The new guy declined to give a nickname on the spot, so we let fate decide. And boy, did fate intervene in the most magical of drunken ways.

I guess I have to clear up a few things from last weekend.

No, I did not get into a knife fight.

I’m putting myself on the same level of Nolan Ryan, whose seven no-hitters were great for a Hall of Fame career, or Britney Spears, because I keep doing things with great regularity, but I also have an umbrella handy at most times.

I can’t even fit the story of 5-foot-6 guy giving me the middle finger while playing the “I’m not touching you” game because it’s not remotely close to the top two moments of last weekend. I’m only mentioning it because now you have to visualize it.

There’s a reason full bottles of UV only cost $10, are brightly hued, and taste like sugar water. If you drink them, you’re still technically a child.

Instead of thinking ways to work around all sounds, I shall bring you a story centered on just one.

I took so many notes that I didn’t know where to start. I couldn’t prioritize one thought of the 30. And there are some straight-up bangers.

If you think men’s bathrooms are bodily fluid horror shows, women’s bar bathrooms are essentially Thunderdome meets Splash Mountain, and there’s always like 15 people jammed inside.

Cold weather makes people do dumb things. The synapses aren’t firing appropriately. One word becomes another, like how a Chevy Traverse becomes a Chevy Toyota in zero degrees.

If you’re unfamiliar with slanguage, it’s like trying to convey everything in one succinct line while also sounding like you’ve gone batshit insane. It was very popular in the 1920s and 30s.

A bouncer is a people pusher. The job, when a fight arises, is to get all parties outside the club, bar or venue, as fast as humanly possible.

We had a fight. A donnybrook. A brawl. A good old fashioned melee. Boys run amok. But this post isn’t about the fight. That’s the next post. This is about what happens in between.