Monday, January 22, 2007


So, the club decides to throw a birthday party for DJ Annoying Dick's twenty-fifth. The problem with throwing birthday parties for club people, then asking the people in attendance to join in, is that none of the customers know -- or give a shit about -- the addict whose birthday is being celebrated. This creates an embarrassing situation when some delusional MC asks the crowd to sing for the club employee in question, because they never do. They're simply not interested.

If I were a customer and some club tried this, I'd say, "You're a fucking retard with stupid hair and you probably shove shaved gerbils up your rectum. Just pour my drinks and spin some records and shut the fuck up." This is what people seem to be saying when we ask them to sing Happy Birthday and end up with crickets. You can't ask nightclub customers to care about others. Show me a 9/11 fundraiser, and I'll show you a fight on the sidewalk.

For DJ Annoying Dick's party, the club had a big cake made up to look like a set of turntables. I wanted to smack it with my hand and splatter icing everywhere. I had this impulse because I don't like DJ Annoying Dick. I don't like DJ Annoying Dick because instead of doing what he's supposed to do and slowing down the music at closing time so these fucking people leave, he keeps playing house music until the head bouncer runs into the DJ booth and threatens him. When DJ Annoying Dick does this, it adds fifteen minutes onto my night. When you work two jobs, including one you have to report to the following morning -- read: in three hours -- fifteen minutes can be a very long time. This is why I want to backhand DJ Annoying Dick every time he walks past.

Before my shift started, one of the cashiers was pushing a cart around. The cake was on top of the cart. She asked me if she should leave the cart and the cake in the back office until it was time to light the candles and wheel it out in celebration of the useless life of DJ Annoying Vicodin-Popping Dick.

"I guess you can put it in there," I said. "It's probably the closest door to where he's gonna be standing."

"Is anyone in there?"

"Yeah, all the bartenders are in there counting their drawers, or whatever the fuck they do before they start."

She wrinkled her nose. "I don't want to put it in there now, then."

"Yeah, you probably don't want the cake to develop a sore."