chick-o-land!

You know it's gone wrong, when you find yourself at the counter of Chick-o-land.
You started the evening with the very best of intentions, promises not to drink, promises to drink one, water one, promises to pretend to drink...you some how sank into dancing like a banshee, falling off the curb twice, and snogging a dentist, (with an ugly friend).
And now blinking beneath the strip light you are faced with a choice of cheese and chips, lamb donner and watery coleslaw or cheese burger (without the cheese because they've run out again).

...At this point you have told everyone you love them a million times, and you have started crying to go home. You are weeping uncontrollably for your blanky, your hot water bottle, your liver. No one is really listening because they too are crying.
It is then that you notice your shoe is broken or just missing and you have stepped on a shot glass, there is a concerning amount of blood gushing from the sole of your foot but the consensus seems to be you don't need A and E, this time.
You notice your reflection in the window, but you don't recognise yourself and start to frown, just before the man behind the counter taps your shoulder and asks you to leave because you are bleeding all over his floor.

And so the fun begins.
You don't take kindly to this harsh ruling and you are not going with out having your loud, insulting, drunken say...and neither are your mates. Finally as you are telling any one within hearing distance what you really think of chick-o-land, the police arrive.

They know you.
But they still ask to see your fake ID.
This is persecution of the first degree because everyone knows it isn't fake, it's just someone else's who doesn't actually look like you.

You don't want to get done for fraud, so you reluctantly agree to be escorted to a taxi.