Pretty self-explanitory. Tell me your stories, especially the odd ones.
Only once. But it totally wasn’t my fault.
I’ve been asked to politely leave a few times. That was only because I clearly had more than enough and needed to take my ass home anyway.
I got thrown out once because they were having a wet T-shirt contest at this bar I was at. During the contest one of the girls on stage takes off her shoe and throws it to the audience. I caught the damn thing.
Shortly after that a guy comes up to me wanting the shoe back. He tried to explain to me that the shoe was his GFs (the girl on stage) and he just wants to get it back for her.
Well, the music was so loud all I heard was “blah, blah, blah” all this being said as he was trying to grab the shoe from me. I told him to “fuck off” and gave him a little shove back. He then came back and knocked me on my ass. By the time I got back on my feet the bouncers were already there escorting us both to the door.
Funniest part about this whole story is once we got outside in the parking lot and could hear each other; we made up pretty quickly and proceeded to get hammered at the bar right across the street.
Ahh, youth.
I’ve thrown many people out of the various bars I’ve worked at, but I’ve never had the honor myself.
If you’d like to know why THEY got thrown out, feel free to ask. But in some ways half the fun of it is being so drunk you don’t recall why.
More times than I can count, mostly for stupid shit like underage drinking, copious vomiting, being surly with the bouncer, copiously vomiting on the bouncer after being surly, stagediving off a barstool, starting fights, finishing fights, drinking beer straight from the pitcher (hey, I thought I was doing them a favor - one less mug to wash at the end of the night), drinking from a flask, and breaking glasses and/or bottles (rarely on purpose, I’m just clumsy as fuck, even when sober). When I was 18-20 my friends would talk me into going to this one particular goth club at least once a week - I hated that place with a passion, and I’d get kicked out at least two or three times a month (that’s the place where I vomited on the bouncer. I also vomited on a bathroom attendant there on an entirely different night, but I didn’t get kicked out for that. Guess they’re used to that sort of thing). I have no idea why they didn’t ban me for life.
None of these make particularly entertaining stories. I was just an angry kid who was rapidly becoming an alcoholic and acting out in the worst sorts of ways. I’ve still got a reputation as a nasty drunk, even though I haven’t hung out with that crowd in years and I’ve been sober for a year and a half.
Only once. I was designated driver for a friend’s group at a sprawling multi-themed-bar complex, and had had nothing to drink. The friends were all over the place, in a couple of different dance clubs or watching a band; I was by myself in a saloon-themed bar, doing a crossword puzzle. Went up to order a Coke, tripped on one of the wooden steps leading to the bar, and was interrupted by a bouncer mid-order.
“You’re cut off.”
“Why? I’m getting a Coke.”
“Oh no you’re not, you’re cut off, buddy!”
“I’m cut off from Coke?”
“You can’t even walk! I just watched you stumble up here! No more to drink!”
“I just tripped on a step, and all I’ve had tonight is Coke, you can ask the bartender…”
“That’s it, you’re outta here!”
I got tossed out, sat at a bench outside, and hoped one of my friends who was drinking would remain sober long enough to realize they weren’t seeing me in their travels between the various bars. Eventually one popped his head out of the door where the bouncer was standing… “What’re you doing out there?”
“The bouncer kicked me out.”
“Why? You’re not drinking!”
The bouncer turned to the friend… “He can’t even walk straight, so he’s out.”
My friends rounded themselves up; most were so inebriated that they couldn’t pick up their feet, and I actually had to help carry one friend’s wife back to the car. By then, it was obvious that of the group, I was the sober one, and the bouncer apologized.
If we’re counting underage drinking, then yes, many many times. Other than that, only twice.
We’d been there for awhile, at the table next to the bouncer. I dropped my phone, and I fell down a couple of times when I tried to pick it up. The bouncer was pretty nice about it and just told us, “you guys have been here awhile, having a good time, maybe it’s time to call it a night.”
It was time to call it a night.
More than a couple of times, in my youth. The one that stands out was my lifetime banning from Mad River Rose, a dive a few miles north of Arcata, CA. A group of us were at a very large table to the side of the stage. We had been at it quite awhile, and were moderately lubricated. It was a loose night, and I think they would have tolerated the dancing on the table and the off-key and off-color singing along with the band. They even might have ignored several of us sparking up a fat one at the table. But when we started passing the doobie to the band, it was time to go. Only we didn’t want to go. Several of us, myself included, had to be dragged from under the table, where we had wrapped ourselves around the legs, holding on with all our might. I can say with some honesty that I meet the OP literally as well as figuratively.
Ask
Only once, sort-of. I was at a somewhat-ritzy dance club in Cuernavaca, Mexico. I was already hammered when I arrived, and sneaked in a bottle of cheap vodka and polished it off besides. (This proved to be a serious mistake in more ways than one.) Seeing my bottle and my general condition, they tried to throw me out, but I was literally too big (300 pounds) for those average-sized Mexican bouncers to lift. I was not exactly willing to leave either, and several friends were pleading my case. They let me sit by the door to sober up, where I then broke a glass and finally decided it was time to split.
I vomited on the plants out front (beer before liquor, never sicker) and again in the bathroom sink of my host family. I also had serious damage control to do with some of my fellow female students the next day; apparently I was a bit too graphic about what I wanted to do with them, although I didn’t remember any of it. This remains my worst-ever drinking experience.
Only for forgetting my ID. The new waitress ID’d us when the first one hadn’t, so I had to go. Hardly “thrown out,” though.
Never. Mind I was once denied admission to a place because I wasn’t dressed properly. Problem was that there was no posted dress code, so I just figured that they didn’t want me there for some reason. Fine by me; I’ll take my business–and my friends, and their business–elsewhere.
I’ve seen plenty of people thrown out though. Sometimes literally!
Just once, really, and it was a place that 86s people on a regular basis–McSorley’s Pub in NYC.
Google the place if you dare–apparently it’s an old (in continuous operation since 1854) tradition for beer drinkers everywhere; a sort of a frat boy mecca. It’s dark and kinda nasty, with dust encrusted turkey wishbones hanging from the light fixtures and about the surliest waiters in the known world. The gimmick of the place is that when you order a beer they bring you two, that’s just the way it is. They have two beers, McSorley’s Light and McSorley’s dark and there really isn’t a sandpiper’s fart of difference in flavor between the two. The waiters will show you how to do a ten beer fountain if you have anyone stupid enough to open their mouths at the bottom of it. Lots of beer ends up on the floor every day and it smells like it. Apparently, women have only been allowed inside since 1970 when a court order forced the owners to admit us. The place is always jammed and the easiest way to get kicked out is by not drinking fast enough–if you’re taking up a table being all leisurely about sipping your beverage they’ll chuck you out the door post haste.
So anyway, there we were boozing up a storm so’s not to lose our table and somebody started singing something, which annoyed the waiter for some reason and he got all Monty Python on us with the “Stop that, stop that, there’s no singing in 'ere!” bit. So being drunk and all we kept trying his patience by busting out into song the minute his back would turn, necessitating him coming back to yell at us some more–this way we always had beers on the way, see. Other patrons were catching on to our game and they would start up a song as well and the waiters were getting really ripped at us. So finally, we stood up as one and started singing the National Anthem, loudly, with feeling, and four part drunken harmony. Well, this caused a terrible conflict in the waitstaff as they are, to a man, conservative blue collar patriotic types and they’d no more interrupt the anthem than they’d vote Democrat. The entire pub ground to a standstill as every single patron stood with us and sang the song, hands over hearts, beer steins lifted in respect. At the end we all slammed our remaining beer and five waiters converged on our table to escort us to the door.
We laughed like loons all the way back to our hotel and to this day it’s one of my fondest memories of visiting the Big Apple.
I’ve been told to leave a pub and then barred (this is the English equivalent of being thrown out of a bar 
).
I was completely sober and polite. 
However I had just run my first roleplaying session at a corner table, and the landlord said I was upsetting the other customers. :smack:
Never on my own, although I was once asked to take my girlfriend home because one of the gentlemen we were with threw up on the table. He left to get cleaned up, and a bouncer wandered over, saw the table messed up, and assumed it was here.
And there we were.
I wasn’t alowed into ‘The Bullfinch Pub’ in Boston. My sin was having a non-picture NJ license. I remember trying to talk to the bouncer while 15 year old waif-girls walked in behind him without even being carded.
“That’s different. They’re Regulars.”
The last guy I threw out of my bar–or to be more specific, told my door guy to throw out–was this guy last week who saw me smoking a cigarette and said he’d give me a swig of his beer if he could have a drag of my cigarette.
I thought he was kidding. I told him I would give him a whole cigarette, but I wasn’t going to share mine. And if I wanted a beer I certainly had access to my own, but thanks!
He wasn’t kidding. He didn’t want his own cigarette. He wanted mine.
And he wouldn’t shut up about it. And then he began bothering a girl at the bar with the same line. “C’mon! You can have a swig of my beer for a drag off your cig! C’mon!”
Done! Get out!
That’s perhaps the most random person to get thrown out of the bar recently. Most people get thrown out for being too drunk, starting a fight–or trying to start a fight–or for being rude to me or other customers. I had a guy a month ago that had a mini-flashlight he kept flashing in my face to try to get my attention so he could get a drink. The bar was slammed and I told him I’d get to him, as long as he knocked it off with the flashlight.
He didn’t.
So I told him to take the flashlight to some other bar.
He seemed genuinely confused as to why this method of jumping to the head of the line didn’t work. I’d like to say he was drunk but unfortunately from all appearances he was just a jackass.
I started drinking in pubs and bars when I was 15 or 16. The legal drinking age in Australia is 18. Although the police used to regularly wander through places and throw out the underage drinkers you soon stopped worrying about it. After all we were pretty sensible, quiet drinkers, just having one or two at the pub near the music hall where all the bands played. In those days you didn’t get the drunken carousing you see now because you wouldn’t get in anywhere in that state.
On the night of my eighteenth birthday I was in the pub talking to a friend’s younger brother when the barman came over and said, “The police are here. You guys have to leave.” As they got up to go I laughed but the barman said, “That means you too.” I protested that I was 18 but he just told me to piss off.
I left and walked around to one of the other bars in the hotel where my friends were drinking and regaled them with my story of being kicked out for the first time when I had finally become a legal drinker.
I’ve never been thrown out of a bar. A group of us were once cut off, since the five of us drank 33 pitchers of beer. Oh, yeah, there was that brawl in the Waffle House parking lot that one time. Fun times.