Zach Hates You

“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.

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.

He's nowhere near as pretty as me

OK.  I get it.  I look like Jay Buhner.  You can stop now.  I hate baseball.  There are worse sports out there that I hate even more, but I don’t like sports in general.  Sure, I enjoy MMA, but my like of sports pretty much stops there.  OK, I’ll watch some ladies beach volleyball, but I mean come on, that’s for reasons other then the sport.

When I was growing up, I shaved my head.  We laughed about going to “Buhner Buzz Night” where fans that showed up willing to buzz their hair or already with a shaved down head would get in for free.  This was a time we’ll call “pre-beard Zach.”   While I was in the Army with a shaved head, there were a couple of people that commented on my likness to the man.  It didn’t happen too often and it’s not like the guy was Hitler so I didn’t think much of it.

Fast forward 7 years or so and I have a decently sized red beard and a mohawk, I work across the street from where the Mariners play, and Mr. Buhner is no longer on the field.  I heard one guy say I look like him.  Just one.  One fat man.  Sure, it’s happened every so often no big deal.

And then I shaved my head once more.

All week, “Hey look, it’s Jay Buhner!” “Do you know who you look like?” “Wow, you look like you could be Jay’s twin!”

Fuck you all very much.  I almost snapped yesterday.  I went from work near the stadium where a group of annoying drunks kept calling me “Jay” to the Irish bar I also work at to find them again.  I was nearing the point where I wanted to kick them out of my first bar for being fucksticks, but they left soon enough.  Then, there they are…still drinking at my other bar.  The sad part of this is I don’t think they realized that I was the same person that was shooting them death glares for an hour across the bar.  Fucking drunks.

So Mr Buhner, I have a favor to ask of you.  Please go back in time and please do one (or more) of these three things:

1.  Don’t shave your head.  I know that bald is beautiful , but maybe go with a crew cut or something.  No shaved head, no mohawks.

2.  “The Bone” minus the nicely trimmed beard will still be a badass.  I’ve heard that ladies like guys without beards.

3.  (This one would be the one I would pick)  Don’t be a famous baseball player that makes a  buncha money for playing a sport.  Granted, I know that baseball players do work a lot.  There are a shit ton of games in a season and about half of those are on the road.  Man, that sure must suck.  You know what would be easier?  Not doing it.  So instead of baseball, you could be an apartment manager or be a train engineer.  Then once I become famous from this marvelous blog, people would come up to you and say, “Hey, you know you who look like?”

To be honest, I don’t hate the guy.  There is no way that I hate a man who stars in very funny commercials and an amazing fact from teh wikis, “He was also known throughout baseball for his ability to vomit on command.”  That’s pretty damn impressive and I admit a bit of jealousy there.  Well played sir.  Well played.

I hate all the damn fans that walk up to me to tell me something that has come up for years.  You people and your stupid jerseys with someone else’s name on them.  Even worse are the jerseys that have “Fan” as a name.  You can’t even pick someone at random to put on your jersey to keep you from looking like a moron?  The people they put their own last names on their shirt are even worse.  You are a fat middle aged cubical jockey.  You will never play any sport professional.  Enjoy your $8 bottles of crap beer and your nasty garlic fries idiots.

I hate fat people. I hate the people that go to the club I work at. I hate fat people that go to my club that decide they can do whatever they want and my opinion means nothing because I’m white.

Tonight this giant heffer decided to pull the race card on me. “Don’t touch me white boy. I make more money then you. You stupid white boy shouldn’t be working at no black person’s club. You don’t know shit white boy.” I can’t remember it all, I am a dumb white boy.

Maybe me telling her how she was being racist hurt my feelings and was mean. What didn’t help was how I was waving at her as she was being forced out by a coworker, or when I blew her a kiss and said that she’ll be missed by all the nice people that can still come to the club.

I made that bitch so furious though. I said I was sorry to my boss for egging her on, but I’m not. Not even a little. I was laughing so hard by the time I walked away there were tears in my eyes. I’m sure that wasn’t helping matters either but it made my god damn night.

Note to self: dig out camera so I can start posting these morons here.

Hookers

Dear whores,

You’re not cute or even good looking. I wouldn’t fist you with a friend’s arm. Unfortunately I was downstairs while this was taking place not 30 feet away with no idea this was happening. I don’t care how much I hate my bike, it’s not yours to touch. If you asked me I wouldn’t have let you use it. On top of everything else, it’s not even a good looking bike. It’s beat to hell. Just like you will be if you touch my bike again.

Hope you get cancer of the twat,

Me

Without all you morons that consist of my bars clientele on Saturday nights. You people are the most stupid, ignorant dbags it’s amazing that you somehow function in day to day life. I’m sure none of you hold any job or position that benefits your fellow human beings to warrant your existence here on this planet.

Do me a favor: STOP FUCKING BREATHING. Really.  It will solve a lot of the worlds problems.

Yeah, it’s a couple of days after Patty’s but whatever.  Holidays that are for nothing but drinking and being drunk are retarded.  Let’s drink so we can’t walk! Woooooooo! Idiots.

Honestly, I was really surprised how well the night went all in all.  I didn’t kick anyone out until early evening and even that was pretty easy.  The only hands on customer service I provided was when the bar was closed.  The bar was closed, the night was over and I was about to head home on my merry way when some older dbag was slipping off into dreamland on the bar.  I had already threw on all of my bike jacket, FiveseveN, and bag while almost out the door.  Almost.   The first bartender shakes him a little bit to no success.  So I give it a go.  Now, I was having a pretty good night.  Next to no problems, small amounts of vomit, and I even had a really cute chick assault me with a couple of kisses and now, this dude.  So I attempt to rouse the man that over indulged very nice like instead of my normal “get the fuck out you fucking fuck” ways.

Z: Hey buddy, time to wake up the bars closed. <Light shaking on shoulder>

Drunky: <Shrugs my arm off> No I’m staying here.

Z: Bud, you didn’t hear me, bars closed.  No more drinks, everyone’s gone.  It’s time to mosey out the door.

D: NO! I’m staying here! Iknowmoney.

Z: Huh? You no money? <Looks at bartenders>

Bartender: Nah man, he’s paid up. <Waves towards the stumbly and then the door>

Z: Partner, you’re good to go, it’s time to roll.

D: NO! I KNOW MONEY AND I’LL CALL THEM UP! I’m staying here.

Z: You…know…money…(light bulb! I don’t speak drunk all the time.)

Bar owner: Sir, it’s time to leave.  You’re on private property and need to leave now.

D: Fuck you <Pointing at me> and fuck you too you bitch! <Points are the bar owner>.

Now, I haven’t worked at this bar for almost a year before the weekend.  I really liked the bar.  It never got to bad, money was good, the staff was super nice and the owner was one of the best bosses I have ever worked for.  And this dude just got hostile at her.  This is when everyone that was staff or a regular flipped.  I dropped my bag and grabbed the dude.  He of course wigs out at this point.  I’ll give the moron credit, he had some sort of drunk strength going on and he really didn’t want to leave.  Putting up a fight against me just upsets me more.  Also, I had some very large co-workers right next to me.  The guy attempts to swing on me and I laugh.  I’m wearing my motorcycle jacket and he’s well wrapped up by myself and another huge security guy.  I get him spun around and get a decent rear naked choke on the guy.

I loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooove the RNC.  I can toss people around with it, walk them anywhere I want, and make them pass out if I need to pretty easy with it.  It lets me control the person without having to do any permanent harm.  Also, I love that gurgly noise people make when they are being choked, but still get juuuuuust enough space to suck a bit of air.  Good times!

So I have him at this point.   He’s not going anywhere.  I didn’t have the greatest choke on him due to my leathers, but it’s enough of one for a drunk ass in his late 40s not to do anything.  I walk him out and have a nice discussion with him.  I told him that he was going to walk away when I let him go.  If he turned around after I let him go, I would put him on the ground in a not nice way.  It was going to be very painful for him.  I made it very clear and made him repeat what I had told him before nicely letting him go.  Well big surprise he decided to turn around.  So I started to walk towards him and used my loud person voice.  He promptly turned around and walked just a few more steps before turning around again.

I had this handled pretty easy, but because of the mellow night, everyone wanted to jump in.  I wasn’t really pissed with this dude, but I wanted to rile him up a wee more. He decided to run his mouth, I had to take a couple of verbal swings at him.

Z: Hey dumbass! All that money that you keep talking about isn’t going to keep you from getting your ass stomped right now.

For a moment, I really think that did the trick of getting through his thick skull that this was not a situation he was going to win.  He looks like he’s going to bolt and starts screaming again.  I know money, blah blah blah.

BLAH BLAH BLAAAAAAAAH

Fuck you and you’re fucking money dude.  You’re an old moron that had too much at the bar and didn’t want to leave.  That money that you know?  That guy doesn’t give a shit about at 2:20 in the morning.  I wasn’t really going to kick your ass but the other 10 people that were there really, really wanted to.  I almost let them.  It was tempting, but I really wanted to go home. So congratulations! You’re a giant assclown that no one wanted to leave the bar with.  You didn’t have any friends to help get you home, or a nice lady to get you to stumble into a cab.  Have fun being some supposedly rich dudes bitch.

People.  I really hate people.  Like I said, I was having a decent night.  You put a small damper on it.

But hearing you gurgle made up for it.  I can’t lie about that :]  I almost decided to take your glasses and make them a souvenir for the night, but tossing them provided a giggle.

Dear fat chick that grabbed my beard in a really bad attempt to hit on me,

You’re fat and annoying. So when the first attempt didn’t work, try try again huh? Why did you think pulling on my facial hair was going to win me over? I haven’t worked at that bar in a year. I have a reputation of actually throwing girls out (yeah, it’s sorta true) and yet, still you persist. Saying “you really hate this” as I pull away from you might give you the hint that you are correct. Here’s some advice to make you more attractive: lose 20 pounds or so and stop being stupid. I know, both of those are probably not going to happen, but if they did I still wouldn’t want anything to do with you.

<3

Me