Now you know which one won the poll.

Old Engelbert Drunkerdink thought he had some swagger, in his cut off acid-washed jean shorts, replete with a fanny pack and snug schmedium tee. 

He did not.

He had a habit of walking up next to, and then on top of, his girlfriend. He had that stance of a wrestler before the state meet. All up on the toes.

The act isn't working. The jig is up and I call him out.

"I can respect that," he said before giving me a handshake. "But," he paused.

"How drunk do I have to be to get in?"

How. Drunk. To. Get. In.

How. Drunk.

Not sober, mind you. He asked how drunk he needed to be to be welcomed into the bar.

And then we found out he was bleeding. 

"Did you fall?" I said.

"No."

"Then how are you bleeding."

"That's old."

It wasn't.

"If we look after him is he good," said a friend of Drunkerdink.

"There's a lot to unpack here. He's drunk and bleeding, so that's no."

"What about me," said the girlfriend who was also out of sorts.

"I'm afraid not. You both stumbled up together and ..."

"Are you looking at my eyes?"

"Um, yeah. They're very red."

"I'm not drunk, I just have eczema. This is from eczema."

It turns out she was trying to say emphysema, a completely different illness.

As the Uber arrives, Drunkerdink stops to say one more thing to me before passersby see the tail-end of the conversation.

"Hey, hey, I get it. You won't let me in because I'm too sober."

Touche, you got me. 

Friday Fake No. 1 (369): Yank-ee Doodle Dandy

A standard case of wrong height and not remembering how to spell the middle name. Caught in a lie, the woman who was 5-foot-6 tried to snatch it from my hand. She might've succeeded had she been the ID height of 5-10.

Saturday Fake No. 1 (370): Close to the Vest

Not much to this one, aside from it coming sandwiched between a man whose ID stated he was 5-7 when he was 5-11 and getting in a hissy fit, and girl who vomited on her crotch. All she did was hold her purse and phone reeeeeal close to her face in a desperate attempt to hide the fact nothing else had her name on it. Maybe she had a label maker in her clutch.

*Hissy fit dude never changed his height since he was 16 and vomit crotch was not allowed inside, obviously.

These stories should tie you hooligans over until St. Patrick's Day, or St. Paddy's Day as the correct kids call it. It will be my first time working at the bar during the Old Irish-American Holiday. Please send your thoughts and prayers my way.