Things have been kinda fucky lately. And by that I mean I've let my Inner Rage-Child out and bought it an ice cream and something pretty to wear. This is because I'm putting up with all the same drunken bullshit, stupidity, vomit and rudeness that I've always put up with being in the service industry, but am being paid a lot less to do it.
It's sorta like working in a waste water facility-it smells like a hippy festival with no sanitation, but as long as you get your $27.50 an hour and can club free range hippes to death, you deal with it. Well imagine walking into work one day and finding out that you pay rate has dropped to $8.25 an hour and you now have to be nice to hippes. You're not going to be very happy and you may or may not, depending on your character, share your unhappiness with every living soul you encounter.
That's where I've been lately. All the same empty headed cuntery with 50% less recompense.
In one day, not long ago, I grabbed one dude by the throat and throttled him for a moment before slamming him into the sidewalk. A while after that I threw another drunk douche to the floor and dragged him out of the club by his ankles in front of a club full of people and then threw his shoe at his head.
It wasn't my best night...
This is not how I usually operate. I don't like to put my hands on people unless they give me no option. But lately my ability to ignore douchery has been seriously compromised and I find myself moving toward unhealthy territory. Unhealthy for someone else that is.
Only one of the guys deserved the humiliation I gave to him. The first guy was just motherfucking me on the way out the door and I've endured that peacefully for many years. Hell, I've been insulted way better than what he came up with many a times and simply laughed in their faces.
This time however I let Primitive Reptilian Brain gain the upper hand. Or it took fucking control and there wasn't twat-all I could do about it; read into it what you will. I got in his face when I should've just closed the door and said 'Have a nice day', and asked him to repeat himself. When he did I fucking snapped and did shit wrong.
First off I grabbed his throat so hard I could've easily broken the delicate bones in his neck that I don't even know the names of. Second off I had more than 100 lbs on this guy, who was trashed, and I might've seriously hurt him because of his flapping jaw and my current inability to shackle my rage-rection.*1
He had balls, I'll give him that. Probably because of alcohol but even then survival circuits can sometimes override booze, just not in his case. He said 'Go fuck yourself' again to me as we were face to face and that's when things began to go badly for him.
I grabbed his tiny throat in my paw and squeezed until he got that "I can't believe that I'm starting to die" look in his face whereupon I realized I'm choking the living fuck out of this wasted skinny fuckbag and that his toes were barely touching the ground.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak gasp."
And that was the point where I slammed him into some pavement, kinda like The Undertaker if he was flabbier, broke and drank cheaper beer. The dude hit the sidewalk with a 'whoof' and rolled on his side struggling to breath. I had knocked the wind and any last vestige of beer-gression right out of him.
I immediately walked back inside and let a bouncer who hadn't just choke-slammed the guy deal with him. That much at least I did right. If you've been involved in a physical altercation/ass drubbing with a customer, your presence is only going to serve to fan the flames. Excise yourself from the situation and let another bouncer play the 'good cop' role.
Not 2 hours after that this hammered kid comes up to me and asks what will happen if he gets on stage? At this point in the night I was not very happy and I made it abundantly clear to him.
"If you get on that stage I will throw you out so fast you will change genders."
His 2 friends were urging him on. Apparently they had offered him $150 to get on stage and were increasing their bids incrementally depending on how far he could get up the pole before I could reach him and savage him not unlike a grizzly on a salmon.
I stationed myself right behind where they were seated at the tip rail and I could hear them talking about it. I was really hoping at that point the he would do it because I knew I could launch him at least a yard in the air and the stage is at least that high. I pictured the satisfaction of hearing his ribs splinter on a table as he became gravity's bitch.
Fortunately for him he chose to approach me again and ask if "I was sure he'd get thrown out if he got on stage". The was when I made things very simple for him. I said "You're done, I'm not waiting for you to hop on stage for your buddies' amusement, so head for the door." And I emphasized this with a nudge toward the exit.
He kept stopping and trying to talk me out of it in between pushes, but asshats always do that because they think that somehow, they can still talk their way out of it even as you're moving them toward banishment.
The third time he turned he grabbed my hands as I went to push him, and that's when things started to go badly for him. I immediately put him on the ground, really fast but relatively gently. His feet rose up as if to fend me off so I snagged both feet, twisted his ankles together and popped them under my armpit and dragged him protesting out of the club to the cheers of it's denizens.
Both of these decisions were poor.
The first dude was already out the door, the fact that he was being a cunt about it shouldn't have made any difference. The second legally justified my actions when he put his hands on me, but I could've been gentler and more patient.
I could've talked him out of the club, not dragged him like a newborn calf.
You gotta watch yourself these days, there's a lawyer behind every potted plant and in every seedy crevice.
"Your Honor, my client did nothing wrong. He was just a drunk asshole."
And I'm gonna say this one last time because whenever I think I can't be shocked by the repugnant shit I am sometimes forced to witness, something monstrous climbs out of the abyss and wants to audition.
If you look like me in a thong, all hairy-backed and wrong-bulged, you need to try to touch base with reality. Your delusions have become if not dangerous, then seriously fucking misleading if they've led you to believe you're stripper material at this particular, if any, establishment.
I'm not saying 280 Lb gunshot-scarred dancers can't make a living by having their loins unabashedly devour skimpy underwear, I'm just saying they can't do it here.
Rotten teeth, disturbing scars, appalling stretch marks, scary prison ink and butt implants don't fly at this club.
We don't have the customer base for it and we work very hard not to acquire that particular customer base.
Go be Big and Beautiful somewhere else you narcissistic, relatively hairless yeti.
StripperHerder Supplemental: Three days hence...
Q. How much booze will it take to forgot that tonight happened?
A. Probably more than I have it in me to consume.
Fuck me Jesus, tonight was slow. Like ghost town slow. Apparently Father's Day is not a day when dads get to go look at titties which is odd because it should be. If my Dad was still alive today I would've given the gift of boobies (and probably had to throw him out of the club...).
There was absolutely fuck all going on until 2 AM when a bunch of people who had been drinking at cheaper bars decided that 10 minutes to last call was a fine time to hit up their local tit shacks. Fantastic. We'd only been open since 2PM and we close at 2:30. Thanks for the 15 minutes of 'lavish' spending, that really made our night.
I just don't understand the whole concept. Let's leave the bar we were comfortably drinking at and head on over to the strip club just in time to see 3 dancers and have one drink before they stop serving.
"I totally agree, George."
Just stay the fuck where you are. Unless you're coming to the club with an hour to spare and just maybe some cash, do us a favor and don't bother. We don't need customers at 2:10, we needed them before that and you're just being annoying cunts by showing up basically at closing time.
I would love to find out what these people do for a living and go to their business 10 minutes before they're trying to close and just hang around threatening to spend money but not actually doing it. I'd like to keep them all there for a half hour after they should've been on their way home for no material gain on their part.
Well, considering what I was originally going to publish before the new opening, supplement and pictures I added tonight, this post feels like an adequate if not mildly brilliant look into what goes through a bouncer's head as he plods on through a minefield of drudgery and self questioning.
In other words-pretty fucking awesome.
The StripperHerder, Skank-Nudger Extraordinaire*2
*1 4 out of 5 psychologists agree that getting an erection while beating someone senseless is a bad thing.
*2 Skank [skangk] noun: A female of unsavory appearance or character