Half-Assed Bullshit
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.
Members Only
Shirt, shoes, pants, and that’s about it. A pulse is preferred, too. What it takes to get into a dive bar has been the same for generations. Sure, dive bars have regulars. College bars have classes. Night clubs have power players. Breweries have mug clubs.
What we don’t have are Members Only jackets. With actual membership attached to them.
If you’re ever in a no-win scenario, please don’t try to ingratiate yourself with the person who put you into said scenario. No, our bar does not have members. Regulars, yes, like all places, but not card-carrying members of a secret order.
And even if we did, I’m not letting your drunk cousin get in who, wait, what is he doing? Oh, he’s throwing up in the trees. Yes, he sounds like a winner. I want him in my club.
Instant Karma
Exclusive access to the bar on busy nights doesn’t take a whole lot. Knowing my name is an important start, even if I won’t know yours. I’ll know your face, or I’ll friend you on Facebook or Snapchat,
And if you’re reading this and I friended you on Facebook or Snapchat recently, well, secret’s out. Oops.
And if you don’t have the gumption to insist we’re members of a sacred fraternity, tough luck. We have nothing but time until someone decides to leave and you can swap places.
No, I don’t care that you need to go to the bathroom. If you see a line but have to drop-trou, look for the nearest and easiest bathroom access point. Hint, it won’t be the place with the line.
Complaining will get you nowhere. Flattery might even send you back a few spaces, because I know it’s disingenuous. And worst of all, never try and barge your way through.
Now none of you are getting in. Tough luck trying to find that bathroom when your bladder is about to explode.
One group felt slighted. But they were warned. After the group left we heard the usual hurtful words.
What we didn’t expect was for one of the group to relieve himself under the overpass.
If you’re going to deposit some minerals into the city, its best to do three things first. 1. Have someone watch your back. A spotter, if you will. 2. Make sure you’re not right out in the open. Shrubs can help in a pinch. 3. Try, at all possible, not to do it directly in front of a police cruiser.
They broke all the rules, but I feel No. 3 was their biggest failure.
Napoleon vs Genghis Khan
Small against short is biblical. As is stupid against smart. Small and stupid against big and smart, however, is rarely told. As if being big and strong is against the mold. I went to college. I passed all my classes, did good in a couple, too.
And in my arena, I am definitely smarter than you, no matter how expensive your clothes are or the amount of Founding Fathers or Black Cards in your ‘missing’ wallet. Or what your last name is. Or that you have a driver.
The Napoleonic Complex is real. Even if Napoleon wasn’t really that short.
But I’d like to introduce the Genghis Khan-plex. The idea that, if you are smaller, or have a shorter fuse, then why should you pick a fight you are destined to lose by force? Can a smaller person win a fight? Of course. Martial arts and weapons level a playing field faster than Thanos’ finger snap.
But.
I am far more likely to engage in a battle of words than in a show of strength. I can’t plan for crazy. Can’t know what a person has on them, or in them. So I keep my distance, even though I may have the tools to win both argument and fight, but winning by matters of the mind is significantly more satisfying. And safer.
In other words, you’re not going to make me angry enough to stop you by force. That action is only cause-and-effect-based and my default setting is to always think you’re going to try and start some shit. If you want to show me you belong with the big boys, prove it with evidence and try to catch me off guard. Not with fists. That's a recipe for your disaster.
Describe Him
We get people tipping us off to possible situations all the time. Some of it pans out, most of it doesn’t.
Certain situations require more information than others, specifically the basics you’d find on an ID. Height. General facial features. Clothing. All important identifying factors.
Yeah, he was wearing some … half-assed bullshit.
Stunning. For a guy who can talk your ass off our informant was tight-lipped.
And right.
Sometimes you go out to the club and put on your best cologne, flat-black V-neck shmedium, and faded boot cuts, ready to mow down the ladies, or whichever gender you prefer, and sometimes you just put clothes on your body in no particular order.
And you go out on the town in some half-assed bullshit. He might be broke or a genius, because if he committed a crime that night, I’d be hard-pressed to spot him in a lineup.