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?