(My sister is a waitress at a bar and restaurant. She comes home one day with this very interesting story. She’s in the kitchen and the bartender runs back into the kitchen.)

Bartender: “I can’t do it!”

Sister: “Can’t do what?”

Bartender: *wheezing* “Go. Look.”

(My sister goes to the bar. There is a woman in a head-to-toe — hoof? — fursuit of a horse, waiting at the bar.)

Sister: “Um… What can I get you?”

Horse Girl: “[Alcohol], please.”

Sister: “Can I see your ID?”

Horse Girl: *takes off horse head and hands her her ID*

Sister: *red-faced, nearly crying trying not to laugh* “A horse in a bar, huh?”

Horse Girl: *nonchalantly* “Yeah?”

(Horse Girl does not see the humor in this.)

Sister: “So… where’re you heading?”

Horse Girl: “To the convention center to watch a wrestling match.”

Sister: *nearly losing it* “Which convention center?”

Horse Girl: “Uh… The one right next door?”

Sister: *stares at her expectantly*

Horse Girl: “The Trotter?”

Sister: *f****** loses it*

(These two regulars come in who have always been incredibly nice to me, always making jokes, etc., and always order the same thing. When I see them walk in, I start getting their cider’s uncapped, and they’re super happy.)

Regular #1: “Oh, hey, darling. You know us so well!”

Regular #2: “You’re such a sweetheart!”

(They start sipping away and I start to realize how drunk they actually are: drinking very slowly and slightly swaying. I keep an eye on them while I go upfront to grab someone’s jacket from coat check, when I see [Regular #1] putting the two ciders into his pea-coat jacket pockets. The liquor laws in my city are very strict, and we have a liquor inspector come by roughly every two weeks. At this point he hasn’t come for three weeks, so I am expecting him.)

Me:  “[Regular #1], what are you doing buddy? You know you can’t take those outside. Nice try, though!”

Regular #1: “You got me this time!”

(I go back to the bar, and I’m in the middle of serving someone, when I see the two of them just book it outside. Mind you, they haven’t even paid yet. I finish the transaction quickly and run after them.)

Me: *at this point I’m getting peeved* “Hey! Buddy! What did I just say?”

Regular #1: “Oh, don’t be such a spaz; we won’t tell anyone.”

Me: “If you want to finish your drinks, you have to do it inside. I will not risk getting our liquor licence suspended.”

Regular #1: “But I paid for these!”

(Classic drunk person excuse.)

Me: “Yeah, that’s why I said you can finish those ciders inside. Either walk inside with me, or give me the bottles.”

Regular #2: “Ugh, let’s go [Regular #1]. We don’t need this s***.”

(They proceed to shoo me away and turn around to walk. Now I’m really angry.)

Me: “HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU! You’re in the business; you know how this works. Give those back now! I will not say this again.”

Regular #1: “Do you have any idea how much money I spent here? I paid for these, okay? And I am going to enjoy them.”

Me: “Yeah, [Regular #1], thank you oh-so-much for the $16 you spend here once a month. Without you we’d be bust, right?”

(It’s at this point that [Regular #1] gets right up in my face with all the attitude in the world.)

Regular #1: “Look here, b****. You’re really nice, okay? Let’s keep it that way. Now take that little mouth of yours and f*** off.”

(Realising I wasn’t going to get anywhere unless the situation got physical, I let them walk. I found the bottles around the corner an hour later after we closed the bar. They were still almost full.)

(I work in a family-oriented sports bar as a bartender. As per company policy, I must ID everyone, regardless of age, and I’m required to ID even regulars. This policy causes some grumbles, but generally people are good-natured about it.)

Guest: “I’ll take [Beer].”

Me: “All right, may I see your ID, please?”

Guest: *looks at me funny* “I’m obviously over 21.”

Me: “I’m sure, but I have to ID everyone regardless.”

Guest: “No, you don’t.”

Me: “Uh… Yes, I do. The ABC people are out in full force checking for ID violations, and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Guest: *smugly* “No, the law says if they look over 35 you don’t have to ask for ID.”

Me: “If I don’t ID everyone, I could lose my job.”

(The guest continues to ramble about the law, but eventually shows me his ID.)

Me: “Thanks.”

Guest: “You don’t have to ID, though; it’s not Tennessee law.”

(I ignored the comment for my own sanity and went about my business.)

(My old college roommate and I are out for the evening and find ourselves in a bar mostly patronized by college kids and twenty-somethings. We are pushing 40, so we’re skewing the average age quite a bit. While I’m in line for the restroom, a young woman wearing a Wisconsin sweatshirt tries to subtly cut in at the front of the line. I can see the others looking annoyed, but no one says anything.)

Me: “Hey, Wisconsin! End of the line’s back there!”

(The other girls in line are in shock at first, and then applaud.)

Wisconsin: *sheepishly walks to end of line*

(Pretty sure for the rest of the night I was the sassy old lady in line for the restroom. It felt good to be a role model for the next generation.)

(I’m attending my friends’ beautiful outdoor wedding. They are both aware that I have certain health issues regarding various food and drink, but they have done all they could be reasonably expected to do to make sure I’m not left hungry or thirsty. The food is fantastic and the “bottle bar” — serving everything but four beers out of bottles — is varied, but their soft drink selection is limited to [soda], [diet soda], and lemonade. Limited, but it’s fine.)

Me: “Can I have a [soda], please?”

Server: “Sure.” *grabs bottle of [diet soda]*

(One of my health issues is that the artificial sweetener in various diet sodas causes me gastrointestinal distress — stomach ache/cramps/increased need to use the bathroom — and headaches within an hour of drinking them. I want to enjoy the rest of the evening without writhing in pain, so I shout to try to stop them.)

Me: “No, not diet! I just want [soda]!”

Server: *ignores me and pours glass of [diet soda]* “That’ll be £2.”

Me: *thinking they might not have heard me over the music* “I said [soda], not [diet soda].”

Server: “We only have [diet soda].”

(The ceremony has been over for about an hour and a half by this point, and most people are drinking alcohol, so I am annoyed that one of their three soft drink options is apparently already gone.)

Me: “You could have told me that.”

Server: “It’s basically the same.”

Me: *looks at the menu again* “Which lemonade do you have?”

(Some of them use artificial sweeteners, and I really don’t want to only drink water for the rest of the night.)

Server: “Lemonade.”

Me: “[Brand #1]? [Brand #2]? Is it cloudy?”

Server: “It’s lemonade.”

Me: *defeated* “Just give me a lemonade, then.”

Server: *makes lemonade and puts it down* “£4.”

Me: *annoyed* “I didn’t want [diet soda]. It’s not what I asked for. I’m not going to pay for it.”

Server: “But I already poured it.”

Me: “I didn’t ask for it. I wanted [soda].”

Server: “But we ran out of [soda].”

Me: “And you should have told me that instead of assuming I was okay with a substitute.”

(Another weddinggoer walks up and orders a round from another bartender. Their order includes a [diet soda].)

Me: *to the other bartender* “Don’t pour one.” *gives them the [diet soda] I don’t want* “This one is ready to go.”

Server: “Hey, you can’t do that!”

Me: “Why not? He wants it. I don’t. I’m not going to pay for it. He will. That way you’re not wasting off stock, and I don’t have to walk away with a drink that I don’t want.” *hands over a £2 coin* “Here is the payment for my drink. If you have any problems, I’ll be over on [table number].”

(I didn’t hear anything else. I did mention the encounter to the bride and groom — after their honeymoon, of course.)