You came into our nightclub two weeks after you turned 22. You acted incredulous when asked for your ID. “I’m twenty-TWO” you asserted, as if some magical thing had happened on your recent birthday that bestowed you with the appearance of something other than the born-yesterday, greenhorn, wet-behind-the-ears club bunny that you are. You balked at showing me your ID, claiming that your “manhood” had been questioned. Give me a break. Your “beard” is still barely more than peach fuzz, and I’m supposed to believe that you’re 22 without an ID? Go home, buddy. Maybe you left your ID in your crib.
SEND US your anonymous rants and raves about your co-workers or any badly behaving citizen—or about citizens you admire. I SAW YOU, Metro, 550 S. First St., San Jose, 95113, or via email to Is*****@me*******.com .
