Ah. I tend not to frequent those sorts of places, and on the rare occasion I go to a bar, it’s a neighborhood place that I’m familiar with.
Years ago a friend talked me into going into a place I wasn’t familiar with. When we walked in, every guy in the place stopped talking and looked right at us. I have never seen so many hook hands, eye patches, leather vests, swastikas, and tattoos in my life. I didn’t exactly have a relaxing time there.
Just a few blocks from my house is a neighborhood bar that has its roster of regulars and apparently no other clientelle. I’ve been in the place twice, both times at the insistence of friends who didn’t want to call it a night. Both times, it was very clear that we weren’t welcome there. The regulars are hoopies, poor white trash, banjos, or whatever term for that ilk you prefer. Under only slightly different circumstances, I can easily see, instead of every inbred in the place silently staring at us 'til we left, there being real trouble. The kind where people get hurt or killed…or made to squeal like a pig.
Yeah, this kind of thing is probably much more rare at TGI Fridays because Dale from Accounts Receivable had too many mudslides. 
Story time:
Back in the early 90’s, I went out with my first wife (a notably psychotic woman) and a friend for Halloween costume night in the Pittsburgh-area boro where we had just moved.
First wife had been in theater and was very adept at make-up. She did me up as a battle-damaged Terminator, herself as Sarah Connor, and our friend as the Paul Reubens’ character from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie. I have photos of us from that night, and to this day when I look at them I am impressed with what that woman could do with make-up and thrift shop clothes.
We went from bar to bar and had a great time, drinking and enjoying everybody oohing and aahhing over our costumes.
Then we went into one of those bars.
As usual, everybody in the place turned and stared at us. Silence. One of the regulars then raises up a little hand puppet that looks like a ghost. He worked it’s mechanism and it gave us the finger.
“What do you think of that?” he sneered.
Psychowife snatches a realistic toy .45 out of her pistol belt (I insisted she leave her real one at home) and pistol whips the puppet so hard its little plastic head flew off and went sailing across the room. Then she sticks the faux .45 under the puppeteer’s chin.
“I think you ought to shove that puppet up your arse!” she sneered back at him in her native Australian accent.
Silence. Nobody moving. Nobody even breathing.
“What do you have on tap?” I asked.
The regulars dissolved into helpless laughter and we spent the rest of the evening there drinking with them and accepting compliments on our costumes.
I can’t help but think the pleasant end to the evening was largely because they believed that the guns we were carrying were real.
p.s. Mine was.
Yes.
To subdue a woman who was going to harm herself or others, in an extreme emergency where the woman’s behavior would be a threat (ie hallucinating on a life raft), and in self-defense. Basically any situation where it would also be necessary to hit a man.