But She Has Diabetes!
Full disclosure, I do not have diabetes, but some people do. And that’s OK.
Yes, diabetes can make you look and sound like a drunkard having too many at the bar. What having diabetes doesn’t mean, is getting too drunk at the bar, and then claiming you have a medial diagnosis to explain your dastardly behavior.
Chatty Cathy and her friends shouldn’t be drowning in Lemon Drops like there’s a citrus surplus if she needs a steady hand to inject her insulin later. Or get too off balance that she knocks off her insulin pump.
Or two friends clearly hold one up for balance. That one gets old. “That’s just how girls walk,” they say. “She has low blood sugar.”
No, she admitted to drinking three tequila shots and weighs 95 pounds. “But we had the same amount?” While that may be true, none of you weight 95 pounds, no offense. Or they’ll pair it with, “he’s way drunker than I am,” while pointing to another person also in your exact current state — wasted and refusing to understand logical arguments at 1:15 am. Hooray. Pot, meet kettle.
Marinara was attempting to kick out a woman for [insert disgusting carnage that happened in the women’s restroom] when she ran into a table like thrice divorced Matt Foley who lives in a van down by the river. Luckily for us, the structural integrity held and only a few barstools were harmed.
Princess Grace, meanwhile, stumbled as she rebounded from her fall but refused help from Marinara.
Her girlfriend finally made her way up and asked why she was being treated in such a way. Marinara said she was throwing up — a little here, a little there — and that it was time to go.
“So, you’re kicking her out because she has diabetes?”
Could you, theoretically throw up multiple times if you had diabetes? Yes. But what’s getting you there? Was it the shots?
Probably the shots, the bombs, and the cocktails. Sugar water that could be ignited.
Grace was bordering on incoherent, so her friend came up again to her defense, asking why her medical issues meant she was getting kicked out. Lady, if there’s any reason to get kicked out of a bar, throwing up and falling into a table unassisted are right up there, regardless of medical history.
Outside, Grace was even more aloof. We were looking out for her more than her friend at this point, as the friend just kept telling people she was being ejected for diabetes. We told her to call Grace an Uber and she told us she would and waved us off. Ten minutes later we found out that the phone she was holding wasn’t for car delivery, but rather to facetime her boyfriend to complain about her ordeal.
Her own ordeal.
The car finally arrived, but it wasn’t theirs. She ordered a silver sedan. She attempted to steal a man’s red crossover.
And he relented!
You can only shout, “that’s not gonna end well,” so many times before the door slams shut.
A Whale Tail of Time
Speaking of yelling, if you have to scream, “I just met him tonight,” to justify your proximity to a man about to get his ass beat, you can just leave him be. You don’t have to keep defending a bad date.
He wasn’t even her ride, but she stuck around.
What was the payoff, exactly? Is it a drug thing? I’m thinking it was a drug thing, because he was definitely on something. In the lead-up to getting his ass kicked he:
Repeatedly left his drink unattended at the bar so frequently that Big Mac dumped it out and he had to buy a new one.
Bounced around the room from person to person, chatting up people who weren’t the young girl with the whale tail and crop top.
Called three guys in line the f-word that isn’t fuck just because they were wearing Kansas City Chiefs hats.
Doubling down on the slur, replying, “this is a free country, I can call them f**** if I want to.”
And still this girl was like, “he’s bad … but …”
Yes, he’s bad. Not in a cool 50’s greaser/James Dean kind of way. More like when we all found out Armie Hammer was into cannibalism kink and a serial sexual abuser. Just because a guy seems normal for a split second, it’s OK to distance yourself when he yells, “people nowadays can’t take jokes anymore.”
Like, at that point it’s a given you know he said the n-word or something similar.
But thankfully they didn’t leave together.
I mean, all signs pointed to them ending up at the same destination, they probably just took separate cars to get downtown.
The Wrong Bar Foam
Beer foam = good. Foaming at the mouth = not so good.
If I’ve said it once … you get the idea. Pinballing is my favorite way to tell if someone isn’t handling being in public anymore. That and sleeping where you shouldn’t. And fighting.
Luckily this man succeeding in showcasing all three, and we still gave him a chance to call his ass down before he got himself into more trouble.
First, we witnessed the Little Rascal doze off, then when we startled him awake he rattled off the walls, patrons, and load-bearing columns. Finally, we thought a few minutes outside would do him some good. Get that crisp winter air in his lungs. Normally that snaps people to, but it made this guy angry. He started to lash out, sort of.
He played the dumbest possible version of “I’m not touching you” I’ve ever seen. He’d stand up, get in someone’s face — then later Crash and myself — and then claim some kind of constitutional right to privacy when they physically moved him back.
Yes, he claimed he had a constitutional right to get in someone’s business so long as he didn’t touch them.
Keeping the act afloat until he started to initiate contact, he was … handled before lashing out with wild swings that had less force than flicking a paper football.
His friend came out and asked why he got kicked out. I really just pointed to the fact that he was foaming at the mouth and trying to get people to hit him.
The friend hit us back with the classic, “but he’s with us,” and, “we have others inside, we’ll watch him.”
Oh, you’ll watch him? We didn’t know you existed until right now. It’s been 15 minutes and the bar is less than half full. Even by mistake you would have seen us escort him out.
But no, you’re trying to shame us in public like we should give a damn about horrible people simply because it’s cold outside. In Tom Segura’s words, why do I need to treat these TikToks — who have watched too many first amendment YouTube videos but hasn’t figured out that a lot of them are staged — better than people who aren’t actively trying to fight everyone?
Where’s My Mahomie?
You already get the idea that someone got kicked out. It’s the theme. Moving past that we now meet our heroes outside the bar. He’s fairly tall, scruffy, with a blue coat and a polo, muttering to himself and calling us, you guessed it, not fuckers.
In the span of three minutes he’s insulted each of us, our mothers, punched the light post, the bus stop sign, kicked the fence, and threatened to burn the place down.
Otherwise known as “one cool guy.”
As Cool Guy is pacing outside, his friend in a Patrick Mahomes jersey comes outside to his aid.
“Bro, why are you outside?”
”We kicked him out.”
”What? He’s only had one drink.”
”He’s had a lot more than that.”
The group of five or six walked up from another bar. Most were older, late 30s to early 40s. Strolling up in the cold has its benefits — for the inebriated. Cold weather creates shivering, rosy cheeks, runny noses, and frantic foot traffic that masks just how much alcohol is impacting your system.
Once they warm up to “room temperature” the veneer fades and they act their normal buzzed selves. Cool Guy was fresh off a Tall Boy Bud Light and at least one shot. That’s 3 drinks since arriving. One of those was his last one.
“So, you’re kicking him out over three drinks? Tons more people inside had three or four drinks.”
”Yeah, whatever the count was, it was one too many than he could handle.”
”Then kick out everyone that had four drinks,” he said as he crossed his arms like I was about to do something.
Disappointed that I wasn’t going to eject those who had exactly four drinks, Mahomes started accusing of the people coming in that they had fakes, and that we’ll kick out anyone who has exactly four or five drinks.
“Woah, it’s five drinks, now?” I asked. “Can’t wait to hear what the actual number is later.”
”Nah, you’re just messing with us. Let him back in for $10.”
First off, embarrassingly low. Second, not my first rodeo.*
A member of the group walks out to see what the hold up is, Mahomes says, “they kicked him out because he has diabetes!”
NO FUCKING WAY.
Out of nowhere. Didn’t see it coming. Wasn’t mentioned at all in the first one, two, three, four, or five drink count. Now this man has full-fledged Type 1 diabetes.
What are the odds?
Mahomes, seeing me in hysterics over the diabetes comment says that it’s not a laughing mater. I disagreed and proceeded to laugh even harder.
Once I caught my breath, Mahomes whips out his phone. He’s recording me and the bar. Asks for my name, I pull down my mask and give it.
“Yeah,” he says to Facebook or Instagram Live, “we out here, just minding our own business while my man got kicked out for having four drinks.”
”I thought it was five?”
”He’s not even that bad,” Mahomes says not acknowledging me nor his friend’s urgent medical condition.
”Yo, tell them that' you’re fine.”
”I’m actually pretty fuckin’ drunk right now, man,” Cool Guy said.
Total reversal. Love to see it. But he wasn’t done.
“No…no…they kicked you out though for no reason. Tell them how many drinks you had tonight.”
”I had like, six, seven…eight...” the Cool Guy said before his voice trailed off and he could add more drinks to his tally.
Mahomes stopped recording immediately and took his phone from face to pocket.
Seldom does the vindication come from two fronts.
*I have never been to a real rodeo, but I would love to know if they hand out certificates like baseball stadiums do to little kids for “baby’s first game.” I’d even love a tee shirt that says “My First Rodeo” with a timestamp on it in the style of a brand ‘flaming’ the shirt. I would pay upwards of $35.
Speaking of cowboy hats and clothing, my friend Maui visited a few times in the lead up to my retirement. He was talking to a woman on the patio about … something I wasn’t paying any attention to. The conversation paused and she told him, “thank you Mr. XL.”
Coming back to what was happening under my nose me, I said, “XL? He’s at least a 2X.”
Unbeknownst to me, the woman came up to Maui’s chest where all she could see was the logo on his vest.
Excel.
Right there in big, bold embroidery.
