It’s my first year working at a bar in an area of New York with a large immigrant Irish population. It’s my first St. Patrick’s Day and the place is packed! I am serving drinks as fast as I can, and we have all hands on deck dealing with the revelry and chaos that ensues.

I see a woman stumbling up to me.

Customer: “So… uh… yeah… sorry, but my friend threw up.”

Me: “Oh! Where?”

Customer: “Well they tried to aim for the toilet.”

Me: “Tried?”

Customer: “Well, I was kinda on it at the time.”

Me: “…?”

Customer: “So they went into the toilet tank. You know, where the floating ball thingy is?”

Me: “Your friend threw up in the TANK of the toilet while you were on it?”

Customer: “Well when you say it all in one go like that it sounds gross!”

When I was twenty years old, I was a server at a sports bar. When it was slow, the men that would come in and sit at the bar would often start conversations with me. One of them was talking about his daughter.

Customer: “She had to go to medical school to get a good job because she’s not pretty enough to make money off tips like you do.”

I just called him a weirdo and walked away, but that moment — and many other moments from that job — made me so disgusted by men.

I worked in a hotel with a bar — a super ritzy place where there was a room that was over $5,000 a night and a shot of alcohol that was $1,000 — for a little over two years and have hundreds of stories. However, I am going to start off with one of my favorites. I was the supervisor of the contract security division.

After a portion of the rush was taken care of one night, I had the opportunity to go out for a lightly deserved smoke break. The smoking section was beneath the balcony of the bar. While I was shooting the s*** with a coworker, I heard the crash of a bottle as it fell from the balcony.

“Oh, s***. Time to get back to work,” I thought, as that was never a good sign.

When I got up to the bar and made my way through the crowd, I spoke to one of my officers who had a really keen eye for dumba**ery. I gave him an update and asked him to keep an eye on the balcony. He did so, and not even a minute later he came back to me.

Officer: “I just saw someone throwing a bottle off the balcony.”

[Officer] later informed me that [Guest] had been trying to sell alcohol to another bar patron, which is illegal in my state. That bar patron told [Guest] no but that they were going to get security, which is why [Guest] had decided to throw the bottle of alcohol from the balcony.

My second-in-command officer and I approached the guest, and we escorted him out.

In our bar, we had a sign at the exit for people leaving that stated, “No alcohol beyond this point”, which was one of our ways of keeping the place state legal. As we passed this sign, [Guest] must have seen the sign because he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little bag of coke.

Guest: “I don’t have any alcohol but I have this.”

At that point, I radioed property security, and they sent “Tower” over. Tower was an officer who worked private security for the property. He stood at about 6’8” and was a tower of a man.

I got [Guest] out on the second floor, and he wandered off. When Tower showed up, I updated him and gave him a description of [Guest], but at this point, [Guest] returned and shoved a group of random people, stating, “They were in my way,” as if he hadn’t done anything wrong. I went to talk to the group he had shoved, and Tower spoke to [Guest].

You know that one guy on your team that not a single person will screw with? That was Tower, mainly because there wasn’t anyone even close to his size, but also because he was a giant teddy bear. But [Guest] was pretty much ignoring Tower, to the point that he just walked away. Tower got the police on the radio and they met him at the skybridge.

I got the group that [Guest] had shoved to calm down, asked if everyone was unharmed, told them that we were handling this guy, and let them know that if they wanted to they could file assault charges. They declined, and we moved on.

I turned around to see [Guest] peeing off the skybridge while Tower was speaking on the radio.

At the end of this incident, [Guest] was trespassed from the property, but the police released him because the amount of coke in his possession wasn’t enough to prosecute. They did confiscate his coke, though.

BUT WAIT: THERE’S MORE!

[Guest] came back to the property later, found the officer who had confiscated his coke, and asked:

Guest: “Can I have my coke back?”

That officer called the police, who arrested him for violating a trespass, and it turned out he had warrants for his arrest in other states. All in all, that was the last time I will ever see [Guest]… probably.

One of my friends has the nickname “Tifa” — from “Final Fantasy VII” — for the fact that she owns a bar, works the bar, and knows how to throw one h*** of a punch when the need arises.

One Halloween, she hosts a cosplay night at her bar. Some other friends and I come by, garbed in cosplay for ourselves, and find Tifa dressed up in the leather suit of her namesake.

That is all well and good for decent people. The problem — at least as far as the a**hole in the Goku (“Dragon Ball”) cosplay is concerned — is that Tifa is as Black as Black gets. There’s also my male friend in a Samus (“Metroid”) cosplay — not the androgynous Power Suit, but the skin-tight Zero Suit — and me in a Team Galactic uniform (“Pokémon”) WITHOUT the grunt hairstyle.

Goku: “What the f*** is wrong with this place? I thought it was supposed to be cosplay night.”

Samus: “You’re surrounded by cosplay right now.”

Goku: “The f*** I am, you [transphobic slur]. Why didn’t you pick an actual guy to dress up as instead of pulling this bulls***?”

Tifa: “Okay, I’m refusing you service. Varma!”

At this bar, “Varma” is the staff’s code word for an abusive customer — a signal to the bouncers that someone needs to be thrown out.

Goku: “F*** is your problem, b****? You’re the [racist slur] who thinks you’ve got any business wearing—”

It’s at this point that the bouncer — a giant mountain of dude who’s done up to look like a Goron from “The Legend Of Zelda” — grabs “Goku’s” shoulder and turns him around.

Goron: “You have about one minute to get out of here before I put a boulder up your a** and call the knights. Er, cops.”

Part of me almost wishes “Goku” had chosen to resist, if only because he had the musculature to make the cosplay work. But faced with someone who looked like he could lift something large enough to be called a boulder, “Goku” decided to book it. 

The Goron got a drink on the house before he got back to work. The rest of cosplay night was thankfully issue-free.

I’m the author of this story.

Back in the long, long ago — that is, the ancient times of 2013 to 2014 or so — I work at a student-run bar, one of the many centuries-old student-run clubs in the town. They are run in accordance with the strict Swedish alcohol laws, where over-serving someone is technically a jailable offence for the bartender (though that rarely happens). The bartender is also always right, so if I say someone has had enough, they have.

It is a big club night, the last one before the end of the semester. The drinks are quite cheap (by Swedish standards), and a lot of people are a bit desperate.

A sleazy guy with an open shirt and a not-very-comfortable lady come to the bar.

Guy: “Two [cheap cider]s!”

Me: “Right-o.” *Uncorks and serves them* “That will be 58 kronor.” *About $6*

Guy: *Handing me a 500-kronor (50-dollar) note* “Keep the change!”

He is obviously trying to impress the lady, who seems unimpressed.

Me: *Incredulously* “Are you tipping me 442 kronor?”

Guy: “Yeah. It’s yours! I study economics! I’m gonna be really rich!”

The lady remains unimpressed.

Guy: “In fact, I am, like, top of my class and, like, really smart!”

Me: “Oh? I’ve heard that economics is simple.”

Guy: *Removing his arm from around the woman* “Yeah, it’s simple for someone like me!”

He starts a rambling story about how you can use “economics” to make money by tricking people into giving it to you. The woman looks even less impressed and slinks away while he talks (giving me a thankful glance), and he finds that he is alone after a few minutes. I keep serving other customers meanwhile, and he pays little attention to me. 

Guy: “Hey, where did the little slut go?” 

Me: “I think she went that way.”

I point in the opposite direction, and he runs off. I keep working for a few hectic hours, and then the guy returns, fuming but pretending to be polite. 

Guy: “Yeah, so, do you remember me?” 

Me: “Sorry, not really.”

Guy: “Yeah, I tipped you a, a, a lot. Like loads. I had a super hot slut with me. She disappeared, and you probably helped her get away so you could get the slut yourself!” 

Me: “Please don’t call women that.” 

Guy: “Whatever. I want my tip back.” 

Me: “Sorry?”

Guy: “I gave you 500 kronor, and I bought, like, just a cider.”

Me: “I remember you now. I asked if it was a tip and you said yes. So, no.”

Guy: “No, see, I need that money now.”

Me: “That’s not gonna happen.”

Guy: “No, but, I can’t tip that much! I gave you my bus money home. I’m, like, broke.” 

Me: “Sorry. You could probably walk, though.” 

Guy: “DO I LOOK LIKE A F****** [slur for Roma people]? Give me my money!”

He drunkenly fails to climb over the bar. I flag down a passing security guard.

Me: “No. You are to leave, now.”

The guard intervened and the guy was dragged away. I was told that he disappeared right into the back of a drunk-cell with some hefty fines after he decided to call the non-European-descended guard every slur in existence.

Related:
Putting The “Toxic” Into “Intoxicated”, Part 2