New Ways to Get Kicked Out of Bars

Don’t try and shower in a bar. That’s not tolerated. 

Lane Cummingsby Lane Cummings

I was once kicked out of a bar (ha, right, just once). I was really drunk and the bartender said, “I’m not serving any of you guys (my friends) until someone takes her (me) home.” Yep. So I stood up, brushed some imaginary dirt off my sleeves in a drunkenly haughty manner and said, “That’s fine. I don’t need you to throw me out; I’ll throw myself out.” And off I went… with a friend trailing behind me, trying to get me to put on my coat.

Sure there are common ways to get chucked out of bars—drunkenness, fighting, throwing things or taking off your clothes (depends on the venue), I feel there is lots of truly sub-par behavior tolerated at bars that warrants a kick-out, or at least a warning.

Tables Breaking Out into Song.

Picture this: you’re talking to your friends. You’re catching up. November Rain comes on the jukebox. Ohh, wait, all of your friends are suddenly in a silent movie, because the next table over is yelling “Ooh, everybody needs some time… on their own,” over and over in a sing-song tone that reminds you of the sounds that urine makes, tinkling on a Guns N’ Roses album cover.  What I’m saying is that they’re doing the song no justice. And then they raise arms and start to sway. Awesome. My friends and I have to wait out this 9 minute song, until they’re done singing before we can hope to hear each other again.

Taking too Long to Order.

The crowd at the bar is nine deep. There’s one person ahead of you. She (it’s always a woman, and if you have a problem with me saying that, find me on twitter and we’ll duke it out, tweet-style, honey) can’t seem to decide what to order. “What’s that?” She asks, pointing to an array of bottles. The bartender leans in straining to hear or understand what the heck she’s talking about. “Can you make me a taste of a blueberry martini and a pear margarita so I can try them?” What?? I just want to order two hefs and be on my way. It’s excruciating. The bartender looks like he’s being tortured by her. She always ends up ordering the most time consuming drink, like a pink-lady-frozen-margarita and then—when she turns around to leave, to go back to her table full of hooches she always always bumps into me or steps on my foot. Always. And then flashes me a look like, “What are you doing?” Get her out.

Getting it On.

Call me an old geezer, call me a prude, but I don’t like to see two people groping and squeezing each other’s loose bits while I’m trying to enjoy a drink and unwind after a long day. Why? Because I always can’t help but stare and think, “huh.” And one member of the couple about to engage in coitus always notices me, and flashes me some look like I rule the Planet of Pervs. Honestly, if you can see some tongue while two people are making out and a hand or two isn’t accounted for, it’s time to tell them to button it up or walk down the road to the Safari Motel. Or check into The Inn of the Backseat of Car on Deserted Road.