Thoughts and Prayers and Other Empty Threats
On Saturday, September 30, 2017, somebody upset about their sunglasses threatened to shoot me in the head.
He did a lot of other things like spit on a bartender then complain about his $300 Versace sunglasses as I escorted him outside the bar. He espoused his hard labors on the mean streets of the same city where I, too, grew up. The short-statured but dangerously excitable man said he was gonna grab his crew at the next bar because surely they would back him up and take me down. He called me a 'white-ass cracker' despite cosplaying as Howdy Doody in a black tee, unrealizing the irony.
Then he told me he was going to come back and shoot me in the head.
Naturally, we got the police involved after we spotted him again and I'm sure there's a BOLO or something. Our bar knows what he looks like. We have Face and Peanut and Authority and a group of fast fingers to dial three numbers.
I have a gun culture to protect me from a gun culture that threatens me.
And frankly, I'm just surprised it took this long to reach the nadir. I can't be tempted, which makes women angry. I can't be bought, which makes men angry. I can be threatened, which makes my friends angry.
I can be the person you most despise in this entire world. Enough for you to make bombastic statements in front of a wide array of people.
Or I can be the door guy. A simple person who interacts with you for 10 seconds in the 604,800 you have every week.
Is that so hard to ask?
Friday Fake No. 1 (238): Miss-taken Identity
Most people take a sister's or cousin's ID when they can't get their hands on a fake to pass through the door. And sometime's you just take some random girl's because ... you're dumb.
Friday Fake No. 2 (239): Sky High
On a good day, at her shortest, most downtrodden level, beaten down by the world and given a hunch for her troubles, 239 would still be 5-foot-9. Or, 9 inches taller than the girl on the ID.
Friday Fake No. 3 (240): Rookie of the Year
This girl had everything going for her. Her eyes, her nose, her smile, her address was spot on. ZIP code, hair color and hairstyle. She got everything correct. The Day. The Month. The Millenium. The Century. The Decade.
But not the year.
Friday Fake No. 4 (241): 867-5309er
Oh, I heard a Niner in there.
"What's your address?"
"1 ... 3 ... 99539."
"I'm sorry, the correct answer was 5."
Friday Fake No. 5 (242): Penis Tip or: The Over-Complicated Plot to Steal My Winter Knit Cap to Reverse Ransom it For Their Fake ID.
Yeah. You read that right. First time I was called a Penis Tip before, and as Peanut would remark, she didn't even know I was bald!
Pro tip for y'all. Learn to spell the last name on any ID. And don't please don't pick someone who has a name I couldn't even spell if I was looking at it in Star Wars script in the front row of an old-timey 'Majestic' theater.
It was like hearing a spelling bee kid from a lower-tiered public middle school try to spell a South Indian surname.
This woman could have seen the last name on cue cards Love Actually style and still get it wrong.
Saturday Fake No. 1 (243): Go Shawty ... It's your birthday ... in a few years
I guess I've never had to lie about my height so I'm immune to thinking everyone thinks they can get away with 2 or 3 inches. Or 12. Yeah, 12.
Saturday Fake No. 2 (244): Zip it, Scott.
This guy didn't even get a word in edgewise because I totally Dr. Eviled him up and down until he went away.
SHHHHH. IT'S BAD. AND YOU SHOULD FEEL BAD.
Ending on a lighter note, I was bribed this weekend by a 5-3 Hispanic fellow in a St. Louis Cardinals jersey who thought to slip me $10 and a hotel keycard with a Jets Pizza coupon on the back of it would work.
Silly dude.
I'm a Hungry Howies man.
