(It’s time to get mean…)
A lot of people think all bouncers do is fight. That’s far from the truth. We also stand around a lot and hope our booty calls text message us back. But, (un)fortunately, there are times we do NEED to fight.
The fact is, I didn’t get hired because of my luscious lips, high cheekbones, four-pack abs and eyes greener than the shamrocks on the Lake Isle of Innisfree. I got a bouncing job because I knew a guy and I show up on time. But also, because when need be, I’m a nasty all-in fighter. They didn’t call me "The Demon" Casey Freeman for nothing (because nobody has ever called me that).
But people aren’t interested in most of that stuff. They want to know about bouncers fighting. So here goes:
Hey toughguy, your hands aren’t registered weapons in Texas, but you should be under the registered shitbird list. Because you’re a fucking tool and make human society look awful. You secretly hope to be an extra on the next season of Jersey Shore. You’re the type of guy who’d put mousse in his pubes if he heard celebrities did it.
Now, no matter your venue, fights happen. Most of the time, it’s two white boys staring each other down and yelling, "You’re a faggot!" "No, you’re a bigger faggot because you’re wearing a red hat cocked a little to the right. Which means you deserve to be called a homosexual slur." "No, you’re the gaylord of faggots because you use big words."
These are deceptive fights to break up. Most of the time you just give Paleface Colin a baby wipe, tell him to change his diaper and show him the door. And he leaves. Sometimes you need to coerce these tool-douches by grabbing them by their popped collars and shoving them out the door. Other times, it turns into an all out slap fight between rival snowboard cliques. "Fuck you! Burton and World Industries rule forever!" "The gondolas at Aspen can suck my cock!"
When punches are already being thrown, if you’re not one of our favorite regulars (read this on how to become on—or save yourself some time and just tip the bouncer) expect some bodily damage to happen. A lot of doorguys wrestle, know martial arts or grew up in the hood. You? You just read trivia on Steven Seagal movies.
While some bouncers started the job because they love the action of a fight, I prefer to attempt to talk people out of fighting. Not because I’m a pussy. Because I’ve been punched, kicked, bit, stabbed, almost had an eye gouged out, feet stomped, nuts squeezed, nuts kicked, nuts almost bitten, bruised ribs, headbutted and hit with an occasional beer bottle. You may think it’s hardcore, but when you see me limping around after tenderizing some shitbird’s body, you’ll realize I’d much rather be teaching French fine art history in the suburbs.
There’s a common belief that bouncers cheat when they fight. And it’s true. Because often, I’m fighting four guys at once. I don’t cry myself to sleep if I slam somebody’s nose into a table or open a hole in the concrete with some fucktard’s head. That’s one less pissant for me to worry about. Better you than me. Because you probably have health insurance.
So if you’re throwing haymakers like a Nebraskan after he realizes he’ll never live his dream and move to Iowa, expect something nasty to come your way—and there’s this one move I thought might be cool to try, so pray to Billy Joel that you’re not the person I test it on.
Sometimes we doorguys outnumber fighters. That’s not because we’re pussies. Our jobs aren’t to ruin your good time or make you feel like a bitch. We get paid to STOP fights from happening or ENDING them as quickly as possible. Our hopes are that you’ll see us (the barely literate gorillas) and take your little shitfit elsewhere.
Brawls are not fun. They may be fun for doorguys to brag about after last call, but anybody who’s been chainwhipped as bad as me knows mini-riots aren’t hilarious – unless your bouncer buddy is wearing a pink miniskirt, purple eye makeup and lots and lots of glitter paint, then it’s too gutbustingly comical to function.
If you do find yourself to be close to a fight, do the American thing and ask somebody else to take care of it for you. That’s why bars pay bouncers (like me) an entire eight bucks an hour. Some doorguys live for that shit. Me, I realized long ago, my job is glorified adult day care. But I’d still like to ask somebody to leave rather than carrying his unconscious ass outside.
I’m KC for Bouncer Wisdom. I’ll see you next week for another round-on me.
Any comments? Questions? Concerns?