This weekend will mark my second year at the bar and my longest time at a job since working for the newspapers. 

And I couldn't be happier. 

Because it's also about that time to do another countdown until the next milestone, which coincides with all those college kids coming back into town. And the new ones who have yet to test out the nightlife.

Fake No. 449: Rope-a-Dope

Last weekend several people threw me for a loop. Out of one group, there were six out-of-state vertical IDs. Six! I thought for sure one of them would be off. We had Utah (which almost nobody is from), California, Massachusetts, Florida, Virginia, and Wisconsin. And yet the only one lying about who they were was from right in our backyard.

Fake No. 450: A Real Letdown

Boy, when you reach the fifties and hundreds you want them to be special. But this woman was not feeling it, for me. She just wasn't as excited as I was about taking her ID. It's almost as if she didn't care about my feelings. Rude.

Fake No. 451: The Slow Burn

This one didn't get back to me until the day after, but this girl and her horrendous New Illinois fake thought she'd try and retrieve it from the bar the next day. 

Let me repeat: she wanted to get her FAKE back. Not a real ID. A bad forgery. Somehow in the process of making this work of trash, the forger smushed her face down a few pixels, turning her from Jenny to Jabba with the click of a mouse.

Forty-Nine To Go

Two times in the last three weekend I've had to use the same words to tell someone to leave me alone.

Sometimes people want to explain themselves after they've screwed up. And sometimes they want to keep telling themselves even though, "We got it." They follow me around like a sad puppy, waiting for an opening to state their case. The same case they've made for the last few minutes. No new information. Maybe it's drunk amnesia. Perhaps it's drugs. 

It's probably both.

And yet I keep uttering the same thing when I've had enough.

And I rarely have 'enough.' I have a thick skin, but I'm not one for repeating myself.

Here is the exact phrase I used last weekend:

"Stop talking. I understand. But if I hear you speak again, I will ban you from the bar forever. Not. One. More. Word. Literally. If you even say "OK," or "I understand," I will make it my mission never to allow you to drink again. Now nod and for the love of God, leave me alone."

They usually try and say their whole spiel one more time. Dumbass.

Oh, and another girl tried to shove a hot dog in her blouse. That's two different women with roughly the same response when confronted with the same food. One more and I think we can get a scientist to write a paper.