Thursday, January 17, 2008

Not Fucking Fair

So I'm at this restaurant alright? And I'm eating. And while I'm eating my over-priced organic spagetti grown only from local pasta shrubs, I decide that I would like a cool, alcoholic beverage to wash down the taste of my own hypocrisy. Pardon me, drinking wench. Whilist thou fetch me a pint of lager? Oh, my identification? Of course you can see it, because I am an accommodating young man with a pleasant demeanor who is also of legal age. Here's where things start to go sour.

She takes a moment to look at my ID. I still have my Illinois license with me, which apparently confuses these Washingtonians, because their IDs are, fuck, I don't know, just plastic cards with their birthdates printed extra large on them because they always have trouble reading my ID. Whatever.

"I'm a little hairier these days," I joke with the bartendress of moderate hotness. "I used to be clean."

She smiles in a patronizing sort of way and then turns her back to me, presumably, to comment to another bar patron about the state of my ID. See this guy? Yes, he is most definitely of legal drinking age as the glorious laws of Washington have established. Heil Cobain!

Then, funny things begin to happen. First, a second bartender-creature has to come over and look at the ID and then at me. I feel awkward. Afterwards, a blacklight is shone upon my driver's license. I fear that these bartenders will discover that I masturbate to pictures of myself and I am less than tidy with the results.

Finally, after much deliberation and much standing around very thirsty and very sober on my part, the original drinking wench comes over to me and tells me that no, we're sorry, but we cannot serve you alcohol with this ID. I am confused.

"Really?" I ask, probably very condescendingly, "what's the problem?"

"Well," drinking wench replies, "it doesn't glow, and I would check it but we lost our book."

I am astounded. I have never been refused service on account of a non-glowing ID before. I was unaware that my plastic driver's license needed superpowers to operate. Is there somewhere I plug it in? What kind of batteries does it take? Is my handsome face not glowing enough for you people?

I'm not even going to begin to wonder about whatever book it is she's talking about. Apparently bars are all issued a book that contains the names of everyone over the age of 21. Or there's some sort of chart to help them read my confusing Illinois license. Birthdate! It's right there! Arabic numerals and everything! And if that's too hard, take the expiration date and subtract five!

"Look," I say, with the desperation of a sober teen or a thirsty adult, flipping my ID upside down on the bar, "you can even quiz me."

But I can see that is of no use. My identification is not luminous enough for these people and they don't speak my heathen Midwestern tongue. Plus, the magic book is gone. They apparently think that I'm trying to pull a Clark Kent trick on them. "He has glasses on," they were probably thinking, "but in this ancient form of identification, with its unreadable numbers, he is clearly representing himself to a be a person of perfect vision. We cannot serve such dishonesty."

And that's the story of how I decided to dye my hair gray.
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