Red Bull

A friend sent me a link to this story today. Read it and take a good look at the accompanying photo.

I’m going to preface this post with a disclaimer. I don’t know the young man who was injured in this incident. I don’t know anything about him. Looking at his photo, there are certainly some things I suspect, but who the fuck knows for sure? Believe it or not, I wish he hadn’t been hurt. I wish this because I don’t like seeing anyone get hurt as a result of going to a nightclub or a bar. Getting hurt during or after a night out is just fucking stupid, and it doesn’t need to happen. Much of what I’ve written about on this site has been intended to help people avoid getting hurt. I am an altruist.

That said, what the fuck? Why does this keep happening?

Since I started bouncing again back in 2003, the one thing that’s always amazed the shit out of me has been people’s willingness to directly confront the police. Most times, they’ll do this verbally. Occasionally, and more frequently than you might think, they’ll do it physically. This makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever, yet I’ve seen it dozens of times. Confronting the police is illogical, and it always fails.

You’re not going to defeat the police. You’re just not. They have guns and nightsticks and pepper spray, and they’re going to fuck you up. If they don’t fuck you up, they’re going to call for backup, and their backup is going to fuck you up. If their backup doesn’t fuck you up, their backup’s backup is going to call for federal backup, and then you’re really up shit’s creek. Like it or not, when you’re insubordinate with the police outside of a bar, you’re essentially picking a fight with the United States Government, and they’re not going to allow you to win. Ever.

“Yo, why you arrestin’ my boy? He din’t do nuthin’!”

“Step back, sir.”

“Yo, fuck you, muthafucka! You think yo’ badge make you tough?”

“Step back, sir, or you’ll be arrested.”

“Yo, you jus’ made a big mistake, muthafucka! You don’ know who you fuckin’ wit. You still wanna have yo’ job tomorrow?”

This story also reminds me of why I hate “guys.” Take a look at the picture of the gentleman who was tased, and think about how many times the word “bro” was used that evening. Think about how, every night in America, groups of guys who look exactly like him go out thinking they’re reinventing the wheel by getting drunk, getting loud and getting in fights.

“Yo, bro, me an’ my boys are goin’ to Vegas, muthafucka! Yo, bro, it’s my boy’s bachelor party, bro! Yo, we got a suite at the Borgata, we got limos, an’ we got VIP passes for the pool party, bro!”

I really fucking hate guys. I hate everything they do. I hate seeing them, hearing them, and having them inflict themselves on the rest of my senses. I hate watching them get the shit kicked out of them after their drunken, drug-addled auras of invincibility put them in situations they’re incapable of handling. I hate how ordering UFC pay-per-views and wearing Affliction shirts makes them think they can beat everyone up. I hate when they say “bro.” I hate the whole fucking guy thing and what they’ve turned it into.

I went to sleep in 1995. When I woke up, everyone around me had turned into a prick.