Angels

Read this. And this. Evidently, the bouncers of Boston refuse to take it any longer, and they're giving it back to you sons of bitches with stun-guns, broken glasses, flashlights and mace. "City officials" are "outraged" that Hub doormen would ever dare lay a hand on any of the precious little angels who patronize the bars and clubs of the Athens of America.

Because, as you all know, it's always us. Never you. You're all perfect. You never do anything to start any of this shit. You all hold your liquor like champs. Coke? Meth? K? GHB? Doesn't even have an effect on you, does it? Doesn't make you change your behavior one damned iota. Hell, that's why you do it, right? It's all social. You're back there snorting lines off the toilet seat because, well, you're meeting new people, and that's what it's all about. The club's just a big ol' peace train. One big flower-powered communal lovefest, with joy and sunshine and rainbows and puppies and big bright pink balloons. And here we come to ruin it.

I whipped out my stun-gun tonight, and one of you put a daisy in it.

No, you people -- you fucking customer-type people -- don't do a damned thing. It's all unprovoked. I mean, I got out of the shower tonight, and it was all I could do to keep myself from going next door and pistol-whipping my neighbor. That's how chomping-at-the-fucking-bit excited I was to get down to the club and commit felony assault.

You're "disgruntled." And "rowdy." On occasion, you'll even become "unruly." You're never "fucking psychotic," of course, and the fact that you're often "pathologically reprobate" with "uncontrollable violent tendencies" never seems to matter once you've been smacked in the mouth by a bouncer. Once that happens, you're all a big bunch of spotless fucking saints. Pure as the driven snow. The future you'd likely have spent in the gen-pop of a maximum security establishment upstate is now described as "promising." You're a credit to society. We all love you.

But it's a love conditional upon my smashing your orbital with my Motorola. Or cracking your mandible with my Maglite. Or choking the living hell out of you until you go to sleep and stop trying to hit me, even if you started the entire goddamned fucking thing. Even if you snorted and swallowed an entire fucking pharmacy, forcibly dragged two girls into a bathroom stall, then hit me over the head with a bottle when I tried to tell you "no."

So something needs to be done, they're saying. Bouncers need to be monitored, because we're a violent lot, predisposed to murders-for-hire, rape, stun-gun assaults and God-knows-what-else. We need training. And licensing. And constant supervision. And the intervention of a gang of camera-loving politicians who shouldn't have permitted the nightclub industry to become such a nuisance in the first place.

And it's because you're all perfect. And I'm just "beefy." And the whole thing strikes me as nothing but a massive, steaming pile of horseshit.