An open letter to bar patrons

I’d like to take this opportunity to write an open letter to a few of the more colorful characters that I happen to see on a nightly basis. I may, or may not, be talking about you, so don’t come up to the bar asking if it’s you. If you have to ask, then it’s probably is.
To Whom It May Concern:
You, that tired soccer mom who feels the urgent need to regale me with stories of how you met the guitar tech from Motley Crue, and how you once washed Axl Rose’s underwear back in 1986. I’m sure your kids would be so proud to know their mom was scrubbing some mangy musician’s tighty whities so that she could get backstage and do coke with the rest of the Hollywood crud rockers. Just let it go. Embrace the fact that you still have a brain, and aren’t some skeezed-out hull of a human. Yet …
You, that brainless doof that continues to claim that he was a model/deejay/martial arts champion. OK seriously, just stop. I mean, I can understand that a lot of people use fibs and little white lies when they’re at the bar to create a new persona. It’s fun and quasi-harmless, but you might want to focus on not being so random and farfetched with your personal fairy tales. Honestly, you’re so absurdly delusional, I would sooner believe that rare celestial lemmings come to Encinitas daily to dance on tables at Barracuda Grill and throw little pickles at passersby. Did that make any sense? Yeah, that’s how I feel when you tell me your nutty life stories. So just don’t talk. Ever.
You, the skater/motocross/punk rocker that thinks his tattoos and a backwards hat are a free ticket to swagger across the bar and act like the crowned prince of all that is cool and extreme. Unfortunately, we all know that your mommy actually bought you that snazzy new pair of skate shoes and that tragically hip socially satirical T-shirt. And the only thing extreme that can be attached to your name is how extremely dainty you are. Maybe you can go hang out at the mall and scare the junior high crowd. Oh, and best of luck with your new job at Hot Topic.
You, that daft lunatic who felt the need to use his lighter and attempt to ignite a bar full of people by showing a complete inability to light a cigarette. I’m not really sure at which point your feeble brain ceased working and your damaged thought process told you that arson would a great addition to the clueless misadventure you call life. Best of luck to you. Encinitas is a small town, and you’re not smart.
OK. Now that I have that particular rant off my chest, I can breathe freely and continue to serve the heathens of North County.
Also, you can stop bitching to me that my column is called Doorman Diaries, and that I never write about the bar anymore. You can only right about bar ‘tards and drunk sorority girls so much, otherwise it gets really old.
Lecture over, you may go now.


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