Dairy of a Madman

What is it that makes people get so drunk that they lose their shit, completely and indefensibly? I’m not concerned if you want to get a little loud, or overly flirtatious with everyone around you. That’s fine. Comes with the territory (although I swear to god, Garth, if you try to hump my leg one more time while I’m making shots for people, I’m giving you over to the gang of drunk bikers for experimentation).

But the real drunken fun never happens early in the night, when I’ve still got the energy or the patience to deal with it. Last night, things feel like they’re winding down. It’s about 3 AM, the band has packed up and left, and Jason and I are making last call drinks for folks. In stumbles a couple of girls, both obliterated. Alternating between screaming and laying on the bar, it’s apparent that these two have been hitting bottles fast and hard for some time now, and I decide without a lot of debate that they’re not getting any drinks from me. Too much to deal with, and I’m well past exhausted with another hour or so to go.

Five minutes later, as I’m in the back bar shutting it down, I hear screaming from up front. Keep in mind that it’s been loud up there all night, so it takes me a second to process that the tone has shifted. I get up front and out from behind the bar (Jason and Garth are in the back with Tyler and the XBox 360) and see one of the two girls being forcibly separated from one of our regulars. There’s a lot of screaming, some flailing, and it’s clearly time for someone to go home, or at least out of the bar. So I grab her and aim for the door.

I hate having to deal with drunk women. Guys, no problem. If things get a little rough, so be it. But growing up with a kid sister meant getting routine lectures on not hitting girls, and that has stuck with me to this day. Enough that, if you’re ambitious enough, you can make it really tough for me to remove you from the bar. Last night, good example. This girl, whatever her problem was, was not interested in — well, reality, I think. She was screaming incoherently (although I did keep catching “motherfucker” and “let go” and “kill you”, which was enough) and alternating between twisting and writhing like a greased pig to get out of my grip and falling to the ground like an overcooked noodle. Between this and my kid glove treatment, it took nearly two minutes to get her from the bar to the door — a trip that normally takes about ten seconds.

We finally get to the door, and I’m impressed with the fact that, aside from some embarassing (for her) moments, no one has gotten hurt. A guy she seems to know has appeared (took you long enough, douchebag), and says that he’ll take care of her. I remind him that she’s got to go, no more bar for her (which starts a fresh round of “kill you motherfucker”), he smiles sheepishly, and it’s done.

Oops. It’s never that easy, is it? She drops to the ground one more time, just as I’ve started to release my grip on her — and then pops back up, jack-in-the-box style, and wheels around and punches me in the face.

Fucking. Drunk. Women.

It’s not an issue of it hurting (it didn’t, and probably wouldn’t have even if she had been sober and actually knew what she was doing — she was way too small to be taking a swing at anyone, drunk or dusted or whatever). It wasn’t that she was in danger of getting hit, although it was one of the rare moments when I considered dealing with my mental blocks after the fact. I think, more than anything, it was surprise, plain and simple — to think that it was all over, done, and finished, and she decides that she needs the last word…

Guys and girls alike: drinking that much is just not worth it, on any level. I guarantee you she’s sore from all the twisting and falling down she did in that two minute space alone. Not a single person in there had anything nice to say about her after she left (and she was a fairly attractive young woman, I’ll add). The only places that anything was going from there were home or jail. What’s the point? And yet, you see it night after night after night, morons getting so drunk that they feel the need to test out their invulnerability at every opportunity.

I will drop this hint for you: doormen and bartenders deal with you every night, and so whether they’re bigger or more trained than you or not, they’re certainly experienced enough to deal with you capably. Oh, and we’re not drunk (at the very least, not as drunk as you), which gives us a huge edge. And while your friends might come help you out (if they’re not busy shouting out their desire for you to tongue their asshole, as her friend was doing every five seconds to any guy with a pulse), our definitely will. And should you accidentally run into the doorframe two or three times while we’re escorting you to the sidewalk — well, you probably shouldn’t have had so much to drink that you stumble like that, yeah?