worst of all, you're holding up service for everyone else.
Same thing goes for the front door: The line is around the block and you've got some 29-year-old weekend warrior at the entrance arguing about showing her card.
Oh please. She just spent three hours with her face in a tub of mascara—applying colors and textures and masks and doing everything she can to look 18 again—and now she's shocked we're carding her? People, she's the reason that line is around the block. Her and people like her—like the punk-ass bitch. And what they both need is a little crash course in Proper Identification Showing Procedures.
Top 5 tips on how to correctly show I.D. at the bar
1. Bring identification: Now, there's a novel concept. In order to display identification correctly, one must first bring it. I can not convey the deep, deep, drilling-to-the-bottom-of-my-bowels sorta loathing that overwhelms a bartender when he must turn away a caravan of busty bachelorettes because one of them forgot her I.D. It makes you want to reach over the bar and strangle her with the bridal veil.
Or, even worse, when you go downtown with five of your buddies, and you go through the whole going-downtown production: you shower, shave, dress all spiffy, pick up your buddies, find parking, walk to the club, wait on some bullshit line for like 30 minutes and finally arrive at the front door, only to hear one of your friends announce that he didn't bring his license, and you're like, "You fucking idiot! Why the hell didn't you bring it!?" And he says, "Well, uh, I never have any problems getting into Winston's," and you snort, "That's because you work at Winston's, you unbelievable simp!" Then the five of you get out of line and commence wandering around downtown like Groucho (looking for a club that will have you), only to end up at Starbucks, wired on espresso and hitting on the laptop lonelies because that's all there is to hit on.
2. Have your shit ready: You've been in that line for a half-hour now, bored senseless. Here's an idea—why not pull out your driver's license and cover before you get to the door. Or is that crazy talk?
3. Don't dance the "Dude, I'm a regular" dance: Sometimes people resist showing their I.D. because having to do so makes them feel less than special. It's an ego thing. For instance, you probably have a regular watering hole where everyone knows your name, and it pleases you that everyone knows your name. But, say, on one particular night, you walk in and a new bartender is working. He doesn't know you from Atom Ant. So he asks for your I.D. Now, will you comply? Or will you dance the "Dude, I'm a regular" dance because your ego is fragile as a puppy in a twister:
Bartender: "I.D. please."
Regular: "Dude, I'm a regular!"
Bartender: "That's fantastic. I.D. please."
Regular: "But I know Chuck."
Bartender: "Who's Chuck?"
Regular: "He's Tom's friend."
Bartender: "And Tom is…?"
Regular: "Dating Rick's sister."
Bartender: "Wow, man, you're a regular V.I.P. Now, how about that I.D.?"
4. Age is irrelevant: It doesn't matter if you're 40 years old. Maybe it's dark in there. Maybe you're a 20-year-old party girl who just spent the last three hours immersed in a mascara bath trying to look older. Or maybe it's not an age thing at all. Maybe the bartender wants to see if you're too drunk to serve. The only thing worse than a punk-ass bitch is a drunk-ass punk-ass bitch, and nothing tips off the bartender to your level of intoxication more than when you have to do the old "Driver's License Fish and Fumble."
5. Don't argue: The more you argue about showing your I.D., the more I want to see it. Jesus Christ, man, are you undercover FBI or something? Is your identification embedded under your skin for security's sake? I promise I won't blow your cover. Just reach into your pocket and pull out your I.D. so you can hurry and start doing what it was you came here to do—complain about drink prices and grope the waitress in a drunken stupor. B
E-mail ed@edwindecker.com and copy editor @SDcitybeat. Visit www.edwindecker.com.