Zach Hates You

Again with the lack of posting.  I’ve been neglecting ZHY for some time because in my world of bouncing, which has made the bulk of this site, is rather repetitive.  1.  Someone upsets the Zach 2. Semi-humorous story about the lack of intelligence of the drunken subject. 3.  The making fun of said idiot and the wishing of them bursting into flames.  Needless to say, this bores the Zach.  I’ve been working less in the bars which has done wonders for my sanity.  The place I am currently is for the most part mellow and nothing to write home about aside from one semi-recent giggle.

Since I’m already here, I might tell it — I wouldn’t let a person in because he couldn’t read.

Now, one would assume that this is just a mean thing to do.  I’m sure you’re thinking that I’m an asshole.   You’re not wrong.  This illiteracy wasn’t caused by a disability, but more by intoxication and pure idiocy.

One of the nice things about current bar that I’m at is when it’s slow, I can sit and read my book.  Getting paid to read is a pretty nice gig, one I wish happened more often.  Unfortunately for the bar, it’s been slow most of the time.  Good for me since I’ve been blazing though books.  I’ve been trying not to buy too many new books (I need to get my ass to the library more often) so I’ve been rereading some of the things I own.  The one I grabbed for that night was Brain Rules: 12 Principles for Surviving and Thriving at Work, Home, and School by John Median.  I had my crazy Spanish teacher recommend this book (more like swear by it) so I picked it up and read through it pretty quick.  I like to pick it up now and again and read through various chapters.  It’s a pretty good read and I would recommend it.

At times when I get tired if sitting on my ass and need a stretch, my stool becomes a place for my book to rest as I stand in the doorway.  Towards the end of the night, said book was sitting on said stool and I was greeting customers as they would walk towards me from the street.  I had a big, doofy guy stumble up to me and look at my book.  “Brian Rules,” he slurred.  In the 5 seconds dealing with this guy, I was already coming to the conclusion of not letting him in.  “Try again,” I told him.  He wobbles a bit and spits out, “Brains Rules.”  This grabs everyone’s attention that was nearby as I laughed and said, “Third times a charm, buddy.” “Brian’s Rules,” he states and looks at me.

Swing and a miss.

I tell the guy, “Sorry man, I can’t let you in.” “Why the hell not?” he yells at me.  “Because you can’t read?” I ask and look at his friends.  Laughter erupts around me as the rest of the patio watches the exchange.  His friends begin to get upset with him and the large, drunk kid looks pissed.  “If you teach me to be froggy can you jump?” he asks me.

Now at this point, I’m the one that is confused.  He’s clearly feeling aggressive at this point from being told no and I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck he is trying to imply.  Luckily for everyone, his friends think that they’ll do better at the shittier frat bar down the road.  Mr. Stumbly leaves with his friends and I turn to the barback that was nearby watching the exchange and I ask him, “If you teach me to be froggy, can you jump?” with a puzzled tone.  My buddy thinks about it for a second and puts it together.  “He meant to say, ‘If you’re feeling froggy, then why don’t you jump?’”

Fucking special.

On the topic of reading and repetitiveness, something has been bothering me about some of the books I’ve been reading recently.  My lovely mommy let me borrow some modern day fantasy books that have left me a bit upset.  This genre has been beaten to death so much it’s really turning me off.  I like fantasy books.  I like them in a modern setting.  I really don’t like that it’s come down to a formula:

1. Detective/looker of things/badass hunter type that has some non-human quirk about them, but while still having a shred of humanity
2. Large US city (a capitol of a state perhaps)
3.  Paranormal stuff! Ghosts, dead stuff, fairies (excuse me,  fae), or vamps
4.  MURDER!
5. STOPPING MURDER!

It’s getting stale.  One of the series drives me crazy with the mention of the main character cocking back the hammers on her Glocks.  I have a G19.  I like it.  It’s a decent 9mm that I can abuse and it’ll keep working.  One of the reasons behind this is the all internal parts.  Basically, something that cannot be “thumbed” back like the author likes to have her character (who is a human hunter with a touch of “hellspawn” to make her more powerful) do.  <shakes head>  All I ask is do a little bit of research before making assumptions like that.

Like I said, I do like the genre, but it just needs something new.  Some of the authors are doing a good job, such as Jim Butcher, and others are going down the same road as the rest of the cookie cutter unfortunate norm.

Le sigh.

No new fact: I hate people
Newish fact: I hate students.

According to my fucking statistic class, these are not mutually exclusive.  I hate students, which are people.  More hate for everyone I say.

This rant has been a long time coming.  I’ve been going to get me some upper level learnin’ for about a year now.   I work on campus as well which means working while I and most of the student population is on break.  Every break I say I like the campus a lot more when the students are gone.  This is because of a pretty obvious fact: college students don’t give a flying fuck about anything other than themselves.  Far from groundbreaking I know, but it had to be stated for what’s coming.

First thing I noticed is none of the fuckers push their seats in.  Anywhere.   That’s just annoying, but manageable.  The cafeteria tables are always covered in trash which means the lazy fuckers don’t want to take 30 extra seconds to clean up and walk over to the trash.  Said garbage/recycle/compost bins are always all kinds of fucked up.  People just dump whatever into the first bin which is always overflowing.  Again, lazy motherfuckers.

What has been really bugging me is the bathrooms.  Sure, I was in the Army and use to large amounts of people only using a few bathrooms, but we had to clean up.  Anyone that made a mess would have to be cleaning it later on.  What Ive been noticing more and more is on more than just my school campus, but public bathrooms in general.

It’s fucking nasty.

Boogers.  Smeared anywhere that a guy takes a leak.  I’ve come to get really pissed off at this point.  Never have I had the thought, “Hey, while I’m holding my dick, I should pick my nose and wipe it on the wall.”

Not
Fucking
Once.

Do I pick my nose?  Yes.  Have I done it while taking a leak?  Yes.  Booger on the finger? Wut do?  How about flick it in the fucking toilet where the water is going to take care of it?

HOLY SHIT I’M A GOD DAMN GENIUS.  Nasty ass people upset me.  A lot.

Today I finally snapped.  I’ve found certain bathrooms on campus that are less used and mostly in the faculty areas so they are a might bit better than the rest on campus.  Today after I took a piss and encountered zero boogers, I went to washed my hands and there it was on the mirror.

Flipped the picture to show off the semi relevant & awesome sticker

A big, green, nasty booger.  On the god damn mirror.  I’ve come to expect nasty college students leaving boogers about the toilets, but this was really upsetting.  How about in the sink?  Is that so fucking hard?

Dammit, I hate people.  If I catch someone doing this, I’mma make them lick the damn thing off.

I’m sitting at my friend’s cafe drinking coffee and the new barista has Jack Johnson playing, and has been playing for the two hours that I’ve been here.  It’s a shame, she was kinda cute until this.

Threw a couple of old drafts up that I never got around to posting.  It’s been months and months and…yeah I’ve been a bit busy/lazy/apathetic.

School has been keeping me busy, which was nice at first and now it’s just annoying.  Getting paid with the sweet GI Bill is the only saving grace and I’m being paid more than when I was working 3 jobs.   Now, I work for the school which is fun and have Saturdays at Ye Olde Irish Bar where I try to do as little as possible.  I’ve been brooding and needing to vent for way too long.  I’m going to attempt to write more often again, but that’s gone so well before.

God dammit Jack Johnson.  I hate you.

Instead of posting more and ranting, I have to get going to help set up a friends store.  More bitching, griping, complaining, and seething hatred for another day!  Peace off bitches!

(Oh goodie, an old post from last May. )

It’s been awhile., but I don’t like you remember?  One could even say…hate?

I quit my job at the nightclub that I’ve been working at for a bit more then a year.  I’ve bitched non-stop about the terrible clientele  that is the main bread winner for the place and I reached a breaking point last night.   I think the head liner was named “Young Dro” or so stupid fucking hip hop name where they use the same adjective and some dumbass name attached.  Needless to say, live acts seem to bring the worse out in people.  These people are already bad enough.

Yesterday night I’m doing pat down and finding large amounts of pot on people and almost every time they are shocked that I found something.  Right, because after seeing the twenty people in front of you get searched thoroughly for some reason I was going to miss that large chunk of pot that you have tucked in your waistband.  I’m good at pat down.  Damn good.  I’ll be damned if you get a weapon past me.  If  I could have it my way, my search would be more through then TSA at the airport.  I enjoy finding all the stuff that you aren’t supposed to have.  The sad face, the indignant posture,  or the hostility given to me just makes me enjoy it that much more.  You’re wrong and I’m awesome.  Nothing that I didn’t already know, just proven for everyone to see.

I’m actually in a good mood due to my great day from earlier.  I got my new awesome Teknic Speedster gloves for when I ride, I kicked some ass in Spanish class, then got a super tasty burrito that I ordered in Spanish, and then I played around at the climbing gym with some friends before heading into work.  It’s finally getting warm out and I get to start a little early.  It’s always nice to have a bit more pocket money.  Thinking that it’s only me this night, I didn’t grab my shirt that is part of the uniform thinking I was going to be outside on my own for the night.  The regular Friday night is shitty and I figured that I was going to be done by midnight.  That wasn’t the case obviously.

I head into the office where the club manager and one of the owners are freaking out at each other asking when the rest of the security team was going to be there.

Team?  That means more then me.  That means it’s not a normal night.  Large crews mean rough crowds.  Oh…goody.

Fast forwarding to later in the night.  I’m on pat down.  I’m finding a fair amount of stuff, but until I’m allowed to do a strip search on these wastes of society I’m not going to be able to find everything.  I know stuff is getting in, but I’m not sure how much.  It’s late into the night at this point and we need another body inside.  We’re one man short, it’s fairly busy, and the crowd is ghetto.  Not a good combination.  I head down the stairs, which I’ve always hated since working at this club, and hit the main entrance to be greeted by the dance floor’s overwhelming stench of weed.  As I said, I know assholes were going to get things by me, or are part of the shitty act and able to bring drugs in with equipment before the show., but it still makes me upset.  I enforce rules.  Rules are being broken. I’m not too keen on what is taking place.

People acting poorly, knowing breaking dress code, and just being the scum of humanity like they normally are.  I go across to talk to my friend since my headset crapped out and a fight breaks out right next to us.  A couple of fat chicks get into it and are slapping the shit out of each other and I step into it grabbing one of the chicks while my buddy grabs another one.  I had a guy start to come at me so I gave him a good shove kick back to send him sprawling while clearing some more room.  The rest of our team gets to us and I’m dealing with the chick I grabbed as shes trying to hit me.  This is when the fun of the story really begins.  Her fat fuck of a boyfriend or husband steps in saying that I need to let her go because that’s his other, fatter half.  Sure buddy, because you two are screwing makes it okay for her to try to hit me and other people.  Let me stop defending myself and let her go because you two attempt to make little heifers for children.  Telling him to back off doesn’t work, and he grabs a hold of my very nice hoody that I am very partial to.  Instead of striking him with a quick elbow to his face, I let rest of the team to take care of butterball as one of the other team mates and I haul his cow of a girlfriend or whatever up to stairs to pitch her out the back door.

I head back downstairs to deal with whatever aftermath there is going to be when chunky is walking up the stairs with a purse.  We pass on the stairs and I hear from behind me “I’m cool with you guys, but that I’m going to kill that white mother fucker.”   This brings my attention back around on him just in time to meet his gaze and step up a couple of stairs while pulling out my can of pepper spray ready to hose him down.  ”You have to leave sometime mother fucker and that’s when I’m going to kill you.  You have to go home sometime.”  That’s when I get snapped at by my boss for the second time in the night and get told, “To get the fuck back inside.”  That’s a great way to respond to someone making a death threat is to ignore him and punish me.

Instead of beating this dough boy onto the ground and cuffing him up like at most places I would work if someone threatened the life of a staff member, I go back inside like a good boy.  I can’t think of a time when we actually were the ones to call the police.  I’m sure it’s happened at least once, but for the most part, they are fortunately hanging out or cruising by when the shit normally starts ready to help us out.

While inside waiting for the terrible rapper to shut the hell up so we can get the lights on to finally get the night over, my boss tells me the guy is waiting outside making more threats and that I need to be the last guy outside that night.  So my portly buddy’s bad behavior is allowed to continue.  Splendid.

The end of the night goes off without a hitch.  The lights go up, the people finally get out, and we get paid.  I get paid last so that I’m easy to get reprimanded in the wonderful passive-aggressive way that I can’t put into words how much I love by my boss.  It starts out with me being complemented and then goes to me “egging people on” by shaking up my pepper spray all the while my boss isn’t meeting my gaze.  Finally, it ends with me being pissed off and telling him that if he wants to fire me, he should.  He said that he doesn’t want to, I leave in a huff, get my sexy FiveseveN from the office and make sure it’s ready to ventilate any fat fuckers that are waiting for me to go to my bike.  My friend and I ride to the ‘Cane for some food and to talk about the nights events.

We talk about me and my behavior.  Am I aggressive?  Fuck yes I am.  More so then most.  This is what I’ve been taught pretty much since I started in the wonderful world of bouncing.  Shock and awe.  I go in heavy, not back down, and don’t put up with bullshit.  At least, that was what I was doing.  Fast forward to me working in this club and having to deal with the management and owners passive aggressive ways and the reprimands for me insulting the idiots that we toss out the door and I feel like my hands are tied at this point.  What I think is me attempting to intimidate some worthless shit that wont go away is considered ”egging on.”  Insulting someone akin to shoving a dogs nose in shit as we toss them out the door is poor customer service.  Calling the police when things are to the point outside that bad people need to have repercussions for their actions is not only not happening, but being actively avoided so we don’t piss of  the Liquor Control Board anymore then we do with the clientele that we have.

I feel like I’ve been losing my own integrity since I’ve toned things down for the sake of playing nice at work and being paid.  I’ve hated it.  This has been going on for months now and I reached my breaking point.  One of the reasons that I am normally as heavily armed as I am is because of the fuckers that I throw out of that place.  I’ve been threatened by more people then I can remember that have been just let free to go on their way.  People have come back after being thrown out to hover around waiting for the rest of the club to let out for the night.  When they do, they are ignored and the security team isn’t allowed to engage.  This is how people get shot.

People making threats of life commit a felony.  As I said earlier, if this was to happen at some of the previous places I’ve worked, they would have the shit beat out of them to the point where they can barely walk, or thrown on the ground and handcuffed to be hauled off by the cops.  Being let off after threatening to kill me or my friends is unacceptable in my opinion and I refuse to work for a place that allows it to happen.  So I called my boss earlier today and told him that.

And I quit.  I know that the club refuses to change their policy about this, I am done backing down on the issue.  MY boss wanted to make sure that we were okay on a personal level and I lied.  I played the passive aggressive card to keep things civil.

I don’t bounce because I like the music.  The girls are downright scary and the one time I hooked up with a customer from another place I worked the bitch ended up stalking me.  I continue to work because of my coworkers or rather, my friends.  Coworker and friend blend together for me. Maybe I miss the camaraderie from my days in the Army and sure, I’m not super close  buddies with everyone, but for the most part, anyone that has my back is alright with me.  Although, the passive aggressiveness of Seattle seeps through and there’s a line drawn between the two with the management at this club.  The distinction between friend and boss is in stone.  There’s boss mode and then less and less over the recent months there’s been my friend.  I’ve been verbally lashed at, reprimanded, and pretty much insulted to my face with orders to back down over mostly small things that made me get fed up.  So yeah, things aren’t okay.

This is me making a personal goal to remove the passive aggressive ways that the people of the Northwest and mostly Seattle have been forcing me with ever since I’ve lived here.  I might let the little stuff go for purpose of being less abrasive at times, but if something pisses me off, people are going to know about it.  Obviously, I’m not good with politics.  Fucking deal with it.

(Fun fact, fast forward to the next week after I quit and the club shuts down.  It got sold and bought out by the owners.  My old boss wanted me to show up and have a send off for everyone, but I wasn’t supposed to say anything to anyone because no one knows that the club is shutting down.  Great way to tell your loyal employees that have worked hard for you that, by the way, you don’t have to go to work next week because you wont have any!  Hoe-ray!  Needless to say, I didn’t show up.

About a month ago, I hung out with a buddy from the sports bar next door to the club and he said that the club has turned into an even bigger shit hole, the crowd is even worse (however that’s possible) and the crew that runs it are retards.  I still say firebomb it.)

(Oh shits, a draft I never finished up.  Here you go world.)

Hey, it’s a post.  Shut up.  Yes I’ve been lazy.  Deal with it.

So I’m in school (one of the reasons I’ve not been around) and try to avoid working at bars/clubs.  It’s amazing the different attitude that I have compared to when I’m trying to live off of my earnings from doing such.  I hate bars, clubs, and anywhere else that I have to deal with the drunk populous.  Since I have been getting paid to go to school, it’s not too big of a deal turning down work on the weekend if I don’t want to.  Sometimes though, it’s hard to turn down easy money.

I think it makes sense that the less I work in a bar, the happier I am.  I know, “Happy Zach”?  What sort of crazy world is this?  It’s true.  When my friend that runs the crew at Ye Olde Irish bar asked me to work for 3 weeks in a row, I was hesitant.  Knowing that money buys me toys that I want, I said I would.  Things go pretty well until the last night of the 3 weekends.

For the most part, I’ve been hanging out at the back door not really having to do much of anything.  I like it that way.  Stand around, tell people to use the next door, get paid.  This night, I start working the door.  Within 10 minutes, I get a fake ID from Arizona.  This of course makes me giggly.  I love Arizona and Texas the most.  There’s a trick with them that makes me laugh uncontrollably when I get a fake because of these tricks.  Due to this, I’m in a pretty good mood.

Pretty good way to get the night rolling if I do say so myself.  Few hours into the night, people are annoying me greatly, and I’m wondering around inside roving.  We had some issues with the tiny bar in back which a couple of cute girls work in that have had some issues about people getting a bit touchy.  A plus side of this bar is that we get to sit down on a stool and watch the main room for a bit without the bosses getting pissy about it.

As I’m taking a load off looking around, a guy at the bar that I’m sitting near is trying to make eye contact so he can start to talk to me.  I do my best to avoid this assclown but he comes over to talk to me anyway.

I’m trapped and really can’t go anywhere and knowing that he’s going to be a problem, I have to stick around instead of pushing past him.  He dicks around with a nearby bucket and asks me if he throws up would I kick him out?  I looked him in the eye and gave him a courteous, “Fuck yes I will.”

He looked a little upset at my response and gave me some big pouty eyes like I slapped him in the mouth.  He starts to tell me that he’s just joking around and that he’s just having fun with his friends.  He holds his hand out introduces himself trying to get my name out of me, which I of course I leave awkward silence hanging in the air instead.  He then goes on to tell me he’s a cop from Portland and that he’s just trying to relax with friends and blah blah blah.

I start to berate him about the state law of being visually intoxicated and maybe having to leave, or shut the fuck up and stopped talking to me.  He finally got the hint and left.  Moron…fucking moron.

I don’t know what would possess someone to tell security that you are going to puke or brag about being a cop…that’s going to puke.  Ah, our civil servants hard at work.

:(

Dear last week, I hope you die in a fire.

Let us begin with the crash of my (once) lovely SV650.  My sad. beaten up moto.  Details?  Sure.

Setting: A wonderful sunny, albeit cold day on Queen Ann right outside my new to me apartment.  It’s the first day in forever that it hasn’t rained and I’m looking forward to hopping on the bike to have a ride while not getting soaking wet.  After taking off the motorcycle cover now that my bikes are sad outdoor motos, I stuff it under the cover of my little GS500’s cover, put the key in the SV and turn it on.  The bike roars to life and with it’s fuel injection is ready to go.  Looking forward to carving some asphalt, I put my still wet gloves on from the night before, then my helmet.  Giving a couple of unnecessary twists of the throttle, the shift peddle gets kicked out of neutral and off I go.

It’s one of the shortest rides I’ve ever been on.

Knowing that it’s cold out, I back off the throttle coming up on my first corner of my ride, a mere couple hundred feet away from where I started.  “I have cold tires, I need to take it easy,” goes through my head.  As I go around the turn, my back tire starts to low-side and I can’t help it.  The cold tires can’t stick to shit.  The back of the bike goes down.  Sliding on my ass I look up to see a large SUV coming right at me.   I’d say that has been one of my less enjoyed views that I have seen in my life.  Not long after that, impact.  My foot is wedged into the front of this SUV.  Did I mention that the SUV wasn’t parked, but coming at me?  Maybe I should have mentioned that.  Fortunately, he saw my wipe out and began to slow.  To his credit, no cellphone or TV, but actually paying attention to the task of driving.  Point for you, sir.

Here I am, mid-calf deep into a car, my bike on it’s side with it’s gas tank dented to all hell and plastics blown everywhere.  Me?  Alive with what I thought was a one way ticket to having my meals ingested through a straw for the next couple of months avoided.  Thinking that I still need to get out of the road, I tug on my foot to try and free it from the monsters grill with no success.  I’m stuck something fierce.  Oh, and in shock too.  That’s fun.  At this point, the SUV occupants get out of the car and are freaking the hell out.  It takes them a few moments to understand that I’m not dead, bleeding, or unconscious and help me get my foot out of their car.  I give myself a quick systems check, note that I’m not in need of any medical aid and talk to the guys after yelling a few choice expletives.

These guys are almost worst shape then I am mentally and they were in a big metal cage.  Talking to them a bit makes me realize that they are a bunch of pudgy frat boys.  Wonderful.  My sort of people.  I limp over to my SV and pick the damaged bike up off of it’s side.  Bluntly, my darling motorcycle is fucked the hell up.  The tank is beat to shit, the tail plastics have exploded into many different little pieces, my license plate lays nearby.  Not a pretty sight.  A bit of jiggling around and it starts.  Holy hell it starts!  That’s looking up.  I make a phone call to my friend while still in shock, but not freaking out too terrible (I hope) letting him know that my journey to meet him at the coffee shop has a bit of a detour.

An older couple walking by ask if everyone is ok.  They didn’t seem to care awfully much, but I’m sure they felt better that no one was bleeding on their nice afternoon walk.  A few more people my age do the same, but with a bit more feeling.  After learning everyone is OK, they point out on the side of the building we’re in front of  marks of previous marks from vehicles that have failed to make the turn.  He gives us his information and leaves into his apartment happy I’m sure that no one is dead in front of where he lives.

I see a familiar blue car come around the corner at us and lights go on.  Goody, the police.  Because I need a ticket on top of all this.  The cop takes his time getting out of the car, ensures that everyone is OK and that SFD doesn’t need to be called, then asks for everyone’s driving info.  Asking me for my plate number, he looks to the ground and noticed that it’s laying in front of him.  (Chuckling) “Never mind, I got it,” he says as he picked it up and hands it to me.  He then takes all our information and goes back to his car.  The officer doesn’t seem much for words as he honks on his horn and summons the driver to him.  After talking to him, he beckons me over with a wave of his hand.  Handing me a card with the incident number he tells me how he’s glad I’m alright.  Me too man.  Thanks for not giving me a ticket too!  That’s something I’m pretty happy about.  Bike starts, no ticket, and I’m still not dead.  wOOt.

The rest of this encounter has nothing noteworthy.  I talk to the guys, and give information as my friend who showed up earlier takes pictures of everything.  He grabs a bag from my house to fill it with the various assorted pieces of motorcycle that are no longer attached.  We say our good-byes to the dudes after exchanging information and I begin my power walk of shame to return my bike to where it started off a stone throw away.

I get phone calls and texts the rest of the day from the assorted folk of the UTMC wishing me well and happy to hear about my lack of death.  That helped to cheer me up a wee bit.  Thanks guys.

Sad, beaten motorbike.  It looks bad, but I have a feeling that it shouldn’t be too hard to get it road worthy once more.  Not as pretty, but I’m not too worried about that.

But that’s just the beginning of the shit storm.  I’m far from done getting screwed over by this foul week.

Moving on from a very loved bike, to my hated GS750.  The hand cramping bike that I’ve neglected since buying my SV.  Needing to rid the Hanta Haus of it after nearly a month of me moving out, the day after my wreck myself and a few others of the Cult gather to revive the bike.  Needing a new battery, spark plugs, and a tire to get back on it’s bead, myself and my friend in his truck venture towards a battery shop in the Rainier area.  Remembering that Twinline Motorcycles has moved, we look about for it before discovering that they’ve camouflage themselves well by renting out some space to some cages for parking.  It sounds quiet and all the doors are buttoned up, we approach the door with spirits low only to open the door easily and a bell sounding our arrival.  They are in fact open and happily shoot the shit, find everything that I need and only charge me the low sum of 30 bucks for a decent amount of effort and talking to the mechanic working on the beast back home a couple of times to assure the parts that I need.  With much thanks, we had to the battery store thankful about not needing to venture towards the money grubbing dealership all the way down in Renton.  We arrive to the battery shop and leave a short while later.  I lose $40 for a trade of a brand new battery filled with fresh acid poured out of a box that looks akin to the sort that the shitty wine comes in.  Yummy.

We return back from to the Haus victorious with our finds and get to putting them back into the bike where they belong.  Everything is ready to go, the key turns annnnnnd….

The bike fails to turn over.  Splendid.  Fastcat the mechanic gives it a puzzled look and goes back to tinkering.  A short while later, she sits back and unhappily says, “I have no idea why the fuck it wont start.”  Well…shit.  So a bit of stressing and talking about what the hell we are going to do with it and the plan is to go down to Oly where another of the Cult lives to stash it for later work on his garage.  My vote for setting the beast on fire was vetoed for some damn reason under the guise of a “learning experience.”  Let the flames take it I feel.  So I give Fastcat a bill, then myself and Calamari Kid make our way Southbound.

The day after the non-working GS, my bottem left molar looses a chunk of itself while I’m brushing my teeth.  This week, is offically the worst week I’ve had in my life.  Well, FUCK YOU LAST WEEK OF NOVEMBER.

Blug.  Currently, the fat boys have yet to contact me about the repair costs for the SUV and I’m waiting to be bent over leaving me with an empty bank account and scrambling for a job.  My poor SV is still not at riding status.  I’m on the search for a new gas tank and making a choice of making a bobber out of it or lopping the sharp parts off of the subframe and constructing some sort of luggage system.  Things are looking pretty good right now for that.  The GS750 is in pieces and still not functioning.  I’ve wrote it off as parts and scrap.  People are hopeful, but I am not.  As I’ve told others, it’s dead to me.  I think the bloody thing is cursed.  My tooth has yet to regrow and there was an appointment made today, for a month later.  I’ll have to deal with the pokey, temperature sensitive pain in my ass, broken tooth until then.

Yeah, eat a dick last week of November.  I hate your face.

There is one thing I can say about people, they never fail to upset me.

Last week while at the nightclub it was going pretty smooth for a Saturday night as crowded as it was.  No brawls, no one being drunk enough to be an issue, looked like it was going to be a chill night overall.  Thankfully, I see the ugly lights go up and the music is coming to an end.  The other members of security start to push the people towards the exits and out of the club.  Being the wonderful patrons that they are with nowhere better to be, they take their sweet effin’ time.

As I’m BEING VERY POLITE because that’s what I do, I notice one of the patrons spit on the floor.  I paused.  There isn’t much expectation out of any of these idiots to be courteous, but spitting on the floor is where I draw the line.  Walking over to the fuckstick, he looks as if he got hit with a stupid stick.  A lot.  When asked “Why the fuck would you spit on a floor indoors?” he responds by pointing to a bottle on the ground.  I tell him to get moving out the door and the hell out of my sight.

He points to a group of friends behind him.

I take another second for a breath before I slap him in the mouth.  I start to talk to him about being a big kid and how we have this thing called “speech” that sets us aside from things lower on the food chain when there is a call over the radio.  “There’s a fight at the door.  We need everyone upstairs.”  Knowing that anything out of my mouth is a waste of time with Mr. Talksalot, I hop up over a VIP section, bolt up the stairs, shoot out the other door and come around the front to see my co-workers on top of a guy in handcuffs and a few others pushing the crowd back.

Seeing little for me to do but crowd control, I pull my pepper spray and start to yell at people to go away.  A group of patrons trying to get to their friend on the ground is pushing at the security.  One of them was more calm to then the other so I pull him aside and tell him he needs to take care of his more pushy friend before he too is put into cuffs.  What normally happens is that the calm friend grabs his friend, they take a couple of steps away, and then the aggressive one is back with a bit more space to throw a punch.  Shockingly, that’s not the case this time.  The guy grabs his buddy and talks to him in a reasonable manner and then begins to question me.  Turns out, the guys girlfriend got punched so he went after the guy who hit his baby’s momma.

I already know how it’s going to go because it’s a “normal” thing here: Guy walked up to girl who looks nothing more then a bit pudgy, hits on her, gets rejected so he has words, she hits him, he hits her, boyfriend hits dude.

Congratulations, you’re all fucking morons!

Instead of dealing with that, I throw one of my nearby co-workers under the bus with “This guy will tell you why,” and walk to the club owner.

The owner grabs my handcuffs off my belt and tries to hand me another can of spray into my hand that’s holding my can.  “I would be happy to double fist if you want me to,” I tell him.  He gives me a jittery laugh and tells me to get people the hell out of there.  I’ve been getting shit about being “nicer” so I yell at people, but I’m not being asshole about it.

I really like yelling.  In fact, I don’t think it’s going too far out on a limb to say it’s one of my skills that I picked up in the Army that I use very well in civilian life.

Yelling Zach is yelling, shooing people back to their cars and off the side walk in fron of the club.  Not knowing who else is going to be dumb and start a fight, I’m shaking my pepper spray up to hose down any shitstick that wants to be aggressive.

“It’s going to be getting hard to breath here folks, so go somewhere else,” I say to a group of five or so.  “Don’t go threatnin’ me motherfucker,” I get back.  “I’m not threatening anyone man, I’m just looking out for everyone.” He starts to turn around and open his mouth when he sees who I am and that I’m not waving at him, but shaking up a can of spray.  “You don’t have to be a dick about it,” I politely say to him, but nice Zach is done being nice.  “If you want to be a dick, then I suggest sticking around where you are.  It’s hard to have an argument when you’re having difficulty seeing and breathing.”

Point: Zach.  They move on.

Walking back to the side walk I already cleared there is a group of three people leaning against the building maybe 15 feet away from where I JUST got done talking to the above mentioned assholes.  A guy, and two chicks.  The guy has one of the decent looking ladies in his arms with her back against the wall.  “Hey guys, I need to go somewhere else.”  “I heard you before and I ain’t moving,” the dude says back cooperatively.  Splendid.  “Maybe you missed the can of pepper spray in my hand that I have been given permission to spray at anyone that doesn’t leave quickly,” I lie.  “It would behoove (one of my favorite phrases I learned in the Army) to move somewhere that I don’t have to see you.”  The girl decides to shoot a quip back about me being bossy.  Well no shit, Princess.  I get a little upset when I tell people to do something and for some stupid reason don’t listen.

I don’t see my request unresonable.  They’re leaning on a wall that gets pissed on by all the local hobos, pepper sprayed by us, and is just a nasty Pioneer Square wall.  My suggestion works and they get to moving, but what comes out of the mans mouth is a mite upsetting.  “Fine.  Me and the bitches are going to go somewhere else.  Just don’t shove the bitches.”

Huh…well done.  Way to be a misogynist without even putting up much effort, I’m impressed.  This guys a pimp, yo.  I considered hosing him in pepper spray for that one, but the chicks were listening to him anyway.  Fuck ‘em.

Just a suggestion for you folks out there.  If someone has pepper spray, why don’t you just politely mosey away.  Not the most tough thing in the world and it’ll be better for everyone.  Just an idea though.

Me: on sexy black SV650 getting off of work at 4am.

You: sweet effin Charger with brush guard, light-bar, and a shotgun.

As I was getting off work and heading home, I saw you far down the street ahead of me.  I didn’t want to catch your eye and just wanted to make it home, but you stopped in the middle of the road and waited for me.  I knew our encounter was going to be special.

I tried to get into the turn lane to go across the overpass, you matched my speed in a playful, “I’m going to check out your butt,” way.   So I slowed to let you be in front of me (ladies first) and made it to the turn lane I needed.  While I was slowing down to come to a stop behind you, a quick lane change and we were right next to each other.  I couldn’t muster up the guts to give you even a meek wave as you glared at me.  You rolled down the window so we could finally speak!  Never will I forget our first conversation, “Don’t do anything ‘dumb’ on that thing.  I already got you for having your plate bent (I knew you were looking at my ass!).  That’s one thing, don’t give me another.”

Oooooooo!  Fiesty!  Not wanting our talk to end so soon, I made a daring suggestion, but was still a statement that was nothing but truth, “I’m just off from work ma’am and can’t wait to get into bed.”  Unfortunatly, you didn’t pick up on my hint and barked back at me, “I just got on shift, am on three hours of sleep, and don’t want to put up with any bullshit.”  A girl that’s straight to the point.  No beating around the bush.  Rawr!

As the light was changing, I knew our wonderful time together was over.  I wish it could have been longer.  With a sigh, my foot pushed the motorcycle into first gear.  But before we parted, I had to say one last thing, “Have a good night,” which you promptly ignored while slamming your gas pedal and shooting onto the freeway.

So you know, I followed your words of “not doing anything dumb.”  I wanted to make you proud of my riding skill and prove that I was not a dumb rider.  I expertly went well over the posted 30 and 35 mph speed limit by a good 40 mph and quite dexterously wove my motorcycle across two lanes of traffic while almost grinding my foot pegs into the street.  I do believe you have been impressed.  There’s even a S turn that I set my own personal record on last night.  There’s no way I could have done it without your little pep talk.

You fucking pig.

Location: 1st Ave and Edgar Martinez Dr

“Respect is esteem for, or a sense of the worth or excellence of, a person, a personal quality, ability, or a manifestation of a personal quality or ability. In certain ways, respect manifests itself as a kind of ethic or principle, such as in the commonly taught concept of “[having] respect for others” or the ethic of reciprocity.

Esteem for, or a sense of the worth, or excellence, of a person, a personal quality or ability, or something considered as a manifestation of a personal quality or ability, for example, “I have great respect for her judgment.”

Deference to a right, privilege, privileged position, or someone or something considered to have certain rights or privileges; proper acceptance or courtesy; acknowledgment: respect for a suspect’s right to counsel; to show respect for the flag; respect for the elderly.”

Via wiki.

Recently, I’ve been told a number of times from other human beings that I’m not “respectin’” them enough.  Well, to be honest, I don’t respect them one god damn bit.

Lets begin with example one:

Location: Nightclub dance floor.

At the club that I work at, there are TVs in front of the DJ booth lining the walls.  Nice, flat-screen TVs that have stanchions with rope in front of them to give about a foot of room between the dance floor and the TV.  Now, I don’t know why every single damn week I have to tell people to stop leaning on them.  Every. Effin. Week.

IT’S A FUCKING TV PEOPLE.  DON’T LEAN ON BREAKABLE THINGS!

I know, it’s a hard concept to understand.  Now I’m sure you’re asking, “But why can I not lean on this very expensive shiny glass picture device?  I’m a patron and I can lean wherever I desire.”

On this night (the same night as the fuckstick with the mohawk), there is a short (again) annoying patron was leaning against the row of TVs.  I stop glaring at the rest of the dance floor, and shine my flashlight on the guys face.  The Surefire Defender is not something you can really ignore.  It’s made for blinding people temporarily in tatical situations, or for me, lighting up dumbass patrons in nightclubs.  I flash him a couple of times with my light and he acts like he doesn’t notice.  I flash him a few more times before I give in and understand that I’ll have to get off my perch on the dance block to have to talk to him.

I don’t want to talk to anyone.  We’ve been over this.

He’s with his girl friend who’s wearing one of those stupid “LOOK AT ME I’M A PRETTY PRINCESS” birthday tiaras.  She isn’t looking all that happy standing off to his side on the outskirts of the dance floor while everyone else is having a good time dancing.  Turns out I’ll be making her night even worse.  Poor girl.

I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder and say “Hey buddy, don’t lean on the TVs for me.” He responds, “Pfft, why?” with a grimace.  I’m thinking, “Because I fucking told you asshat,” but tell him, “You don’t lean on your TV at home right?”  The man of many words gives me a heartfelt answer yet again with a snort followed by, “So?” and continues his glare.

As I said earlier, this guy is not tall.  He isn’t physical threatening.  The dude is skinny and about the size of his girlfriend.  Needless to say, his attempt at intimidation isn’t working to well for him.  After his last curt response, I’m done with this guy.  I pull him off the TV and tell him, “Listen asshole, you want to keep playing with the rest of the people here, you do what I say.  I think your girlfriend would like to stay here for the rest of the night, and you better start behaving.”  He didn’t take my advice too well and starts talking about how I’m not respectin’ him and how I’m not respectin’ him in front of his girl, and blah blah blah.

He’s right, I don’t respect him.  Not in the least.  To show this, I turn my back and hop back up on the dance block in the middle of one of his idiotic sentences.  For some reason, this doesn’t go over well for him.  At this point, the guy I was covering the spot for is back so I begin to mosey around.  This guy is glaring at me everywhere I go.  His girlfriend is almost in tears and he is just pissed at me.  As I walk around the club, one of my co-workers asks who my boyfriend is.  This guy is upset and he hasn’t moved from where I pulled him off of the TVs.  Not happy.  Mission accomplished.

It’s almost time for let out and the lil bastard is just working himself up to say something to me.  He’s sneering to the point where he’s almost frothing at the mouth, breathing heavily and his lady is even more upset then before.  She’s pulling on him to leave while he’s ignoring her and looking at me.  She must be jealous of all the attention he’s giving me.  I’m way more pretty anyway.

I have to go deal with the little bastard that has the shitty mohawk at this point.  While I’m dealing with the jackass wannabe fighter, the little dude that I wasn’t respectin’ is waiting for me outside.  Let out takes about 15-2o minutes and he waits around for all of it.  He waits around for so long his girlfriend went to the car in tears and he asks one of my coworkers where I am.  My buddy tells me of this conversation later.

Jackass: “Where’s that white motherfucker at?”

Coworker: “Which one?”

JAss: “The tall one with a shaved head and a beard!”

C: “Dude, we have like 4 of those.”

Assface: “The asshole that looks like Jay Buhner.”

Motherfucker.  After hearing that I wish I would have been there later one.  I’m happy that he made his girlfriend cry though.  I think I’ll chalk that up to ME making a girl cry while at work.  Booya!

Example number 2:

Once again, at the wonderful club with the best patrons in the world on a Saturday night.

I receive a radio call informing me that I’m needed at the back door.  My lazy ass gets off the dance block that I was overseeing the crowd from (no, you can’t sit on the dance block) and I head over to the door to see what the crap is up.  As I climb the stairs I see why I’m being called out.  There is a giant of a goofy man outside smiling his big fake teeth smile when he see me approaching.

Fucking Lurch.

I don’t know Lurch’s real name.  It doesn’t matter.  Lurch is more fitting then whatever his parents named him.  About 6′10, wiry and dumb as the dentures in his mouth, this guy use to work with me at one of my previous jobs.  For some reason he LOVES me.  And I’m OK with that.  There’s nothing to complain about have a large dude (probably) having my back when the shit hits the fan.

As I call out his name in greeting, I notice something out of the corner of my good eye.  Some motherfucker is leaning on my bike.  “holdonasecman” I mumble while my urge to kill suddenly rises.

“Hey moron, get the fuck off my bike!” I yell to the smelly hobo leaning his nasty hobo elbows on my bike’s seat.  He doesn’t seem to understand English.

I fucking HATE hobos.  They’re smelly, annoying, and there’s so many of them, you couldn’t throw one without hitting another.  On the weekends the stupid shits are everywhere asking me for money that I will never give to them.  At one point I’d give them money.  I’ll discuss my hatred for hobos with another post someday.  Fuck bums.  Not literally.  Maybe with fire.

Stepping towards the waste of oxygen, I yell once more at him.  This time his eyes light up with acknowledgment, but still he rests his nasty arms on my beautiful SV650.

One more step and I’m reaching for my Asp baton.  “Please take your filthy fucking hands off my motorcycle,” I say quietly as I’m removing my baton from my pocket.

“That’s better, all you had to do was say ‘please,’” he says before noticing my gloved hands and my baton being readied for wack-a-hobo.  His eyes widen a bit more, but now he gets indignant.  “I didn’t mean to disrespectin’ you man.  I don’t go disrepectin’ people for no reason.”

That’s it.  I’ve heard enough of that fucking word.

“Listen you fucking idiot, when I was in Preschool, maybe even before that, I learned that I’m not to fuck with other people’s belongings.  It’s something that I still do to this day.  It keeps me out of trouble.”

He begins to open his mouth and I point my gloved finger at him in a not so friendly way.  “No.  Shut up.  Shut the fuck up.  Respect means not touching other people’s shit and my motorcycle is no exception.  Usually motorcycles belong to people that look like me.  Do I look like someone you want to fucking disrespect?”

At this point his “fight or flight” response kicks in.  His hobo sense is tingling or maybe that’s just the Colt 45 in his system ready to pull a Crazy Train all over his pant leg.  He begins to say something to work himself up to fight and save face in front of his hobo friends and I cut him off with, “You’re not worth my time you piece of shit.”  I tell my buddy over my shoulder as I walk back into the club loud enough so the bum can hear me, “If he touches my bike again, call me up again so I can cut off his fingers.”

I guess he left in a hurry after that.  Shame.  I wanted to be able to count past 10 using fingers that belong to me.  Maybe next week.

The moral of the story dear readers is don’t go disrepectin’ or I’ll take your god damn hobo fingers.  Oh, and don’t be short.  No one likes short people.

I had a request from a co-worker the other day after looking at my wonderful site.  She told me that I have a lot of good stories that don’t involve hate that I tell in person, and I should write about them.   Thinking about what I could spew out from the gutter of my mind, I’ve been trying to think of something more humorous to write about.

And then it hit me last night.  Literally.

Working at “Ye Olde Irish Bar” last night, I was having a pretty good night.  There were some good conversations going on, the owner was in good spirits (which is nice since he is a bi-polar nutcase at times), and I was actually enjoying myself.  I worked weekends at this bar now for a little under a year where I took a small hiatus due to some rather annoying issues with the security lead at the time.  New lead, I come back, and most recently, the owner wants a doorguy 7 days a week.  Thursday is the new Friday so they’ve had a doorguy work nights to help out and check IDs for some time now.  It was busyish and being a weeknight, I try to ease back on the intimidation and anger that is the norm on weekends.  I play with the customers, crack jokes, flirt (terribly).  Mostly just not having too much of a care and let a lot slide that I wouldn’t let fly on the weekends.

The fun of this story comes along with 4 drunks that stumble up to the door.  The lack of inside voices is the second clue that they’ve overindulged a bit too much for my liking.  As I begin to make small talk, one of the owners friends leans over to me and informs me in his heavy British accent that one of them is bleeding on his leg.  Sure enough he is.  Nothing terribly bad, but the guy has no clue about it.  When asked he responded with, “I fell down on the party bus.”  Ah, there’s something to bring up the feeling of hate.  Fuck party buses.  I god damn hate party buses.

Time for me digress from our story for a moment.  The only reason for these buses is to take drunks barhopping all the while continuing to let them drink en route.  More then not there is some special occasion for these parties.  Birthdays, bachelor/ette, and other various reasons.  All retarded.  Almost on sheer principle I don’t let the occupants on the bus come in to my bar.  If I can find out what stop they’re on and it’s the first or second, I may let them come in.  Most of the time, if they’re let in for some reason it ends with someone having to clean up puke.  Fuck party buses in the ear.

So Mr. Bumbles the Bleedyleg and friends are denied entry at the door by yours truly.  I do it in a nice way and even inform them as to where they could find another bar where they might gain entrance.   One then pulls out a large roll of money and offers me $20.  Hey, 20 bucks!  That’s totally worth getting fired over.  Denied once more, I tell them to mosey on away.  They mention something of a friend inside, but they shamble off.   All the while, there are two patrons, one the owners friend from the UK and a transplant from Australia making fun of them for being completely smashed.  The two of them together were cracking me right the fuck up.

A man comes out on the phone and said something about his amigos.  Funny, they’re still just walking down the alley and they start making their way back towards the bar.  His friend wants to know why I can’t let them in.  I repeat what I just said moments ago.  That happens more then I like it.  I’m a broken record most of the time while at work.  “No you can’t take your clothes off,” “Stop standing on that table,” “Stop leaning on the TVs,” I’m the god damn fun police.

If I don’t get called an asshole at least once a night I don’t think I’m doing my job.

Here we are at the door once more.  Bleedyleg somehow is even more drunk then he was before.  The man can’t even talk, the last of his composure has failed.  The Brit gets talking with some of the guys with the Aussie cheering him on while sitting down, and Bleedyleg is doing the “I’m your buddy punching you in the shoulder” to the Brit and it’s getting a bit rough.  Bleedyleg isn’t a large man.   A rotund 5′6″ and more pudge then he needs.  The Brit is an older man, my sized with a bit more muscle then me, and a lot more sober then his opponent.

I already know what’s going to happen and I do do nothing.  I hope that it’s not, but most of the time at Ye Olde Irish Bar, it’s the friends of the bar that get into brawls more then anyone else.  Some ladies come to the door and I begin to check their IDs when it happens.  The Brit punches Bleedyleg in the head, the drunk falls down on a nearby table, bounces off of it and lands at my feet.

Bleedyleg at this point snatches up my boots while prone on the ground as I fight to keep my balance while stopping the Brit in mid-face stomp doing Bleedyleg a large favor that he’ll never know about.  His friends are in shock of what happened, but see that he’s now, what I assume to be attacking me, by latching on to my feet with everything he’s got.  We pry his arms off of my legs, the Brit is told to calm down, the drunks friends are helping me lift the guy up.  With help from his friends we get him from away from the door.  Bleedyleg is now Bleedyface and leg from a cut on his eyebrow from the punch, table, asphalt or some combination of the three.

I read in a body language book (and I’m sure I’m misquoting here) somewhere around 80% of primates first attack is a wide right punch.  Amongst me are pink monkeys that can speak and have had too much booze.  It’s amazing what we fall back on when the survival aspect kicks in.  When the day comes for these people to survive, the world will weed out some of the gene pool.

Bleedyface spins around with the wide right and hits me in my ear.  I’ve been punched many times.  Some of these times I have deserved it.  This was not one of them.  I grab the fuck and take him to the ground, sink my hooks in and am about ready to apply my favorite choke that I have talked about before, the RNC.  As I’m thinking about the rest of his friends above me and how badly I want to choke him, I easy off.  I’m being nice to the dude who has no idea what the fuck is happening right now.  Not completely destroying this dumbass is the one good thing deed that I do today.

This is what I get for being nice.  If I had told these guys to fuck off and stop annoying the living shit out of me earlier, this may have been prevented.  If I was in my normal “I’m going to eat your face” mode that I use for the weekends, again, it may not have happened.  But I was being nice and polite.  That got me punched in the ear.

The friends take the ear puncher away down the alley and I try to calm myself.  The Aussie tells me I did a good job, the Brit said he was sorry, and the owner surprisingly asked if I was ok.  I go in to the bar for my normal drink while working, a virgin screwdriver, and tell the tale of what just happened to the bartender.  “Nice guys don’t finish last.  Nice guys get punched in the ear” he tells me when I’m done.  Thanks Joe.

Thursday, what the fuck is wrong with you?