Where did the term BarWarriors come from?

Well that, my friends, is long debated, usually after too many whiskeys. But legend has it that the ancient order of BarWarriors first appeared years ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Their secret lair shrouded in the mists of a dark swamp who’s mythical name could only be whispered—San Diego. There, a group of buddies dumb enough to sign-up for BUD/S found themselves partying their nights away as they awaited the dreaded fate of surf-torture and homoerotic calisthenics.

Did they know each other well?

No.

Did they enlist together?

No.

Did they become fast and furious friends when the military gods threw them into the same dilapidated barracks together?

Naturally.

After only knowing each other for hours, the group headed out to scour whatever they could find, praying that just about anything could satisfy their voracious ADHD and sexual perversion. It took very little, because they were not very smart.

Several rounds of Irish Car Bombs later, they stumbled from The Field Irish Pub into the eerily subdued Gaslamp Quarter. Two of our heroes pulled an Irish goodbye, sneaking away with three lovely ladies. One Grande Dame was quite round, in all the best ways. The other two ladies were typical Californian fare—skinny and fit. The Sailors did what Sailors do, and fought over the fattest girl.

It was all for naught.

One sailor spent his night snuggling the two sleeping ladies, desperately trying to rouse them from their peaceful slumber. They yawned, and slapped his hands away. The other sailor quickly learned that his overly-round date was knee-deep in her menstrual cycle. Unfazed, he pleaded with her. One thing led to another and nothing happened.

This is the BarWarrior way.

Hours later, woken from their slumber by the acidic mixture of cream, whiskey and whatever Guinness is, their foul stomachs forced each to race for the co-ed’s dainty bathrooms. The citrus potpurri was destroyed under the crushing stench of digested chicken wings, tap beer and cheese nachos.

Impressed by the smells, they took in a deep inhale. It was about that time that each sailor realized they were alone. They were in different homes. Like drunk ninjas, they stumbled forth from the random houses into a waking suburbia. Daylight crushed their skulls almost as terribly as the sexual frustration had strangled their blue-balls. Lost in separate locations, they shaded their eyes and cringed as they took out their phones.

Google Maps wasn’t invented yet, so they scratched their heads and tried their best to triangulate where the hell they were. University Heights? Hill Crest? A plane flew overhead, its landing gears down.

“You see that?”

“Yeah,” the other grumbled.

“Walk towards it.”

Each stumbled down the quiet suburban sidewalk, approaching from opposite directions. A man in a bathrobe looked concerned as his dog pooped on his lawn. The two life-long friends who had known each other for 24 hours cheered and embraced. They laughed about last night and danced in the street. Jokes were cracked. Sexual misfortune celebrated. Then they realized, “Dude, where’s our car?”

They thanked the US military, in all its never-ending wisdom, for bringing these hero Viking gremlins together. It was certainly divine providence. And they also thanked Odin, along with the constables of San Diego, for not towing their car. For later that evening, windows down, wind whipping in their hair, Britney Spear’s Toxic blasting from the radio, they drove to PB on the clearest of nights. It was then, one said, “Man, if they ever made a movie about us, what would it be called?”

“BarWarriors,” came the reply.

And so it came to pass.