Misfits Sports Bar And Grill — Restaurant in Lakewood

Misfits in Lakewood is the kind of bar where you can smell the grit as soon as you walk through the door. It’s a dive, unapologetically so, with an edge sharp enough to cut through whatever illusions you were clinging to when you stumbled in. This isn’t a place for pretense, and it sure as hell isn’t where you go to see or be seen. No, Misfits is a refuge for the damned, the disgruntled, and the dispossessed.

The outside doesn’t bother with aesthetics—it’s just there, like a bunker for the local misanthropes. A faded sign that’s barely legible lets you know you’ve arrived, but by then, the point of no return is long past. Inside, the lighting is so dim it feels like the walls themselves are trying to close in. The décor, if you can call it that, is a mishmash of discarded relics from another time—ripped vinyl stools, scarred tables, and a jukebox that’s seen better decades.

The regulars are hardened, as if the weight of a thousand bad decisions has fused them into the furniture. Faces half-lit by neon glow, eyes glazed over in that perfect blend of apathy and alcohol. These are not the kind of people you strike up casual conversation with unless you’ve got a death wish or a story to trade that’s darker than theirs.

The bar itself is an altar of excess, run by bartenders who’ve seen it all and stopped giving a damn somewhere around the Carter administration. They pour stiff drinks, no frills, no fuss—just enough to make you question your life choices. The beer’s cold and cheap, the whiskey burns in just the right way, and no one’s asking you to pronounce the name of the scotch because nobody cares. You’re here to drink, not pretend.

There’s a dartboard in the corner, but the real games are being played in the shadows. Pool tables sit like ancient battlegrounds, where cues have been snapped in frustration and friendships ruined over a game that never mattered. The walls are adorned with band posters and graffiti from people who clearly didn’t survive the night, and the music? It's punk, metal, whatever’s loud enough to drown out the thoughts you came here to escape.

Misfits doesn’t have a dress code—just a vibe. If you’re too clean, too polished, you’ll feel it. The bar will reject you like an immune system kicking out a virus. You have to earn your place here, and that usually means surviving a few rounds of god-knows-what and walking out under your own power. If you’re lucky.

The bathroom is exactly what you’d expect: a tomb of broken fixtures and forgotten dignity. The kind of place where you hold your breath and make it quick, praying the graffiti on the walls doesn’t turn into an existential crisis while you're there.

But here’s the thing about Misfits—it’s real. It’s raw. It’s the last bastion for those who don’t fit anywhere else. So, if you find yourself there, consider it a badge of honor. You’ve joined the ranks of the outcasts, the rebels, and the beautifully broken. And as you sit there, nursing a drink that’s stronger than your sense of self-preservation, you realize that, for all its flaws, Misfits is exactly where you were...

Claire, ("owner"), just to put the record straight..... I want to clarify some of the events on friday, January 31st, at your venue. The line dancers were one of several large groups patronizing the dance floor. As the norm, we are aware of other dancers and know how to share space. I can explain my personal experience, specifically with you, Claire. We were enjoying our drinks, yes alcoholic beverages, and our food we had ordered. Not just water, "taking up your staff's time and energy." I was one of seven dancers on the floor. There was room at one end away from the tables for more dancers. You, claire, and another lady came up and danced. You, specifically, began to wave your arms and hip bump my friend, and then myself, telling us "to move our shit over." There was NO asking!! I continued to dance, leaving that corner open for you, but you even came to the middle of the floor to bash into me. Then you stopped dancing, took me by the arm, and said again, "move your shit over! I'm the owner of this bar and you just better watch it." I don't know, but I would think the owner of a bar would be happy patrons 1)came 2) ordered drinks and food and 3) supported the band. I take great offense in being talked to like you did, whether you're the bar owner or not. You are the one that needs to clean up her act. And yes, I am not insinuating but saying, you looked and talked drunk to me. Why else would you berate...

We were traveling through and looking for a good mom and pop type bar and grill to grab a bite to eat and a beer. We chose the daily special, burger and fries. Price was good but it took about 30 min to get it, and it was dry as a bone with absolutely NO favor! We had a burger at Burger King a couple of days later that was MUCH better! To add insult to injury, we ordered 2 Michelob Ultra in the bottle and they were $11 EACH! I’ve never been in a bar that charged that much for a beer!! There were only 6 other people in the bar at that time and they were already there when we got there so they weren’t busy. The server was too busy socializing with her friends to provide good service. We will never go back again and discourage anyone else from stopping in. Save yourself the grief and go to McDonald’s or Burger King. Stop at walmart and buy a whole case of beer! You’ll save yourself money and have...