Winter rages on, for at least a little while longer. And like all things in winter both fun and dangerous, like snow and ice, some things would make for great stories, and then there are stories I can actually tell.

For things to be exciting on this blog, parts of my weekend have to be an absolute nightmare.

So here is one of those stories where I’m only talking about the fun, fluffy snow, and not the ice beneath that bites you in the ass. Lol, just kidding. These people were out of control.

I’m going to give away the punchline early. I’m not slow-rolling the reveal like an M. Night Shyamalan flick.

A few weeks back a woman dropped her phone in the toilet. When one of the barbacks retrieved it, he did so with it wrapped in a towel, because, well, the phone fell into a dive bar toilet at 1:30 am.

Thinking the woman would simply grab the paper towel, our barback gifted it to her as if on a silver platter. Nay, said the woman! She threw caution to the wind and swiftly grabbed the phone, turned it on, found a number and put it to the whole left side of her face.

Oh, you know it was still wet.

She is now and forever known as: Toilet Phone.

We later found out she was in the police academy.

Protect and Serve.

And Wipe.

The Last Half Hour

Toilet Phone had two friends.

Her friends didn’t give a fuck about civil responsibility.

The Toiletry Amigos started some shit in the women’s bathroom. Shocker. If you think men’s restrooms are bodily fluid horror shows, women’s bar bathrooms are essentially Thunderdome meets Splash Mountain meets a Clown Car. In-fighting, crying., runny Makeup, water everywhere, and there’s always like 15 people jammed inside.

Toilet Phone and her friends are right in the mix. One is throwing up, one is about to start some shit, while staring at some shit, and another is just trying to pack up the other two and go home.

Toilet Phone. Big Talk. Group Mom.

Security is already outside the bathroom waiting for whatever horrors are about to spill out. Just then, an actual fistfight occurs and Big Talk bursts out of the bathroom door, fistfull of hair. But she wasn’t the one who we started to notice.

No, another fight was happening at the same time in another part of the bar.

The other fight? Well, one angry gentleman took off his shirt wanting to throw down.

After his friends “hold him back” for the length of the bar floor, he disappears into the wintry grayness never to be seen again.

30 Seconds Later

Big Talk is hurtling toward the doorway, an after effect of hitting one of the security. (He didn’t hit back, but he didn’t put roses in glass vases and bring Kenny G to serenade her, either).

Behind her? Group Mom unleashed a fury of wild fists, hitting absolutely nothing. Thanks to some local help, her removal was quick and easy. Plus, she was already so short she was practically parallel to the ground she was being carried over. The only drawback was that she left empty-handed … because most of her drink landed on Sunshine’s shirt.

Toilet Phone? She left but was not quiet about it.

The Previous Weekend

What had happened was, they changed their look, and I didn’t recognize them.

I didn’t really see much the first time. More of a smattering of body parts, pavement, wet rugs, fake jewelry and new dos. But I guessed ‘we’ banned them.

Back to ThunderSplashCarBar

A … handsome woman said she felt threatened. Not that Red Sonja couldn’t handle herself in a fight, no, it was simply a strength in numbers scenario not playing out in her favor. Anyway, while some threats never pan out, Red Sonja’s was real. I heard Toilet Phone shout that she was about to beat her ass when Big Talk walked over, pinned her the wall just outside the bathroom door and gave her the “what’s about to go down” talk. Quite the role reversal, if you ask me.

But Toilet Phone was not letting this go. She was furious. Also, it was 1:47 am, both too late and too early to deal with all of this, so we kicked everyone out of the bar, sans Sonja.

Once the Amigos are past the threshold, I immediately inform them that, while it was true that I made a mistake, they were all summarily banned from ever stepping foot into the bar again.

Big Talk said, “we didn’t even wanna be in this shithole bar anyway!” Huh, the last time I spent four hours in a place I didn’t want to be I at least got college credit.

Red Sonja is still in the bar, waiting to see which direction the Amigos headed. It’s now 2:02. Sure, some bars stay open later, some don’t. I don’t like non-employees in the bar after 2. Plus, I’m big, and they usually listen.

We take steps to ensure this is a rare occasion. Lights go up, the music stops, warnings are issued every five minutes. Ubers and Lyft screens illuminate the open space.

I walk over to Sonja, who is still sitting at the bar.

“OK, miss, they went left, if you go right, you’re all good to go.”

“I need to order Uber,” she said, looking at her Snapchat.

“You should have done that 15 minutes ago when this started.”

“Hold the fuck up.”

HoLd tHE fUCk Up? Where … Who … the fuck you think is going on here?

This ain’t no goddamn bed and breakfast. I’m not a valet. I’m not an overwhelmed gate agent for an overbooked Southwest Airlines flight.

I politely asked her to leave.

Read into that how you wish.