Having a 21-year-old ID is the college equivalent of a pool pass, giving you permission to dive into the bar scene, the booze, and the drunken hordes within. But unless you’re really a 25-year-old Hawaiian organ donor named McLovin, it takes some know-how to navigate the waters of fake IDs. Here are some tips for staying out of trouble.
Chances are, your ID is pretty fake-looking. Even if it’s a real drivers’ license, this person is at least a foot shorter than you, a decade older than you, has a weird name like Richard Chomper or Laura Lynn Cornstack, and hails from an equally random place like Chickentown, Pennsylvania.
At first, you’re a little skeptical. How could anyone mistake this for you? But don’t sweat it—all it takes is a little homework.
So you spend the next several days memorizing this person’s address and birthday until you can rattle off “455 Main Street” like a true Chickentownian. Never mind that if you’d exerted the same amount of mental energy studying for that chemistry exam you’d have discovered a new element by now—knowing the periodic table by heart never got anyone laid.
Finally, Thursday evening rolls around and you can barely contain your excitement.. Every so often you slide good old Richard Chomper out of your wallet and silently repeat Chickentown’s ZIP code to yourself. You got this.
But after a few rounds of BP and the Jersey Shore game (which necessitates taking a shot every time side-boob or neck veins become visible, e.g. almost continuously) you aren’t so sure anymore. Was I born in ’87 or ’88? you wonder in a drunken panic as someone shouts, “Let’s hit the bars!”
Standing in line outside as the bouncer checks IDs, a profound dread washes over you like Agent Orange, vaporizing the foliage of your drunken confidence. You glance down at Dick Chomper every few seconds, muttering his vital stats under your breath. You are sweating harder than that one time you and your friends thought it would be fun to take a ton of Adderall and play Mario Kart. Only this time there is more at stake than a few coins and you are quivering like Princess Peach.
Oh, God. You’re next in line. The bouncer takes your ID and studies it for a moment, then looks back up at you. Then back down at Dick Chomper.
If you are a girl, in this moment you are picturing a lifetime behind bars in a Cook County women’s correctional facility with a 230 pound prison wife named Hildy; if you are a guy, you are just trying not to piss your pants.
It’s a critical moment, but even if the bouncer doesn’t let you in right away, you can still pull it off. If he asks for your date of birth and you can’t remember what’s on the ID, don’t stand there with your mouth open (like anyone would actually need a few seconds to remember their own birthday). It’s better to confidently rattle off a birthday, any birthday, and hope that he doesn’t notice it’s not Richard’s.
If he’s not buying it, you still have a few options. One is a bribe. There are certain establishments in Chicago, for example, that will let someone in with a fifty slipped under a library card, even if the kid is still sporting braces and a Hannah Montana backpack.
Another last resort is flirtation. Although this works exponentially better if you happen to have a pair of breasts, you never know when a compliment or two might just hit its target.
But if you still can’t get in? Don’t worry about it. After all, things turned out pretty well in the end for McLovin.
