This Is What You Get

This seems to have been around for a while, and it can be found on multiple video posting sites, but since I've just seen it for the first time, I'm assuming a lot of you haven't. Pay attention to the absolute middle of the screen -- especially to the two guys who share a hug at the beginning of the clip. You'll probably end up watching this more than once.



Thanks, Evan.

Pegged

Here is yet another valuable piece of advice from me to you. By “you,” I don’t mean all of you, because this advice applies primarily to the Guido populace. Since this is the case, I’m not entirely certain of this post’s utility, because I don’t know if any Guidos read this site. If they do, I hope this little tidbit can be of assistance.

Here it is.

Please do not claim to be “best friends” with someone who fights in the UFC if you don’t actually know the person. Claiming to be “best friends” with a UFC fighter – or anyone, for that matter - you don’t know is a very sad and desperate thing to do, especially if the person to whom you’re making this claim knows the UFC fighter in question and knows you’re not “best friends” with him.

And it only compounds matters when you can’t pronounce said UFC fighter’s last name correctly. I know the last names of all my “best friends” and can say them properly, even under pressure.

Claiming to be “best friends” with someone you don’t know is a risky proposition. If you do it long enough, you may, in fact, come across someone who knows you’re full of shit. This makes you look very stupid, because this someone is well aware that you’re attempting to make yourself look tough by proxy. Attempting to make yourself look tough by proxy doesn’t work.

It’s akin to dropping Vincent Gigante’s name at the door. Strange, delusional and misguided to the hilt.

These are not good ideas.

Another Thing Not To Do

Dick Move #3791 is part of a comprehensive compilation of Dick Moves that people perform in order to call attention to the fact that they’re dicks. The Dick Move List is similar but unrelated to the Reasons Not To Get Married List (parts 1 through 78,224, from “Clint’s endless barroom discourses,” Queens, NY, 2001-2007), but the two lists could eventually share the same publication date should I ever get around to properly organizing and categorizing all the associated data.

Dick Move #3791 occurs when your bar, lounge or club isn’t smart or bucks-up enough to pay off whomever requires greasing in order to let people smoke inside. When this happens, crowds of nimrods cluster on the sidewalk giving themselves cancer. When I’m working the door in places like this, I make sure I’m not downwind of these people because I can’t stand when cigarette smoke is blown anywhere near me.

There is, quite possibly, nothing that enrages me more than a smoker who takes offense when I politely ask not to be victimized by their miasma.

Dick Move #3791 involves tossing your cigarette in the street, walking inside the bar, lounge or club, and exhaling your last lungful of smoke indoors. Dick Move #3791 seems to be a “thing to do” here in New York. Evidently, the cool people can’t be seen finishing their cigarettes outside. Often, these patrons who feel this compelling need to blow their last puffs of smoke inside the building are the same anuses you’ll see lighting their cigarettes before they get outside.

If you do this, you are a dick. You are a complete, total and utter dick, and you need to go fuck yourself in the rectum with a massive frozen dildo coated with nitric acid. That should fix your wagon.

I'm a CAGE FIGHTER!

Hi Everybody!

A Guido was spotted wearing a white tee shirt, white Capri pants, and white sneakers of unknown manufacture. This Guido was simultaneously stared at and ridiculed by several bouncers who witnessed his entrance. This scene was rather sad and I felt sympathetic toward this Guido, but then I remembered that he could have avoided the entire scene by not dressing like a jackass.

People who wear white tee shirts, white Capri pants and white sneakers of unknown manufacture are intentionally provoking a negative response, so they shouldn’t complain very much when they’re treated to one. My advice to them would be to report to the nearest Karate dojo and become a UFC fighter or a “certified” street fighter. That way, they could beat me up when I make fun of them.

Here I sit lamenting the fact that everyone’s midlife crisis now entails wearing a “gi” and learning how to put me in a “kimura” or “choke me out.”

“I’ll put you in a submission!”

“No you won’t.”

Newsflash: You’re not the only person in the world who knows Jiu-Jitsu!

Several Guidos were seen wearing tee shirts that said “Christian Audigier” on the back. The name “Christian Audigier” is printed in a script similar to the font used in the printing of “Ed Hardy” on the backs of the shirts that Guidos were wearing two weeks ago. During this two week period, the “Christian Audigier” name seems to have supplanted the “Ed Hardy” name in back-of-Guido-shirt popularity.

This seems odd, because “Christian Audigier” is evidently the designer of the “Ed Hardy” brand. Then again, I’m not privy to the memos.

I have yet to see a Guido wearing either a “Christian Audigier” or “Ed Hardy” shirt with Capri pants. I don’t know if this is a Guido faux pas. All I’m saying is that I haven’t seen it.

Yours in fear,

Rob the Bouncer

Alibi Ike

Here’s another piece of advice from the bouncing world that can readily be applied to “real” life:

If someone is lying to you, they’ll always say more than they need to say, and a massive portion of what they’re saying will be completely unsolicited. This becomes even more obvious when someone is lying to you about having fucked you over. I’m in italics, because what I’m saying is much more important than what “he” is:

“Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Look, I didn’t do it. It’s not my fault. It wasn’t me. It was them. They made me do it. I tried to stop them. I tried to talk them out of it. You have to believe me when I tell you I had nothing to do with any of this. Really, I didn’t, and I don’t want you to think any of this was my idea, because you know me and you know I’d never fuck you over like that. I went in and had meeting after meeting with them and told them not to do it, but they went ahead and did it anyway and it was all behind my back. Seriously, man. I would never do anything like that to you. I’ve always had your back, haven’t I? You know I’ve always had your back.”

“Cool. How was the crowd last night?”

“Listen, none of this had anything to do with me. It came from upstairs, for real. I went and talked to Carmine and told him to leave you out of all the bullshit, and he promised me he would, but then they went and did this. They’re assholes, man, and you can’t hold me responsible, because I’ve always been your boy. I would never do anything to fuck with your job. You have to believe me. You believe me, right? I wanted to call you during the week to tell you that none of this had anything to do with me, but I was busy trying to talk them out of it because I didn’t want them dragging you into it. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yikes. Looks like rain, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yo, just promise me we’re still friends. I need to hear we’re still friends because you have to believe that I did everything in my power to make sure they didn’t blow up your spot. I heard Freddie talking about how I was trying to pull some shit behind the scenes and stab people in the back, and when I see him I’m gonna punch him in the face, ‘cause I’m not like that and you know I’m not like that. You’ve been working with me for four years now, right? You know I’m on the level. You know I don’t fuck with my friends’ jobs like that. For what? Just to put money in my own pocket? I don’t play those kinds of games and you know I don’t. You believe me, right? You have to believe me!”

“I already talked to Carmine, jackass. Your plan didn’t work.”

“Oh. Shit. Okay, well, it wasn’t personal, man. Just business.”

Local Action

This is a very simple story. It’s simple because bar work is simple. I say “bar work” as opposed to “club work,” because what some of you – most of you – don’t know is that I sometimes work security at a small(ish) local bar on weeknights. “Local” means local to where I live, which is not Manhattan. This makes me Bridge and Tunnel, but that’s okay. I have the accent and can blend.

I work in a local bar one night a week because they pay me $125 to sit on a stool and talk to people I know. Sometimes friends of mine visit me there and help me kill time. $125 a week is $500 a month. $500 a month is $6,000 a year. I won’t give the job up because I don’t want to take a $6,000 cut in my yearly salary. Not many people in my tax bracket are doing such things voluntarily these days.

Not much happens at this local bar. This, essentially, is because I don’t let anyone in. I turn away anyone who looks like a “cocksucker” or a “tampon string.” In over a year of working there, I’ve broken up exactly one fight. That fight wasn’t between two patrons. It was between a patron and the owner. This simplified things because when I ran to the scene of the hostilities, I didn’t have to make any difficult decisions. If you get into a fight with the owner of a bar you’re in, you’re automatically wrong, even if the owner of the bar you’re in has a massive cocaine addiction and spews racial invective too loudly for the comfort of everyone within a three-block radius.

$125 trumps any principles I might otherwise profess to having.

Also, bar work is more difficult than club work because it’s impossible to hide as a bar bouncer. This is because there are only two of us working. At the club, when thirty men go running to a problem with Guidos, sometimes it’s okay if you stay on the periphery and don’t get involved. In a bar, you don’t have this luxury. If something happens and you try to fake it, you’ll be fired for being a panty-waist. No bouncer wants to be known as a panty-waist. I don’t, plus I want to continue making my $6,000-per-year, so when two drunken denim nimrods start feeling their oats, I do what I can.

Last night at the local, some people failed to recognize their social cues. Last call was made, and still they lingered - the last four people in the bar. The bartenders began to clean and put things away, and on they sat, nursing their drinks and chattering away as though they’d prepaid their stool fare.

The standard “folks, do me a favor and finish up, because we’re closing” didn’t work, so I turned on the lights. The ugly, ugly lights. The ones you’re not supposed to see until you’re at the diner eating cheese fries with brown gravy twenty minutes after your last sip.

This, according to one young lady in the group, made me an “asshole.” I know this because she told me so as she was leaving.

My feelings were momentarily hurt, but then I went home, had a blueberry yogurt, and forgot all about it.

Correspondence

Two weeks ago, in a bar, I met the brother of a writer whose first book I liked very much. After several hours of complimentary drunken ramblings, I managed to extract from him the fact that his brother’s second book had recently been released. I hadn’t heard this, so the news came as a pleasant surprise.

The following weekend I went out, purchased it, and read it in two days. It’s very good, and I recommend it highly.

When I finished reading, I went online, found the author’s Myspace page, requested him as a friend and wrote him a four paragraph message. In this message, I told him how much I’d enjoyed his new book. I told him how much we had in common, how I’d met his brother, and how interesting it was to be able to identify with so many of the experiences he’d related.

About an hour later, I clicked on my “sent” box and saw that he’d read my email. Expecting an immediate reply, I kept refreshing the page. Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen for the next three days. I was very disappointed, thinking he’d figured me for a crackpot fan.

Tonight, I came home from work and found my reply:

“Hey, thanks so much.”

That’s it. That’s all I got.

See, I get a lot of email, and I don’t respond to large chunks of it. This isn’t because I don’t care, or because I think I’m too good to respond. It’s primarily because I don’t have any time. That I don’t have any time is not a consequence of having written a book. Book stuff takes up approximately none of my time as of right now. I don’t have any time because I’m usually too busy working or taking care of some of the other “shit” I have going. This other “shit” is stuff I’d be doing whether I had a book coming out or not. I’m sure the author I emailed is operating under the same constraints.

I’m also a royal prick about my “precious” time. Ask anyone who knows me, if you ever get the chance. If I think something is wasting my time, I turn into a first class cock-ring and you’ll never hear the end of it. This, most times, is because I’m a selfish dick who needs to be in control of everything around me, especially the clock. I’ve been working on this lately. The results are mixed.

In any case, I’ve learned my lesson the hard way here. Granted, writing me a two page letter doesn’t automatically guarantee you a heartfelt response and oath of eternal friendship from me (not that either of those are worth a whole lot), but I can do better and will. From now on, every email gets a response.

*******************************************************

Confidential to Carl G: Please email me directly and explain what it is you've invited me to and why. It looks interesting, but I'd like some more information. Thank you.

Straight Talk

Here is some very good advice for bouncers. In a perfect club, all bouncers would deal with each other fairly and equitably. As we know, however, there is no “perfect club,” and some bouncers are scumbags. If I became Head Bouncer, I’d make certain that nobody on my staff could be described as a “scumbag.” I would do this by firing people left and right when it came to my attention that scumbags were on the loose in my nightclub.

Firings would happen indiscriminately. Innocent bouncers would be caught in the crossfire – bouncers with families to feed. I wouldn’t care. I’d pink slip every motherfucker in the place if that’s what it took to root out the “scumbag” element. This is because integrity is the name of the game in the nightclub business. We’re all about integrity.

You should believe this.

Bouncers should level with each other. There are several different ways to have conversations, but bouncers should choose the path that’s closest to what they’d really like to get across. If you’re talking about money, and there’s something you don’t want another bouncer to know, tell him that. Don’t lie. Tell him you’re not comfortable talking about it and leave it at that.

Instead of this, where we both know you’re completely full of shit:

“Hey, you making good money at this door?”

“Nah, man. I’m not makin’ shit over here.”

You should say this:

“Hey, you making good money at this door?”

“No offense, but I’d rather not talk about that with you, since we’re kicking back our money to different people. You understand, right?”

Don’t lie. Avoid. Even though I know exactly why you’re lying to me, the fact that you’re actually going through with it makes you look like an asshole. Sure, it’s all a big, fat fucking game, but it’s one that makes you look bad, not me.

“Why,” you’re thinking, “would you possibly ask a question you know won’t be answered? Better yet, why would you ask a question to which you already know the answer?”

You’re absolutely right on both counts. But when I’m asking a question of a bouncer I know – someone with whom I’ve worked for a few years now – I’d expect his answer to contain a certain degree of respect for our time served together. Extracting the truth is a longshot, but I might get it if he’s one of “my guys.” Evasion is fine, and I’d understand its purpose should someone choose that route. It’s the lying I can’t abide. The lying tells me he thinks I’m stupid. It tells me, in the most dismissive possible terms, he thinks I’m worthless in his grand scheme, because he doesn’t care anymore – if he even ever did – what I think of him.

How Things Work

Here’s what you should do if you’re unfairly sucker-punched “for no reason” at the club:

Shut the fuck up and go home.

This is some sage advice from me to you, and you should take it. You may not want to take it, because people mostly don’t want to take advice they don’t like hearing, but you should. You should take this advice because sucker-punching incidents at nightclubs always go the same way, and that way isn’t going to be your way no matter how loudly you shout at bouncers and the police.

You need to shut the fuck up and go home, because nobody cares. That nobody gives a shit is something most of us already know about life. That nobody gives a shit at the club is something most of you refuse to believe when you’ve been sucker-punched and you’re looking for someone who does. This is sad in the way that watching delusional people is sad, which means that it can be very funny at the same time.

What you need to do, if you don’t want to let the thing go, is press charges with the police. To do this, you’ll first need to take the temperature of the bouncing staff. If they’re sympathetic – as we sometimes are when one side of an altercation is obviously a prick - you may have a shot. You’re essentially cooked if they’re not, because the attitude of any police you’ll call will echo that of the bouncing staff. We’re all grown men. If you stand on the sidewalk and scream at us like a little girl – “I need to catch my breat’! I’m hypuh-ventuhlatin’!” – we’ll laugh at you and continue not to care.

Something happens to Grown Man A. Grown Man A remains reasonable and silent. The same thing happens to Grown Man B. Grown Man B complains excessively in a high-pitched whine, within earshot of Grown Man A.

This will cause Grown Man A to forever refer to Grown Man B as a “pussy.” This is how guys operate.

Most times, you’ll simply need to shut the fuck up and go home because nobody in the world of “people who can help you” cares what happens in clubs. If you go to the emergency room, they’ll treat you, but they’ll look at you like a piece of shit because you were injured in a nightclub and what happened to you isn’t real. It’s not important to them because it didn’t need to happen. It didn’t need to happen because nightclub life is artificial and regular people with jobs and responsibilities don’t like people who look like they frequent West Chelsea at night.

The police won’t care because they’re tired of dealing with people like you and don’t need the aggravation. Bouncers won’t care for all the reasons I’ve been writing about for the last three years. You’ll be demanding satisfaction from people who don’t want to give it to you because they don’t like you and don’t think you deserve it. They don’t think you deserve it primarily because you’ve chosen to demand your satisfaction by spewing obscenities at them.

So take your punch, learn your lesson, and do something different next weekend.

Dinner With Mommy, Redux

“You know, I have the same thought every Father’s Day.”

“What thought?”

“That what’s going on here is one of two things. Either you buried him in the backyard, or he’s gonna show up one day asking me for money.”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“Come on, now.”

“That’s very funny.”

“Show me a body and maybe I’ll laugh, too.”

False Confidence

Here’s what happens:

A Guido watches a card of UFC fights and decides, after being inspired by Randy Couture, that it’d be a good idea to head down to the local MMA “dojo” and learn how to kick some ass. That whole getting-punched-in-the-face thing doesn’t really hold much appeal, however, so he figures Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (BJJ) is the ideal option for someone in his situation.

You learn how to choke people and break their arms, and you don’t have to take punches if you don’t want to.

The Guido signs a $150-a-month contract at the nearest Gracie-approved outlet and gets to work. His tuition grants him two hours of beginner classes per week, and his game rapidly improves. After six months, he can get you in a kimura, a rear naked choke, a guillotine and a triangle. He’s deadly with these moves.

He knows how to do these things in class. He starts calling himself a “fighter.”

The problem here is that our Guido doesn’t compete. He doesn’t do any training other than his two hours a week on the mat. Sure, he goes to the gym and does “chest and arms” five days a week, but that’s for vanity. That’s for the club. Squats are for the frustrated. Sparring is dangerous. Curls get the girls.

He has no idea what to do if someone actually decides to fight back.

Eventually, push comes to shove and the Guido gets into a scrap at the club. He squares off with someone – maybe a bouncer, maybe not – and eats a few shots to the jaw. He’s “lumped up,” and he’s swept onto the sidewalk. He remembers his months of training and he’s infuriated. Everyone needs to know this. Off comes his shirt.

“Yo, I do Jiu-Jitsu, motherfuckers! None of you motherfuckin’ juicehead motherfuckers can fight me one-on-one! Yo, you need yo’ boys wit’chu, right?”

Of course, the Guido is erroneously operating under the assumption that he’s the only one on the sidewalk who’s ever been trained in any kind of fighting art. He’s also mistakenly assuming that a combined fifty hours of “experience” in a BJJ school renders him dangerous to anyone other than himself.

And, as every card-carrying Guido knows, bouncers in New York don’t know how to fight.

You know exactly what happens next. The smart Guido walks away. The dumb one – the twenty-two year old who slapped the UFC tattoo on his shoulder after two months of “training” – tests this hypothesis and feels what it’s really like.

The best part is this: no matter how hard you hit them, their hair never moves.

Overheard at the door

“You’re really good at your job, man.”

“I am?” He’d seen me “work” for approximately thirty seconds.

“Yeah. I run three clubs in the Village and one in the Bronx. You lookin' for work?”

“No thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Come on, man.”

“Come on, what? I could give you a job!”

“Give me a job doing what? You’re not even in the club yet. You haven’t seen me do shit, and you don’t even know who the fuck I am. You always walk up to people you don’t know and offer them jobs?”

“I was just tryin’ to make conversation.”

“Jesus, you people are fucking strange.”

Cultus

If you don’t live in New York, but would like to know what Guidos are wearing this summer, this post is the post for you. When I tell you “what Guidos are wearing this summer,” I’m referring to all Guidos and not just those fashionable few of whom we spend so many waking hours in envy.

What this means is that every single Guido in New York is wearing the same thing on any given night, because that’s how Guidos operate. I’ve long forgotten my Tipping Point terminology, but I’m certain there exist “cooler,” more trendsetting Guidos at the high end of the collective who popularize these sorts of things. I don’t know. Maybe I’m not observant enough, because by the time my attention is drawn to the latest in Guido couture, whatever I’ve noticed has already taken hold on a massive scale.

Shirts that say Ed Hardy on the back are currently very popular. I have no idea what this is, nor where it came from, nor do I care. I know nothing about fashion or design - or anything else for that matter - but I do know that I don’t particularly like these shirts. There’s nothing overtly wrong with them – other then the fact that they’re a tad busy for my comfort level – but I would never wear one after seeing them on so many Guidos over the past few weeks.

Shirts that say Affliction on the back are also quite common. These are worn by Guidos who identify with the UFC and fighting and toughness. These Guidos want to be tougher than they actually are, but don’t want to put in the necessary work. Affliction shirts are sported by Guidos who think that wearing fighting-related shirts will frighten people. This is because the Guido lives by the sword. He’s a “soldier” of “the street.” In his world, weakness will get you killed.

Lip gloss, however, will not.

Tail Chase

Here’s what happens when one (1) bouncer is required to cover two (2) lengths of “velvet rope”:

People step over the rope on the far side. When they do, the bouncer walks over and stops them. While he’s on the far side doing his job, people step over the rope on the near side. He sees this and quickly retreats in order to stop them, too.

As soon as he gets to the near side, more people on the far side step over the rope. And so on.

After this goes on for ten minutes or so, the bouncer in question is shouted at by management for his incompetence because too many unauthorized people have managed to get past him. He doesn’t care very much about this, so he tells management to go fuck itself with some manner of dildo or plug.

He then gets “reassigned.”

The next bouncer to be posted at this spot encounters the same problem. Eventually, management decides to use two (2) bouncers to cover these two (2) lengths of velvet rope, realizing that there exists no such person as the mythical “three-stanchion man.”

The first bouncer is never apologized to, and is still assumed to be incompetent.

Stunningly, he continues not to care.

Guido-Loompa

Submitted by Paul Grinstead

Progression

Someone sent me the first picture, and I thought of the rest all by myself.

More from up front...

“Your boy hasn’t been out here in a while.”

“Who’s my boy?” I ask.

“Moishe.”

“Moishe’s my boy?”

“Yeah,” Freddie says. “How’s he doing, anyway?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Right now.”

“Decomposing, I assume.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I say.

“He’s dead?”

“He’s been dead for six months. Where the fuck’ve you been?”

“Decomposing,” he says, swirling it around in the glass. “Damn.”

“That’s what happens when you die. You decompose.”

“You’re a sick fuck.”