The Impossible Dream

Me, at da club

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

Wow, like TLW says, I’ve just got so much to tell y’all!  I’m going to get right to what’s most important:  I was kicked out of a bar.  I have always, always, always wanted to be able to say this.  And I don’t care what the Baltimore girls who were present for this experience say – it DOES count as being kicked out of a bar even if you never made it inside the bar.  It’s my story and I’m going to love it and pet it just the way I want.

So I’m up in Atlantic City minding my p’s and q’s during a quiet little bachelorette party.  All the ladies were class acts, enjoying cocktails and chugging champagne at 3 pm that afternoon, when we got a call that a dear friend with a large gambling problem was staying in the penthouse of a well-known casino.  The friend was kind enough to invite our group over and hook us up with passes to a true Jersey Shore club inside this casino.  We polished off a few more bottles of everything in sight and headed out.

Hours later, we stroll up to the most enormous line ever for said club.  We wait.  And wait.  I’m feeling more than a bit self-conscious, because I can’t see a single thong or nipple ring on display in our entire group and these accessories appear to be requirements of the dress code at this watering hole.  Eventually our party makes it to the front of the line.  Everyone else in the group produces appropriate ID and VIP passes and is ushered in to da club.  Except me.  I hand over my license to a burly bouncer who immediately yells that I’m not going anywhere.  He gets on a headset and screams to all the other meatheads bouncers there’s a situation at the main entrance.  I think he also alerted NSA and the FBI he may need backup.  Code orange at the main entrance! 

I ask is there a problem?  Hell yes there’s a problem.  He’s been watching me bob and weave all over the line and there’s no way that I can come in to his bar already intoxicated, not on his watch.  Not on his watch.    Yes, I had been drinking all day but I was certainly not bobbing and weaving.  That’s what losers do.  So I explain that I was just doing like Soulja Boy says and letting peeps watch me crank dat, watch me roll.  He tells me to get out.  But I’m not in?  Ma’am, go to the back of the line again and if you can sober up I may let you in.  Um, what?  That sounds like a terrible plan. I can wait in line for 15 more minutes and come inside?  How about you just let me in and I’ll take a knee for 15 minutes.  Go to the back of the line now, he says. 

Those who know me know I don’t take kindly to being bossed around – that’s my job, not yours.  Those who know me also know that I can sometimes function as a great representative for myself.  So I put Barista on the back burner and bring out my inner Stein Mart HR lady.   Sir?  I understand your obligations here and I respect your committment to safety, but this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard—and suddenly, I’m being carted to the back of the line.  Where I wait, again.  This go round I pass the time working on my poker face and posture.  I soon return to the front of the line where I again pull out my ID and refuse to make eye contact with the same bouncer.

Don’t I know you?  Didn’t I just ask you to leave?  I shake my head no and continue staring at the floor.  I reach my hand out for my ID and take it back.  I slide past him, keeping my head down, and then run like hell inside to find my girls.  I expect wild applause for my deer-in-headlights entrance, which I have not had to use in years.  But no one is impressed by my quick thinking.  They’re all insisting that it’s not the same as being removed from the inside of the bar and would you look at that oh my God people in Jersey really DO beat the beat, holy shit.   It’s like watching baby unicorns.  You can’t look away. 

It counts.

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