OK, this is EXACTLY what the Dead Kennedys were talking about back in the early eighties. Now more than ever, we need to band together to ensure that fascism has no place in this scene. And, in my humble opinion, that applies just as much to the bartender who wouldn’t serve me another Tecate as it does to any goose-stepping Nazis who have the nerve to show themselves in this venue.
Seriously, what the fuck is his problem? It’s not like I’ve been stumbling around, bumping into people and vomiting on the bar. I vomited in the trash can next to the bar, and I’d say I got, conservatively, 95% of the vomit into the can. Only a little bit splashed onto that lady’s leg, and her reaction was, in my opinion, way overdramatic. It was basically just regurgitated beer. I know this because I had already thrown up the Cheddar Cheeseburger Hot Pockets I had for dinner into the same trash can earlier, and I’ve consumed nothing but booze ever since. And who stands up and screams like that from having a little bit of beer spray on their calf? Ugh, what a crybaby. Don’t worry, though. It’s not like I’m going to accuse her of being a Nazi too.
You know what? Nevermind. She can fuck off, too.
Back to this dickhead of a bartender. Telling me “sorry, bro, gonna have to cut you off,” as if it wasn’t his decision in the first place. Christ, way to spin it, Joseph Goebbels. I can’t believe the guy has lasted this long in a place that hosts punk shows, and nobody has kicked him out. What kind of a scene is this? Well, it looks like this monumental task falls squarely on my shoulders. I’m just going to have to stand up, point at this asshole, call him and Nazi and tell him to fuck off.
Goddamnit. I fell. Looks like it’ll have to wait until tomorrow night, if I’m allowed back into this place. And that honestly doesn’t seem likely at this point, because this guy working the door doesn’t seem particularly happy with me either.
So, yeah. “Nazi punks fuck off” includes him, too. I’ll deal with him tomorrow as well.
