THIS HAPPENED.
Friday night, Cindi and Matt and I parked near Luce and hopped a train to the other side of town to have dinner at Grumpy’s before the Doomtree show. We rode back shortly after 9 to meet up with Wendy and Willis. As we stepped off the train, a dude asked us if we wanted free drinks, and handed us coupons for Drink, The Original Fun Bar. Though Matt was not thrilled about it, Cindi and I thought we should probably go claim our free cocktails from Drink: The Original Fun Bar, despite the fact that it sucks a lot.
No, really. We’d gone in there one night a year or so ago, just because it was the only bar along First Avenue we hadn’t been to. We went in, got a shot, used the bathroom, and wanted to tear our hair out with disgust and rage by the time we ran back out, approximately 5 minutes later. I’m pretty sure if we’d spent any more time there, we’d have either gotten herpes or moved to Eden Prairie. Possibly both.
But, you know, exploiting them for free drinks. It seemed like the right thing to do.
So we took our coupons to the guys at the door, and Cindi verified that we could use them. Next thing I know, the bouncer was pointing at my chest. In order to set foot inside Drink: The Original Fun Bar, you cannot have visible tattoos. Or at least not above the elbows; my lower arms were OK with them, but not my chestpiece, or Cindi’s shoulders. Those tattoos are against the dress code at Drink: The Original Fun Bar.
Our minds blown, headed toward O’Donovans, where you’re far more likely to see more people with visible tattoos than without. As we crossed the street, another Drink: The Original Fun Bar employee tried to pass us free drink cards. When we explained to her why they wouldn’t let us in, she told Cindi to on a sweater.
What the fuck? You’d think we were livin’ in Mississippi.
Jenni