In life, the concept of rules are, at times, all that prevents us from descending into the depths of societal anarchy. A fine example can be found in the story of a trip I made to Blackhawk, Colorado several years ago. For those who have never been, Blackhawk is one of two townships in which it is legal for Colorado residents to gamble. Located roughly one and a half hours into the mountains west of Denver, Blackhawk is a popular destination for bored retirees, bored laborers, and bored college students all looking to make a quick buck or ten on the $5 max bet black jack and nickel slots.

I made this particular trip with 5 friends, and we made it in the not so spacious confines of my friend Dave's 1990 Ford Bronco. In order to squeeze 6 people into the Bronco, three people were crammed into the back seat, one person rode shotgun, and one unfortunate soul was forced to ride in the very back with several loose jugs of windshield washer fluid, a large and probing tire iron, and a pile of what appeared to be dirty laundry. The ride up to Blackhawk proceeded smoothly, and upon arriving in Blackhawk we gambled till our wallets were thinned by amounts reaching upwards of $50. $50 is quite the heavy fee for a broke college student, but it is a fee one must be willing to pay for the chance to scream "double down!" when they've got a 7-4 showing, and the dealer's fronting a 6.

After a few hours of this, we decided to call it a night and head home. As we neared the Bronco I took advantage of my friends' inattention and yelled out: "Shotgun!" Announcing to all, my now legit claim to the front seat of the Bronco for the ride home. A chorus of "Backseat, not bitch", "Backseat window", and "Backseat, Bitch." immediately followed, leaving my friend Luhring as the unfortunate soul who would be forced to ride in the cramped and smelly far back section of the Bronco. Our seats had been set, and things seemed be going smoothly as we all started to get into the car. It was here that things went horribly wrong.

Bypassing his designated spot at the back, Luhring proceeded to head directly to the front seat of the Bronco, opened the door, got in the car, and buckled himself in the front seat. A moment of stunned silence followed this brazen display of contempt for the rules of Shotgun. I'll admit that I myself was shocked into momentary immobility, and it took me a moment to come to grips with what had just occurred before gathering myself and asking Luhring just what in the fuck he thought he was doing.

"Luhring, just what in the fuck do you think you are doing?" I asked, as I stood in the open doorway to what was rightfully my front seat.

"Fuck that Reich, I'm not sitting back there."

"But I called 'shotgun' Luhring, that means the front seat is mine, that's how the game is played." I started looking about me for support from my friends, and as they all proceeded to buckle themselves into their appropriate seats they voiced their agreement that yes, the front seat did rightfully belong to me, and Luhring needed to get over it and get in the back. Luhring replied:

"Over my dead body will I get back there. You want the front seat Reich, come and take it."

Now, I watched enough WWF as a child to hear a throw down challenge when one comes my way, and as such, I knew exactly what my two options were:

1.) Back down, sit in the back area with the probing tire iron, and live with the shameful stigma of being a pushover pansy. 2.) Step up, fight for the front seat, and, should one prove handy, slam a foldable chair into Luhring's back at the first opportunity.

As I was raised to do by my Republican parents, I chose option 2.

Reaching across his lap in a viper quick maneuver, I unbuckled the front seat belt, and was pulling Luhring out before he even knew what was happening. Removing him from the front seat using what can best be described as a variation on the "Russian Bear Hug" maneuver, I then attempted to force myself past his staggering body, and into the front seat. Unfortunately, Luhring was born with rapid recovery ability, and was able to turn his body in a manner which blocked me from getting all the way into the front seat. As our friends cheered us on from the back seat, we became locked in an almost Greco Roman wrestling position as we both struggled to gain the upper hand in this battle for front seat dominance. After a minute or two of struggle in which neither of us gained the upper hand, the tide was turned rapidly against me when Luhring pulled off a trick straight from the book of Rowdy Roddy Pipper; knocking my glasses off, while throwing my prized Dill Records hat 25 feet down the parking garage structure, straight into the path of on-coming traffic. Blind, and fearing the worst for my favorite hat, I disengaged from our grappling, picked up my glasses, and ran to gather my hat before it was run over by a van full of gambling geriatrics.

Upon returning to the Bronco, Luhring had firmly entrenched himself in the front seat behind a now locked front door. After calling him an asshole, I warned Luhring about the repercussions of his careless act:

"You've done something terrible today Luhring, you've damaged the credibility of the Shotgun system, maybe beyond repair. You've potentially destroyed one of the founding rules of our group, and without rules all that is left is anarchy."

I wish I could say that I was wrong in saying all of this. I wish I could say that everything was fine after this night, and that my five friends and I went on about our lives acting like nothing untoward had happened and that we continued to place faith in, and abide by, the rules of shotgun. I wish I could say all of this, but if I did, I would be lying. Things were never the same after that night. Whether it was the lingering shame I felt from losing out on shotgun that night, or the building resentment I felt towards my friends in the backseat who had sat there and watched (and much like the Vatican with the Nazi's, did nothing to stop an atrocity from occurring right in front of them) as Luhring proceeded to destroy one of the basic fundamentals of our small society. It was as if something I had been raised to believe in from the day I was born was simply no longer valid. It was taken from me and my group of friends, and it was done quickly, cruelly, and with no thought towards what the repercussions in the future might be. Sitting in the back of the Bronco that night, constantly fending off advances from the tire iron, I knew that things were never going to be the same. Something fundamental had changed and it was not for the better.

From then on, whenever someone called shotgun it was almost never taken seriously. There was the "challenge" movement which took over during 2002, when almost every time someone called out shotgun, a "challenge" was issued (in the form of a winner take all 'rock, papers, scissors' contest.) After that, things got even worse with people more and more frequently simply choosing to ignore the claim to shotgun, as Luhring himself chose to do that one fateful night. It soon got to the point where friends became enemies simply because of a 15 minute ride to the bar; fighting over a front seat and forgetting the spirit of booze and brotherhood in which we had begun our journey. Gods, it was an awful time, and if it wasn't for the eventual scattering of me and my friends to various parts of the United States, I cannot say for certain that we would have ever fully recovered. Regardless, none of us have ever been able to recapture the feelings of youth and innocence in which we had all shared before Luhring's actions that one fateful night in Blackhawk.

The reason I've told you this story is not because I wish it to serve as a precautionary tale to the dangers inherent in breaking the shotgun system. This should have already been obvious to you before reading this story. Rather, it is meant to serve as an example of the importance of rules to our society. Rules provide the framework within which we as individuals are able to come together collectively and pursue that elusive idea of the American Dream. Rules provide the structure that prevents the evil from becoming all powerful, and the drunks of the world from getting behind the wheels of their cars. Sure, not every rule or law is necessary, and some of them are downright foolish (hello, marijuana.) But, for the most part rules are a necessity to keeping democratic societies like ours going. Rules stop us from slipping into anarchy, and help prevent us from making foolish decisions.

It is in this spirit of rule-based positivism that I hereby announce the launch of The Barfly Manifesto. Once or twice a month I'll present you, the readers of www.barflymag.com, with a piece or two of my hard earned knowledge about how to handle the bar scene like a seasoned professional. I'll tackle such topics as

1. Crack Whores: How to Spot Them, How to Stop Them from Molesting your Johnson
2. Shuffleboard: The Game of Kings and Alcoholics
3. Jagermeister and The Four Levels of Drunkenness
4. McMennimans: The death of fun
5. Whiskey Dick: Enemy or Ally?

All of these topics and the lessons I hope to draw from them will be based on first hands experiences shared by myself and the rest of the Barfly crew, as well as stories from my past. My hopes are simple: That by reading the Manifesto, you, the reader, will become a more professional and knowledgeable drinker, thus avoiding the many mistakes I have made in my years of drinking. I also hope to eventually bring about world peace, end hunger and racism, and correct global warming through the Manifesto. But for now, helping prevent you from throwing up on yourself as a Crack Whore molests your Johnson seems like a pretty good place to start.