Cracked Pot

Sometimes we don't let you inside the club because you're a crackpot and we don't like you. Other times, we don't let you in because you're a crackpot and the people inside won't like you. See, if we don't like you, chances are someone inside will dislike you even more and take action. They'll call you names like "crackpot" and "nut job." Names can hurt. So can bottles and fists, when they take action. When they take action, that means we'll have to get involved.

When we get involved, that takes something called work, and that's not what we're there for. Who the fuck wants to work? All I really want to do, when I go to the club these days, is stand in front on the sidewalk and look pretty. Anyone who knows me knows I'm very pretty when I'm standing on the sidewalk in my suit. People tell me this all the time. "Rob," they say, "you're one pretty motherfucker out here on the sidewalk in your cheap-ass suit."

If you're a crackpot, and I let you in, and a call comes over the radio telling me you're in a fight, or that someone is throwing wet napkins at you, that means I have to come running into the room and do something about it, and I simply don't want to. It may also mean that some other bouncer is going to throw you out, and I, within moments, will be standing outside listening to your endless lines of bullshit about how you "didn't do anything," and how you'll "have my job in the morning," and about how my shoes are "cheap."

I like my cheap shoes. In fact, I like my whole cheap outfit. You think I'm going to spend money on this fucking place? You think I'm going to buy an expensive suit for you to fucking bleed on? The answer to both questions is a resounding "no," but I don't want to hear about it while I'm tired and cranky, especially from a crackpot that I shouldn't have let inside in the first place.

So if you're a crackpot, now you know why you didn't get in. Go somewhere else, please.

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The Guido House added two palm trees out front! I'll get a picture up next time I pass it.