Have you ever been thrown out of a bar?

In My Humble Opinion
21

I projectile vomited towards a bouncer once, but I was on my way out anyway so he never got around to kicking me out.
Totally unintentional, I felt sorry for the guy but I really couldn’t help it. Just kind of happened (after chugging a half bottle of Lord Calvert Canadian and many pitchers of their crappy beer).

I’m a mellow drunk, the kind that was more likely to have a cab called for me than to be tossed. Came real close one time - found a purse sitting abandoned by an unused pool table and somehow my drunken mind thought it made perfect sense to rifle through it looking for the ladies ID so I could give it back to her. This is not the recommended method, I found. She brought a bouncer, I held up the ID and proudly announced “I found you! This is yours”. My obvious pride in being able to return her property is all that kept me from getting thrown out… Or maybe a visit to the police, for all I know.

22

Once, and I had been there 15 min and not had a drink at all, although I was underage they couldn’t have known that because I was never carded and it never was brought up.

The only reason I was there was because I had an upset stomach. It was a small bar, in Middle of Nowhereland, and I had a seriously upset stomach and it was the closest place likely to have a bathroom. So I ran in, asked directions to the ladies, and spent about 15 mintues in there (er…I didn’t vomit, is the least TMI I can be.) During this time there were some knocks at the door (one room toilet, not like a multi-stall bathroom, it was a small bar.) I did what you do, calling out “Sorry, I’ll be done soon” or something similar.

I come out, after washing hands and so forth, and the bartender (female, older, with that sort of “I’ve smoked two packs a day for 40 years” set of wrinkles some women get) goes all screaming harpy on me because a.) she was the one knocking on the door, and she needed to go (but not badly enough to actually do that now instead of scream at me) and b.) she was convinced I was shooting up drugs in there.

There is not enough wtf in this world to convey how I felt at that moment. She’s screaming about calling the police, and I told her to go ahead (like an upset tummy is going to get me arrested) and about that time her…son? Bouncer? …some big dude anyway told me to get our or he’d call the cops and have me arrested for trespassing.

So I left, which is what I was doing in the first place before she started screaming at me. The only reason I didn’t say, “Fine, call the cops.” is because I was underage (20) and I also really didn’t feel that well.

So that’s how I got thrown out of a bar. I’ve been cut off a couple of times as an adult, but that’s my only ejection.

Cheers,
G

23

I guess McSorley’s is a singing kind of place. The last time I was there, we ended up sharing a table with an Irish mother taking her twin sons out for their 21st birthday - no problems drinking fast enough there. We must have gone through every Irish song I knew, and then done them all again. We might have gone a third time, but my recollection gets a little hazy towards the end of the night. It didn’t cause any problems with the waitstaff, but I think that’s because we went during the middle of the week when school was out. The “waitstaff” that night was two older gentlemen with their own Irish accents, and they joined us between rounds.

I’ve been thrown out of a few places, mostly because I don’t know when to shut up. I’m a happy drunk… a happy, garrulous, obnoxiously wise-assed drunk. It never seems to entertain anyone else as much as it entertains me.

24

Once, after I and my buddies got into a massive brawl that wrecked much of the Prince George Hotel bar back in, oh, 1991. Or possibly 1990. Or maybe it was 1992. I was pretty drunk at the time.

25

You drank more than six and a half pitchers each? That’s… remarkable. Even with small 32 fl.oz. pitchers, that’s more than a [US] gallon and a half of beer per person. If it was more traditional 60 oz pitchers, that’s a truly astonishing three [US] gallons. Per drinker.

26

Amateurs. :smiley:

27

Sort of. It wasn’t actually me, but a friend of mine. There were several of us walking in to the bar together, and one of those stupid grey runner things was on the floor and a bit bunched up from people kicking it and scuffing it up and such. My friend stumbled a little bit on a bunched-up fold and we continued toward the pay booth.

The bouncer decided, based upon that small stumble, that our friend was drunk, and he was asked to leave. We all protested, telling him it was the rug, and that we’d just come out for the evening, but to no avail, we were welcome to come in, but our friend wasn’t.

We all left and went to a different dance club. I think there were about 10 of us all told. It was really stupid of the bouncer, it was quite obvious from our friend’s ability to speak clearly and explain himself in a lucid way that he was sober (not to mention 9 other clearly lucid people), but the bouncer must have been having a God-complex moment or something.

28

Once, in college, at the “freshman bar” (I was a freshman). It was packed, some friends and I stopped to chat in a narrow corridor, and a bouncer told us to move it along, with attitude. Being drunk, I muttered “yeah, yeah, yeah” as I started off. He didn’t appreciate it.

I coulda taken him.

29

Only once, at a bachelor party when a coworker grabbed the ass of a stripper. We were already heading toward the door, so we just told the three bouncers who came out of nowhere that we were leaving and gave the idiot that we worked with a shove in the right direction.

30

After a table tennis club meeting, we got into a drunk argument (and, silly you thought that fights occurred only at biker meetings) if one of the women (who wasn’t there) could beat me or not. I said no, the other two said yes, and it rapidly broke down into a less than articulate exchange (“Ya, she could.” “Fuck you, I could have beat her if we played again. “ “No, she would have taken you.” “Fuck you.” “Fuck you.”) which is only meaningful to inebriated participants.

Since my “fuck you’s ” weren’t working, at some point, I banged my glass on the table for emphasis, with alcohol-fueled strength, which would have undoubtedly been audible over the bar music, but unfortunately, I had switched from swilling beer in a sturdy mud to guzzling Manhattans in a fragile cocktail glass.

Fortunately the glass step only snapped, and I wasn’t even cut, but the bar tender decided that he had enough drunk gaijin in his club and out of there we were.

Also fortunately, we were in Tokyo, with 50,000 bars, so finding the next location of our continued exchanges wasn’t that difficult.

I pleasantly surprised myself with my ability to learn from painful experiences and went back to ordering beer in sturdy mugs.

31

The Onion Bar in Spokane. They left the helium tank out so we first amused ourselves by loading balloons, taking a hit and then trying to pick up women at the bar. They took the helium away but left several balloons at our table. I had the bright idea of taking the little paper cups for catsup, putting a coin inside, tying to the end of the balloon string and letting it go, drifting across the tables.

Other people at our table started doing it. Then the balloons started to catch in the ceiling fans, spin wildly and pop. They asked us to leave, which we agreed to, but I grabbed an unopened bottle of champagne off the table. When we got to the door, the bouncer stepped in front of me and said I had to leave the bottle. “Fuck you, I paid for it.”
“You’re not taking it with you.”
repeat.

Pretty soon I was surrounded by five pissed off bouncers and an equal number of my friends. We told them if they wanted to take on five Montana boys they better call in the Washington National Guard. They were bouncer, we were bar fighters.

That’s when they told us that in Washington state, there are bars that don’t have “off sale.” That is, you can’t buy booze there and take it with you. There is no such concept in Montana.

Once that misunderstanding was cleared up, they agreed to look the other way while we took the bottle under a coat.

I’ve been thrown out of other bars for general assholishness, but not since my '20s.

32

Once after puking on the floor. Also once after allegedly screaming and throwing things.

33

Twice. i was thrown out of our local super strong drink watering hole after some bit of minor frivolity of tossing wet napkins across the table. My ‘friends’ cleverly ducked to the side as I walked out. I waited out by the car for two hours and wondered where the fuck they were. I ended up hitchhiking back to Isla Vista at 2 in the morning. That was really lame. I’m talking to you, ANDREA. Jeeez.

The second time I got thrown out of a bar for standing there. I was a bit drunk but not excessively so, swear to god. I remember everything that transpired, including when my little Russian buddy/ex-employee got in a fight with the bouncer at the previous bar. I should have been, catatonically drunk as it was the day of my going away party from the company that I started and subsequently got forced out of. To this day, i still think I got thrown out because of the crime of being old. It really sucks when you don’t anything they won’t tell you why they are throwing you out. Mysteriously enough, the place burned down about a week later. This is the same place that got sued because some patron passed out and got thrown into the dumpster and nearly died. Hell, I used to know the bouncer at that damn bar.

34

Well, I’ve been part of a group tossed out of bars many times. I never, ever, started it but when you are in your 20s and your best friend is in the 82nd Airborne and you go out drinking with his Army buddies… these things just kinda happen.

My favorite bar story though does not involve them, just me, a club in Moscow, and an ex-spetnaz guy named Sasha.

I was in Moscow with my now ex-wife visiting her family and we decided to go out with some of her friends for the night. We met up at one of their apartments and vodka happened. From there, we went to this nightclub which was really more like a restaurant with a dance floor and dj. The “theme” of this place was something approximating “asian” and had a lot of tables and little short black wooden benches. (These benches become very important later) Friend’s of one of my ex-wife’s friends were already there, including who would become my “new best friend” - Sasha the ex-spetnaz guy.

Now, I was the only American in the group. I also do not speak Russian, other than being able to say “please”, “thank you”, “hello”, and “may I have another beer and vodka?”. I also was meeting these long-time friends of my ex-wife for the first time so I wanted to make a good impression by being friendly, generous, and showing off my Russian language skills by repeatedly ordering beers and vodka for the group. Insert something about best intentions and road to hell.

So we’re having a grand old time. MeanJoe the American is buying round after round of peeva and vodka and thinking to himself “I can drink with Russians”. At some point I had a very long conversation with Sasha, the ex-spetnaz guy, where we bonded over the inherent superiority of the Khalishnikov rifle. Mind you, I can only say “please”, “thank you”, “hello” and “may I have another beer and vodka?” in Russian. Sasha’s english was non-existent. Great conversation that was, although I cannot remember much of it. We bonded, REALLY bonded and talked for an hour… and I kept showing off my Russian skills by ordering more and more vodka and beer.

At some point, I notice my now ex-wife is dancing and I decide that would be a good idea as I really can no longer feel anything above my chest. So off I go to the dance floor and I think I danced for a couple songs. It may have been a couple seconds. Things get really spotty at this point.

I recall leaving the dance floor to go join my new BFF Sasha for another round of vodka and beer. There was only one problem, there was a sea of tiny little black wooden benches all over the place forming an impenetarable maze between me and the table and Sasha and the beer. Demonstrating that noted American ingenuity, I decided the correct response to this challenge was the path of least resistence. If in my drunken state the challenge of stepping over and around all these little black benches was going to be too difficult - I would go OVER them!

Yes, the 200 pound drunk American was going to hop up on top of the closest tiny wooden black bench (about 12 inches wide, 1 1/2 feet tall, and about 3 feet long and apparently made of balsa wood) and walk like Jesus on the water, back to my table. This idea apparently attracted the attention of the bouncers but they were a little slow in catching up to me and pointing out the flaw in my plan. Somewhere about the 2nd bench I distinctly recall hearing a sharp “crack” and then a “groan” as the bench completely collapsed under my weight.

I don’t recall how I made it back the rest of the way, only that I was now sitting between Sasha and my ex-wife when I was rudely interrupted by two of the largest Russian men (the bouncers) I had ever seen. Granted, I was sitting on a bench only a foot and a half from the ground looking up so maybe my perspective was slightly limited. Even with my limited Russian language skills I could detect the anger in their voices. Fortunately, my now ex-wife was translating in my ear and I understood that they wanted to know why the hell did I break their benches and some other stuff about being a sloppy drunk. This was clearly a time that called for detente between East and West.

I began apologizing profusely (in English) and offered to pay for the damage. Through my ex-wife translating they both agreed that I definitely would be paying for the damage and then would be exiting the club to never return. I agreed completely and very soon I received my tab, including the line item for a miscellaneous charge that I presume was the price of the broken bench. I do remember (and this was a sign that the worm was turning) getting very boisterous that I could afford to pay for the tab, the bench and all the benches up in this mother-f*cker and don’t forget it!

So I paid and I promptly staggered out of the bar. My ex-wife told me everyone else was closing out their bills so wait outside and they’ll be out in a minute. I went and puked on a dumpster.

Shortly afterwards, the group of people we were with came spilling out of the club laughing. My new BFF Sasha was also carrying the broken pieces of my bench. Apparently he felt very strongly that if his American friend paid for it, I now owned it and Sasha was going to return it to me. The bouncers disagreed for all of 10 seconds before Sasha explained to them again his position on this matter and they changed their minds.

So off we went arm-in-arm-in-bench-in-arm through the cold, snowy, Moscow night back to our friends apartment to sleep this one off. I will end this story here and not mention the near-International Incident that Sasha and I caused by attacking a consulate building with the bench. Nor will I mention me verbally abusing a Moscow police officer and threatening to sodomize him with his night-club (I think the words “Rocky Balboa” and “Ivan Dragov” were tossed about). Nor will I mention that I do not recall any of that happening, I left the bar, puked on a dumpster, and woke up with my face pressed against the cold porcelin of a toilet bowl back at the apartment. Oh, and I had a huge knot of my forehead where I was hit by a plank from the bench that was in Sasha’s hands during a back-swing…but I’m not going to mention that.

Ah, good times. :slight_smile:

MeanJoe

35

That’s what you get for not letting the landlord play that Paladin with a +1 vorpal blade…

36

Just once and many moons ago.

I knew this guy and in the pub he asked me if I’d loan him a £5 which I did.

About 25 mins later he’s punching the crap out of this girl so I stepped in to break it up, he spat FULL in my face ::eek::

I thereupon proceeded to beat the fuck out of him, nobody spits in my face and gets away with it, nobody.

The landlord threw me out but let dipshit stay

37

Got tossed from the Mucky Duck and El Rio, but those were for “not having ID.”

38

I got told to leave a bar as soon as I walked in when the bartender said ‘I’ve already served you an entire fifth of tequila tonight.’

There weren’t many people there, it was about 9 pm, and I had just arrived and didn’t even have my jacket off yet when he said it. I mentioned that I hadn’t even had ONE drink yet, let alone 25 shots. He also insisted I hadn’t paid for all that tequila, and that he was just going to put it on the credit card I left for my tab anyway. I think he might have been high. I don’t know, I left without signing any credit card slips and never went back to that bar.

39

Quite a few times, but my best story involves a biker bar that decided they could improve the bottom line be letting in underage students. So it was a mixed crowd of hard core bikers and fancy-lad students.

I was shooting pool when somebody gives me a big bear hug from behind. Being that this joint was not the Ritz by any means, I break the pool cue over my leg and turn around with the business end of the cue cocked back only to see that the guy behind me is a very drunk student I sort of knew. I had a laugh as I was being led out by the bouncers. They said they understood, but had to 86 me, but to come back the next night.

The next night I offered to pay for the cue, but the staff would have none of it. They wouldn’t even let me pay the $5 cover, and gave me a free beer. That was a good bar.

40

39 posts and no “Tater Salad” jokes?