“I have a wristband.”

 

You walk into a bar, get carded and the nice doorman (or woman) puts a wristband on you.

Then, you come up to the bar and this happens:

“I need to see an ID please.”

“I have a wristband!”

That. That is one of our pet peeves.

I didn’t give you the wristband. I don’t know who gave you the wristband, but I know if you’re not of age, or don’t have proper ID, I know who is going to go to jail… me.

I don’t care. I don’t care about your hair. I don’t care from here or there. I don’t care about the clothes you wear. And no, I won’t save you from a bear.

Yeah, I just Dr. Seuss’d because it pisses me off that much.

I don’t care if President Obama (he was in office when I wrote this), your mother, my mother, Jesus Christ, the ghost of Patrick Swayze from Ghost, the actual ghost of Patrick Swayze (R.I.P.), Dalton from Roadhouse (still R.I.P.), or Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo put the wristband on you.

If you want me to serve you a beer/drink/shot/martini/whatever… you have to show me your ID when I ask for it.

I.
Don’t.
Care.

Oh, you don’t care either? Cool. Go don’t care over there… without a drink… because fuck you, do what you’re asked, you fucking sloth-brained, ass-fingering sloth. May the devil himself use you as their own person Thigh-Master.

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