Part I: Midnight in the Garden of Foot and Eve-l

I should have called the police. They told me to, after all. The aggravated couple was trying to retrieve their friend's ID. But the call wasn’t about the card so much as the toe to the sternum and the heel to the lower abdomen.

I got kicked twice on Saturday. Adrenaline did as it’s supposed to do – diminish the feeling of each kick to a blip on the radar. Tell that to the bruises I had four days later.

Adam was trying to use a fake Maryland ID. It was horrendous, and for a brief minute, I felt sorry for him. Quality-wise the card was terrible. Pre-creased. Out of date. Terrible Photoshop. A no-doubter. A real Giannis slam dunk. Enough said and it was in my pocket.

“Do you know the ABC's,” Britney said. “Do you know the ABC's? Because you’re legally not allowed to take his ID.” (I’m calling her Britney because that’s the No. 1 Basic Bitch name for a woman.)

“Do you mean the law? Then yes, I know the law and will gladly tell you why you should walk away.”

“But it’s not right for you to take it.”

The thing is, I know that. It’s a state-by-state issue, however, and my state thinks a bar confiscating an ID is not at all a big deal. Ordering, paying, shipping, and then using one in pursuit of gaining an illegal benefit is. You’ve got a punitive and jail-time consequence, plus you’ll make someone my size slightly perturbed.

It’s also called a confiscation, not theft. Everyone hands over their ID willingly. Several rules of engagement even hamstring me from physical contact. Until, of course, Britney broke one of them. Don’t force your way inside, otherwise known as trespassing.

After showing me what she thought was a legal ruling found on Google, Britney barged through the entrance seeking the manager. Strange, she didn’t even have a Kate Gosselin haircut.

Oh, and that Google snippet was this blog written by a Duke student. Duke, home of all our best boat-shoe wearing role models. 

Her storming the gate forced my hand out toward her in a languid clothes-lining motion. I corralled her back into GenPop, but it was one armbar too many for her boyfriend, Trevor.

(I didn’t find Trevor on a list. I think it’s a douchy name.)

It’s 12:30 in the morning and there are 275 people within a 100-foot radius of me. The last thing I need is a brawl near the end of a 9-hour shift.

Trevor doesn’t think that way.

After putting his hands on me, he tells me to “get out of here, man.”

Get out of here? I’m at work. I think you have the situation confused.

And that’s when Adam’s girlfriend, Eve, takes her running start from 10 feet away.

Eve is petite. I thought she was going to run in like Britney, but the heeled boots had something else in mind. I stretched my hands out and met her shoulders. Like a kid in classic cartoons, her swings wouldn’t reach me.

She must like kickboxing.

Eve leaned her body back and gave two quick kicks to my chest. One high. One low. My hands still on her shoulders, I shoved her back into Britney. Adam was nowhere in this altercation, shame because I know his full name and real home state.

Eve managed to sock one of our other employees in the eye. No small feat considering he’s nearly as tall as me.

After a few minutes since they became Snapchat Famous, they ran off, hopefully as far East as their 20-year-old legs can take them. While an exciting part of a weekend story, it wasn't the highlight of my weekend. BY. FAR.

Part II: Wienersatchel

There are a few things I have yet to witness in this lifetime. The Grand Canyon. The Northern Lights. The Caribbean Sea. A Tolerable Chicago Bears Fan.

You see a lot of things on this job. But I wasn't prepared for this.

 A woman raped her clutch purse with a chili dog.

Oscar Mayerette made a poor life choice.

All she had to do was eat the chili dog, replete with mustard, onions, and cheese, outside the gate before entering the bar. Her friend in front of her popped the last bite in her mouth, and she was all set to join the fun.

Mayerette went right for her purse. Not a big bag like women use at the movie theater, but a clutch purse for an ID, phone, and maybe a compact mirror and some makeup.

Not a fully-loaded and unprotected chili dog.

We didn’t let her into the bar. Her friends tried to persuade Peanut and me that she threw it away even though we could hear one of them say "I can't believe she shoved a hot dog in her purse!"

Same.

Part III: Gravy Train

In the almost criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups. The bouncers who investigate IDs and the general populace who shame users in line. These are their stories.

Dun. Dun.

Nos. 399 & 400: The Blunder Twins

I danced a jig. Not a good jig like proper Irishmen. A Bruce Willis in The Last Boy Scout jig. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the points across. And several people started dancing, too.

Not dancing were the two kids who brought different Michigan fakes, although they were invited to join the celebration.

No. 401: The Ohio State Buckeyes Volleyball Team

Not a clever title here. I took an ID from a member of The Ohio State Buckeyes Volleyball team. Normally, being surrounded by five women all 6-foot and taller would be a dream come true, but I’ll take the story and the ID more. To boot, the girl (after looking her up on the school roster) turned out to be OVER 21 years old. She just didn’t have her ID with her so she used her sister’s. One problem: after repeatedly saying she was on the team, the sister on the card didn’t go to The Ohio State University. And was my age.

She joins the prestigious list of sports fakes that includes Central Michigan Football, Alma Men’s Soccer, and Davenport Men’s Hockey.

No. 402: Secret Smile

The kid didn’t stand a chance. Even distracted by a crowd of women nearer to eye level than I’m used to, I still managed to snag a smiling Indiana fake.

Nos. 403 & 404: Duds in the Bucket

Country music rarely brings the boys to the yard, but damn right, there are a few tours.

One young gun had an Iowa without any of the markers – raised text, smooth finish, flimsy feel. The other one looked he was 17, which I hope is how much he paid because it was BAD.

No. 405: Hyper-Vigilant

Indiana, man. Just stop. Get a better ID, please. The gold star isn’t fooling any fake maker. And even though I thank you for the no teeth rule, you could improve upon the pink header and the bird on the back. It’s like a kid was left in charge with a hand-me-down Crayola set with only beige, pink and red to come up with a design in 10 minutes.

No. 406: “What if I lied?”

“Well, you did lie, that’s why I have the ID now.”

No. 407: “The rain is getting on my phone.”

She said underneath my umbrella.

No. 408: I Got Pesos

So, here’s the thing. Just because you have a beard, doesn’t mean you pass for over 21. I knew a kid in high school that was 16 and grew a full beard like every night. Your facial abandonment symptoms do not mean I will grant you immediate access. Also, if you’re five inches taller and have the wrong eye color. That too will end the conversation.

He did try and show me pictures of his girlfriend on Facebook. She was pretty.

And like the pesos in his wallet, not at all remotely relevant to anything.

No. 409:  Giddy Up

The boyfriend said, “Well, I don’t think it’s a fake.” Gee, thanks.

I would’ve liked to go full Poirot, too. Patty here had a Butler Bulldog keychain. Butler is a college in Indiana, not Illinois like her ID and not in Michigan, where she's from. I know this because we played Butler in football at Drake, and would break down the huddle with “one, two three .. fuck ‘em in the Butler.” Crass, but effective.

Nos. 410 & 411: Disavowed

Nothing better than seeing a group of a dozen people completely throw two members in the middle of the party under the bus.

“Oh, them? We just met them in line.”

In the middle of the line? Whatever.

No. 412: See Part I

No. 413: WisconSINite

Not only was the ID fake, but it wasn’t even hers! That’s a huge party foul. Like taking the last cheese curd in the Leinenkugel’s canoe. (It makes sense, trust me.)