As night turns to day and back to night again, so do the tides within. And with a supermoon looming, the swirling, menacing emotions of rage, fear, and wrath are uninhibited.

I've never closed-fist punched someone. 

It's not a sensation I turn to in frustration, albeit from a video game rage quit against an unsuspecting pillow. 

But never another living creature. 

Which is why I do not understand why, after a few drinks, some loud music and electronic fractals of light, someone decides to clench their fist, pull back and drive until contact with skin, soft tissue or bone.

I understand the mechanics. I've taken some licks from my black-belt brother. I'm sure I can handle my own when push comes to something more significant than a push.

But it's not necessary on the job. 

It's stupid.

And if I think it's stupid to do so when force, no matter how light, might be necessary on the job, why the hell should you believe it's OK when you're in public?

Which brings us to Ms. Martin Lawrence III. If going out to the bars is your only avenue for letting it all hang out, why are you throwing cups and at people 10 minutes through the door?

If you're comfortable enough to wear a dress with Adidas flip flops, but fly off the handle at some choice words, you're not ready for prime time. 

And if you think you get any special privileges, know that I stopped caring the second you decided to look for trouble with a clenched fist. I don't care what you're name is. I don't care about your backstory.

I care about your age and your rage. I hope you have too much of one and not enough of the other. Is it OK for you to get angry?

Not in Big Momma's House.

(I'm the real Big Momma in this situation)

This movie has three Academy Award nominees.

Friday Fake No. 1 (306): Reading Rainbow

There's nothing more challenging than to ignore someone right in front of your face, knowing they're staring right at you. It's much easier, though, with a book in hand. I was able to finish a chapter while both parties stood in silence, one side perhaps realizing that someone 4-feet-11 inches is demonstrably shorter than someone 5-5.

Friday Fakes Nos. 2 & 3 (307 & 308): Partners in Crime

One ID snapped in half like a mousetrap while the boyfriend tried to pass off why his Facebook birthday and his ID birthday not matching was a funny joke. I laughed. He did not.

Friday Fake No. 4 (309): Creased Lightning

Gotta love it when the minors narc on themselves with an ID already bent and creased to high heaven.

Friday Fake No. 5 (310): Unlimited Funding

Words to the wise, if someone in a trap says "I'll offer you anything," they don't have much.

Bar crawls are nightmares. Themed bar crawls are worse. Here are some bad pennies that haunted the city streets.

The Slop Bucket: Is a Miller Lite more critical than not dropping your purse into a slop bucket full of beer, liquor, saliva and cigarette butts? Evidently, yes. And boy did she dive right into retrieve that wallet. Not daintily, either. Full submersion.  

Assault and Bat-Shittery: Scenario -- You're at the front of the line, people are leaving, and I'm about to let you inside. The natural reaction is, of course, to run in at a half sprint, grab a woman's chest, elbow an older woman in the head and claim that you did nothing wrong. The next step is to videotape me while claiming that I acted inappropriately while a third woman yells at you on your precious recording, "No, you should get sued, asshole!" It was 4 p.m.

As for the four Saturday IDs. I was too disappointed in the Badgers losing none of them hit home on the memorable scale. One was too short, one was too tall, one was supposed to be married, and one wasn't really from Ohio.

Fucking Ohio.