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Monday, March 19, 2012

‘Beer for my horses’ if they have ID cards, but they can vote without one!

Do poor people drink beer? Do black people drink beer? Do illegal aliens drink beer?

Where’s Jesse Jackson on this, how about Al Sharpton? Or for that matter, Obama and the whole Democrat party!

IDs for Beer but Not for Ballots?

by Doug Giles, Town Hall, March 19, 2012

I was in Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport recently and had a three-hour layover before I headed back to Miami. So, I did what any sensible gentleman would do—namely, I headed up to the Heineken Bar & Grill to get a beer and roast a fine puros before my plane ride home.

    Upon arrival at the bar I found a table, jammed my carry-on underneath it, unzipped my secret 007 storage pouch, extracted my zebra skin cigar holder, and pulled from that sweet piece of leather a Padron 1964 Corona. After getting that bad boy ignited I yanked out my Mac and began to pound away on another common sense column certain to infuriate the progressives while simultaneously making Jesus love me more and more.

    As I was sitting there getting into the zone, a waitress approached and asked me what I wanted to drink. I asked her if they had any Heineken. She didn’t get it at first … then she got it and said, “Dude, my day sucks enough as it is. Quit making it more miserable.” I said I was sorry and that I would like a Heineken, to which she replied, “Can I see your ID?” I told her I was flattered but am happily married. She retorted, “Don’t flatter yourself; we card everyone who orders alcohol. It’s the law.”

   Check it out: I looked the legal age to swill a beer. I’ve got a full head of hair that might not be turning loose but is definitely turning gray. In addition to my graying locks, I have lines etched into my face from years of laughing my butt off at the inequities and absurdities of the Left, and I have well-developed crow’s-feet from looking down the barrels of guns from many, many cherished years of hunting. Suffice it to say, the waitress knew that I was at least 21—if not 51—but because it was the law she had to make proof positive that I wasn’t a 16-year-old with some weird disease that made me age prematurely into a 50-year-old smart ass.

    When she asked me for my ID I didn’t cry racism, or drinking suppression, or call up Kofi Annan and request an international tribunal to cow this chick into beer-serving submission. No, instead I pulled out my ID and complied with the law and was then served a lukewarm Dutch beer.

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