Zach Hates You

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?

Shorty McDrunktard and his doucheposse

The 4th of July is always a slow night in the bar industry.  Everyone is outside during the day enjoying the warm weather, tossing back a drink or eight, and waiting around for day to turn to night so they can enjoy the pyrotechnics.  After being outside and playing all day, most people are partied out.  They go home and the bars don’t get too busy.  When working in the industry, it makes for a slow night.  Knowing ahead of time about a less busy night means we don’t run a full staff.  It also mean sales aren’t as good, but for a bouncer like me, I get paid the same.  Sucks to be bar staff that relies on tips to make money, but I get paid the same for a slow night as a busy one.

In my experiences working in bars, slow nights usually go one of two ways.  The first (and more preferable) is I’m bored off my ass and nothing happens.  Time sloooooowly goes by, the doors shut, and I get paid for standing around for a few hours.  The other way is much more annoying.  Due to less people in the bar/club, people think that they can act even more redeculous then normal.  I had a few stupid shits last night, but one really got me heated.

I hate people that are entitled.  People think that because they promote a night, know someone that works in the bar, paid money to be “VIP” or they’re celebrities/part of their entourage they can do whatever they want without any consequences.  That doesn’t fly with me.  When I have to talk to them about being an assclown and they get indigent because some club lackey is upset with them for just having a good time, they think they don’t have to listen.  They try to act as if they are better then the people that are providing them services.  Things are said about how much more money they make, how they can get me fired, or my favorite, “Do you know who I am?”

Oh, please bitch.  If you had any idea who I or my friends are, you wouldn’t even walk near us.  Most of my friends are like myself; we’re ex or current military from mostly combat related jobs, train to fight (and enjoy fighting very much), and really hate people.  We don’t want to know, talk, or even want to interact with you.  We want to look bored, talk to each other and get done with the night.  You want to cause trouble and be annoying.

The only reason why some people are still alive are because there are laws against killing them.

This brings me to the winner of the “Douchebag of the Night” award.  The above pictured fuckstick is a relative to one of the promoters.  He’s maybe, maybe 140lbs soaking wet with rocks in his pockets and at most 5′4″.  So this tiny dude was walking around throwing elbows, punches and grabbing his buddies in MMA style moves.  Cute, the midget thinks he’s a badass fighter.  Due to the fact I know he’s some annoying promoters buddy, talking to him isn’t going to do anything.  After a fairly easy night, most people have left, the doors are closed and the promoters and friends are still around.  The little guy then throws a friend in a really deep RNC and is being choked.  I break the lock and am a bit pissed at this short, drunk fucker now.  I tell him it’s time to leave and go out the door.  The friend he was just choking tells me, “It’s ok, he’s with me and just playin’.”  Funny about that, it’s not ok.  The one that was being choked apologizes about his friend, but short and stumbly has a retarded looking stare going on and doesn’t say a word.  Sure, ignoring me is a great way to make me go away.  What?  It didn’t work and just makes me more upset?  Funny about that…

Now I’m even more pissed.  So now trying to get this cockass to acknowledge me, he grabs his beer and walks away.  No, you don’t get to do that to me.  I take his beer, toss it in the trash, and he doesn’t even bat his eyes.  He’s fucking drunk.  I get a couple of my buddies now to help me deal with this pain in my ass.  The munchkins friends are telling me how they are “going to take care of him,” as stupid friends always say and tell me they are leaving.  They don’t.  The whole lot of them are standing around not going out the door.  I tell them if he ever wants to come back, the time to leave is now.  He tells me that I can go fuck myself.  Groovy.

So its been about fifteen minutes since I’ve started to talk to these guys and the little shit is now running his mouth.  The best line to come out of his mouth is “Look, everyone is scared of me.”  Oh shit!  He’s right!  I’m scared of a tiny little drunk man that I tower over.  I worry about people like him all the time.  I tremble in my boots to people such as him.  I’m sure that you my dear reader, can read sarcasm.  If not, I suggest reading more simple writing such as Dr. Suess books or just sticking to books that don’t have words, just pretty pictures.  Like porn.

The group is finally on the way out the door and wee man has to shake everyone’s hand.  He goes to my first two buddies that have had to tolerate him much less then me and they both shake his hand.  I don’t normally shake hands with people I want to curbstomp, but I remembered words of a friend that I spoke with last night in my head about sometimes it’ll make it quicker to get them the fuck out.  So I bite my lip and shake his hand.  He then mutters, “See look how scared they are.”  At that point I had to walk away.  I still haven’t struck anyone while doing security.  I’ve laid on some nasty chokes and I’ve been a complete asshole for the sake of being a dick, but I haven’t hit anyone or left marks on them.  I did something that I really hate people doing to me:

I took his picture

Now that set the little guy off.  He’s going off about me taking a picture with my “god damn pussy” iPhone and blah blah blah.  I finally hit a nerve.  Still, this guy needs a serious asskicking and, Flying Spaghetti Monster willing, a castration.

I hate this club.  I work other places and I call myself a doorguy or security.  Here, I feel like I’m a bouncer, an enforcer, a thug.  No one listens to what I tell them, being nice and polite is a waste of breath, and the only thing they respond to is violence.  I’m really good at that part.  I go to work with the mindset of going to war against stupidity.  It’s always a losing battle.  Shitty music that is replayed multiple times in the night, ignorant people, and stuck up promoters that think they run the place.  All these people can die in a fire.  Twice.  Waste of oxygen the whole fucking lot of them.