Wednesday, January 31, 2007

A question

By now, it’s no secret that I’ve met lots of people through this site. I’m talking about legitimate, walk-into-a-bar, “so that’s what you really look like!” meetings here. Some have gone well. Others have gone poorly. Some people came exactly as advertised. One wanted to do nothing but argue with me about damned near everything, including my reasons for remaining anonymous. One sent someone else’s picture – the falsest of advertising - and I ran for the hills after excusing myself to take a leak. That was disturbing.

Thing is, I’m more than willing to go out there and do it. Some of the most innocuous email exchanges you could imagine have led to months-long dating relationships. It’s one of the pleasant things that happen when your site gets popular enough. People, some of whom are attractive women, decide they want to meet you. As a raging heterosexual, I’ve enjoyed this immensely. Who wouldn’t?

I’ve also made several male friends through this site, and these friendships have me wondering whether there’s a stigma attached to guys meeting each other on the internet – especially when they’re generally the ones approaching me.

It always works the same way. I’ll write something someone can identify with, so the guy emails me and tells me I did a nice job on my latest post. Then, maybe, he’ll relate some little story of his own that pertains to what I’ve written about. I’ll say, “Hey, that’s a pretty cool story,” and I’ll write back. Various tidbits of personal information will be exchanged in subsequent emails. We’ll discuss sports, or women, or places to which we’ve traveled, and it just sort of goes on from there. Eventually, when enough information is exchanged, you realize you’d probably be friends with this person – provided they’re “normal” in person - if the two of you worked together or had attended the same school.

The invite comes next. You’ll get something like this:

Hey, I’ll be out in the city tonight with some people. If you want to meet up for a drink, let me know. Call me on my cell if you’re floating around. Here’s my number…

So you meet up and things go well. You get shitfaced, and you talk about everything under the sun – maybe even give him a drunken golf lesson in front of a bar at three in the morning – and nothing bad or weird happens so you add him to your rotation of people you can hang out with. Maybe you even start dating one of his friends. This happens a few more times, with a few more guys, and now you’ve made a half-dozen new male friends. Good for you. More shit to do on weekends never hurt anyone, right?

Here’s the thing, though. Eventually, someone’s bound to ask you how you know this guy, and that’s when things get a little weird. You go out in a group, and you strike up a conversation with one of this person’s friends, and the question inevitably arises:

“So, how do you know Dave?”

“Umm…he…umm…wrote me a letter on the…um…internet?”

You don’t say this, of course, because you don’t want to embarrass the poor guy, but that’s what I’m wondering about. Is this really embarrassing? Is making male friends through the internet something to which people wouldn’t want to own up? I mean, I’m talking about seriously normal guys here – people with “real” lives just like mine, whose jobs have them online for a good portion of the day. Believe me, everyone I meet off this fucking thing gets vetted out the ass, so I’m not talking about any wackos here.

Maybe it’s because I’m part of the last generation to go to college without the internet, at least in its current overwhelmingly pervasive form, but something about this people-meeting process still strikes me as being a tad off. I have no real problem with it, but something in the back of my mind has me convinced that other people might, so I’ll put it to you people because I’d like to hear your thoughts. I’ll “publish” the best responses later in the week.

Stigma or no?

Monday, January 29, 2007


There’s not a hell of lot I see at work that I’d ever want to emulate. For example, it’s likely been well over two years since something someone was wearing was intriguing enough to compel me to ask them where they bought it. That doesn’t happen anymore, because the things I see people wearing at the club are things I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing on my worst motherfucking day.

I suppose it’d be restating the obvious to tell you that I don’t see much in the way of customer behavior that I’d like to add to my arsenal, either. In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard a genuinely clever pickup line since I went back to club work in 2003. Unfortunately, this dearth of verbal acuity also applies to most of my fellow bouncers. Simply put, I’m surrounded by fucking morons, who for the past three years have shown me exactly what not to do in every conceivable situation.

One common thread I’ve noticed over the past few weeks pertains to the club-bizarre boyfriend-girlfriend interactions I’m forced to observe for hours on end. If you ever want to see how to maintain a healthy relationship with your significant other, just head down to the club and watch these animals for a few hours, then go out in the real world and do the exact opposite of what you’ve seen. If your actions remain in diametric opposition to those taken by most club patrons, you’ll manage just fine. You’ll manage because damned near everything you’ll see them doing is dead fucking wrong.

I’m now completely certain that “normal” couples don’t go to nightclubs together, and no matter what you people tell me about your own experiences to the contrary, you’ll never, ever convince me otherwise. Once or twice, on special occasions, it’s fine to head down to the club for your yearly seizure. But if you’re taking your girlfriend to the same fucking club, night after night and week after week, there’s something seriously wrong with you, and there’s something seriously wrong with your relationship. It’s not healthy. For my money, it’s the most unhealthy thing you could possibly do, especially when what you’re dealing with here is a club with a reputation for having been overrun by drug addicts, mobsters, dickheads, fuckwads and every other degree of unclassifiable scumbag-ism under the sun.

Still, I feel badly for some of these people when I’m watching their interactions, because they’re never both at fault when something goes wrong. One side of a couple will be bad for the other, but it’s not usually mutual, and when shit starts happening, it’ll be obvious to us who’s at fault. You want to say, “Honey, you shouldn’t have come here with him.” Or, “Dude, she’s bad news. I know she’s hot, but she’s gonna land you in jail or dead one of these days.” You pretty much want to say this to everyone coming up the line.

From a male perspective, I couldn’t deal with the latter. If I’m dating you, and your behavior causes me to get into a fight, you’re done. I’ve been down that road before and it’s nothing I’d particularly like to revisit. If I’m dating you, and one of your ex-boyfriends decides to punch me in the face, you’re done. If you punch me in the face, you’re done. If I get arrested as the result of something you’ve initiated, you’re done. If I’m doubled over on the sidewalk, getting the shit kicked out of me by ten bouncers because of you, you’re done and you’re probably getting sued, so retain counsel.

I see this shit happen to these poor stupid Guidos every fucking night, and I can’t help but feel for them because I’ve been there. I know what you’re thinking here, too. More often than not, you’d like to say to me, it’s the guy who’s bad for the girl. And you’re right, but only to a point. This isn’t always the case. And when it’s the girl who’s bad for the guy, violence invariably ensues because men are fucking idiots and they can’t solve their problems any other way.

Think about it. You’re out with a girl you think you’ll be nailing that night. She ends up starting shit with someone, and now you’re caught in a situation where you have to either stand up for her or bail out – and you can’t bail out because she knows a shitload of people you know. When word of your “back-down” gets out – should you choose to go that route - you’re fucked. Embarrassed. Ashamed of yourself. You’ll be forced to leave Staten Island forever, and that’s something you simply can’t let happen.

So you do what you think you have to do. You step up. You move in. You fight. You fight because you still think you’re going home and getting laid when all is said and done. You fight because you think fighting is what you’re supposed to do. You don’t know any better because you’ve never been with anyone who’d do this to you, so you’re not expecting it. One minute you’re sipping on Grey Goose and watching her ass as she leads you toward the dance floor, and the next thing you know, you’re in front of the club with your shirt off because something inside you refuses to let you turn around and go the fuck home.

You see the worst of it as a bouncer. You see what you need to avoid doing, and you learn to avoid it. You see the people you shouldn’t be associating yourself with, and you avoid them, too. This job teaches you that. You learn what not to drink. What not to ingest. What not to consume. What not to wear.

Most importantly of all, after three years, you eventually learn that all the dumb motherfuckers in New York hang out in the same club.

Thursday, January 25, 2007


Two things today:

1. I was not announcing my retirement in yesterday's post. If you've been reading this blog long enough, you know by now that I write shit like that here all the time. Bonus points to anyone who remembers my pre-popularity two-month hiatus in late 2004. I've gotten tired of doing this before, and I've always been back. People shouldn't take me so seriously.

I'll still be posting stories from the club, because I'm still bouncing. All I was stating was that after three years, I wouldn't mind concentrating on something else for a change. This something else is intended for print and not for blog purposes. It's going to take some work, with the idea being to get paid for it. On the blog, I'll still be pumping out bouncing stories because this, after all, is the "bouncer's blog." With the book coming out, it'd sort of be counterproductive to stop doing that. I plan to continue doing the job for a while, and stupid shit will keep happening, so rest assured you'll continue to hear about it.

2. Attention New York bar/club owners and managers: If you are in need of a very attractive, highly personable and experienced female bartender, please email me and I will provide you with one. A very good friend of mine is looking for multiple shifts somewhere in either Manhattan or Brooklyn. As a frequent customer of hers, I can attest to her professionalism, speed and large "following." She also has a cool accent, which should be a bonus.

And no, this is not attempt to curry favor in order to get laid. This girl is an actual friend, and not a member of my blog-chick-of-the-month club. I'm making this request as a sincere effort on behalf of someone I think very highly of and would happily vouch for personally. If you're interested, please email me at the address provided on the right side of this page, or contact me on MySpace.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Fun Fact

A staff member of a US Congressman once filed a false police report against me for a phantom "accident" in a parking lot. The police officer who was called even admitted that it was physically impossible for my car to have caused the damage she was reporting -- which was a valid admission because it didn't. My car never touched hers.

I am reminded of this every time I pay my car insurance, because my rates are still inflated as a result.

One day I will write about this. When I do, maybe I can have a meeting with said Congressman so I can present my evidence and explain to him what sort of people are in his employ. Then I will remember that there's a war going on, and I'll calm down a bit.

In the works

I’ve been writing a blog about being a nightclub bouncer for nearly three years now. I’ve also written a book about being a nightclub bouncer. That, my friends, is a lot of writing about being a nightclub bouncer. And you know what? I’m kind of sick of writing about being a nightclub bouncer.

Seriously, I am. I’m also sick of being a nightclub bouncer.

Don’t get me wrong here - it’s a great job to write about, and this little blog-accident is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. And who knows? Maybe I even wrote a halfway decent book. I dunno. I guess I’ll figure that out when it’s on the market and people actually start reading and reviewing it. I’m proud of it, regardless. I wrote it as well as I could, and I hope everyone willing to invest a few bucks in it is treated to something they can enjoy for three-hundred pages or so. I had a story to tell, and I told it, and maybe found a career in the process. Again, I don’t know, but one can hope, right? It sure as hell beats most of the other shit I’ve done in my life.

The thing you have to realize, though, is that I can’t keep pulling this stuff out of my ass forever. There’s only so much mileage you can get out of a shitbag job like bouncing, you know? I mean, I’m still doing it, but it’s not the same as it was two or three years ago when I really, really needed the job. I sort of still need to bounce – for now, at least – but I know I won’t have to keep it up much longer so I don’t really give a shit anymore. I pretty much just go to work and hang out and talk to people, and I don’t think I’ve actually paid attention to the place, or the people, with a “writer’s eye” for several months now.

This, of course, assumes I’ve ever had a “writer’s eye” in the first place, whatever that is.

So, I’m thinking about doing something else. I’m still going to be a bouncer for a while, and I’ll still write about it here, but I’ve come up with another idea I want to pursue and I think it’s a good one. In fact, it’s something I’ve been thinking about for over a year now and I think it’s a very good idea, if I do say so myself. Whether this “new” thing is a worthy follow-up to whatever the first book turns out to be, I haven’t a clue, but I’m excited about it and can’t wait to get started.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

The way things are

Read this article.

I've been following this case closely over the past year, for obvious reasons. I'll not go so far as to express an opinion on the verdict because I don't know anyone involved, and because I wasn't there the night Peter Shine died. Since I wasn't there and didn't see what happened, and because I'm not privy to the trial transcripts or to the police reports, my opinion isn't worth shit. And neither is yours, because you weren't there either.

The only thing I will say here is that I'm relieved. I'm relieved because I've been in Tom Sebald's shoes. I've never been tried for murder as a result of hauling someone out of a club, but I've been in situations -- hundreds of times, now -- where "talking" hasn't worked. Where I've had to put my hands on someone and physically pull them away from another person. Where I've had to protect myself from someone who was trying to hurt me. And where, maybe, I've gotten angry as a result and tried to hurt them back. You may recall that I've been stabbed on this job, and have the scar to prove it.

You'd be correct in assuming that my assailant received something a tad harsher than a tongue lashing.

You can trust me as a bouncer. I'm not trying to kill you. All I really want to do is get it all over with so I can return to my spot and stick my thumb back up my ass for another few hours. Assuming I can handle you, I'm not out to prove anything when I run into a fight and touch you. I'm going to grab you by the arms or torso and use my strength to pull you out. If you struggle, I'm going to try harder. I'm going to restrain you so you can't move, and I'm going to try my best to speed your progress toward the nearest door, but I'm still not out to hurt you.

If you turn around and take a swing at me, however, all bets are off. Once your aggression is applied in my direction, I have to protect myself, so that's what I'm going to do. This is the part people don't understand. The uninitiated can't see that there's a certain point in the typical bouncer-customer exchange where the customer will turn on the bouncer. When this point comes, "talking" and using "minimal physical force" are simply not realistic because I'm dealing with someone who is attacking me. When someone is physically attacking me, it's not part of my job description -- or my constitution -- to allow myself to be injured. Fuck that.

Stopping fights is our job. Sometimes fights begin before we can see them developing. Once a brawl starts in earnest, you can't talk people out of fighting, so we have to put our hands on them. When we put our hands on them, they get mad and they fight back. If we don't put our hands on them, and we let them stand there and battle it out, people get hurt and we all get fired. If we do put our hands on them, the idea is to get them the fuck out of the club without hurting them. If they try to hurt us, however, we have to defend ourselves because we're human and we don't want to get punched in the face or thrown to the ground.

I don't know how Mr. Sebald took Mr. Shine out of the bar that night. If he took him out in a chokehold, I'm not saying I condone it, but I understand. I understand this because I've done it. I've taken people out that way myself when I've felt threatened. Here in New York, we feel threatened all the time. When some juiced-up Guido who's been doing cocaine and Red Bull all night decides it's my turn to feel his wrath, what the fuck else am I supposed to do? I can't run away, right? At some point in the interaction, it comes down to a "him or me" choice, and if I have anything to say about it, it sure as hell isn't going to be me.

The point, however, is that we don't want to be bothered. We're there because people act like wild animals when they have too much to drink. If they didn't, there wouldn't be any need for bouncers. We don't want to interact with you. We don't even want to fucking be there, but we have to show up because we need the money. So we're there, and people get drunk and start acting like animals, and it's all our fault when we throw them out and they get hurt.

You know what, though? I say the patrons are responsible for everything. I say it's your responsibility to avoid acting like a wild fucking animal. It's your responsibility to not punch each other in the face. It's your responsibility to maintain control of yourselves. I'm not there to help you do that. I'm there to throw your ass out when you lose it. If you involve me, it's your own fucking fault.

Nobody deserves to die outside of a bar, but if Mr. Sebald is anything like me -- and from what I've read and heard, I suspect he is -- he didn't go to work that night looking to hurt anyone. I know I certainly don't, but sometimes it ends up happening -- and most times, there's not a damned thing I could've done differently.

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."

Thursday, January 18, 2007


Honestly, I’ve never been the world’s biggest advocate of providing people with blog-form “life updates” after I’ve been absent from posting for a while. Granted, I’ll do it, but these posts are written with a grain of salt because I know nobody really gives a flying fuck what’s going on with my life. Thinking anyone actually did, then writing about it from that perspective, would be delusional exhibitionism in its most pathetic form – and I’m not really into that sort of thing these days.

I write about one of my jobs. It provides material that people seem to enjoy reading. The rest of my life isn’t quite as rich, so there’s usually nothing to say. I’m a boring motherfucker, to be sure. I don’t get out much. Most of my closest friends are either married or live out-of-state. When I’m not working, I’m either home fucking around on the internet looking for new shit to do at the gym or babysitting my brother’s kids. There’s nothing of note here, really, and I like it that way.

Do me a favor and buy several million copies of the book so I can move to Montana and be done with it, okay?

That said, I haven’t been writing much lately, and that’s probably not a good thing because when I don’t do this for a while, I get rusty and it takes a couple of days to get what passes for my “flow” back. So, with nothing nightclub-related to cover tonight, I’ll offer a self-aggrandizing update or two on my current condition, organized by topic so anyone who actually needs something from me can take from this what they wish and leave the rest – and spare me from having to send out dozens of emails.

  1. Health: Just when I’d finally gotten the last shred of Guido-inflicted streptococci out of my system, I fucked up my back at the gym doing kettlebell snatches the day after a heavy squat workout. The moral of the story is this: don’t do an intense kettlebell session when your back is already sore from doing heavy shit the day before. I’ve now been walking at a forty-five degree angle for a week. This hasn’t left me in the best of moods.
  2. Photographer: Because I’ve been royally pissed about putting my back out, I’ve put off searching for a photographer for a few days, which I’m certain has inconvenienced a few people I haven’t yet called back. I apologize for being an irresponsible prick and will make amends today or tomorrow.
  3. Personal: I’ve had a few little issues to deal with recently – one of which came to a bit of a head yesterday – that have kept me out of the email/phone/social loop for a week or two. If I owe you a call/email/IM/visit, please be patient. I’ll be catching up on all that shit over the next few days.
  4. Work: I’m still bouncing. In fact, I’ll probably be adding one night a week until my cash flow situation settles down a bit. Contrary to popular belief, nobody’s getting rich over here just yet. Working on it, though.
  5. Book: It’s probably coming out at the beginning of March, but I think they’re trying to figure out the proper timing so I’m not entirely sure what’s going on with the exact date. You’ll know as soon as I do. And yes, there’s a valid reason for all the delays.
  6. Next project: I have something in mind. I’m sure the “people who matter” will be watching to see how the first book does, but I think I’ve got an idea that could, potentially, turn out to be fairly lucrative.
  7. Reading material: I’m currently reading David Maraniss’s biography of Roberto Clemente and rereading Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson. I just finished rereading the entire Rabbit Angstrom series by John Updike. I’m big into rereading these days.

Long story short, my head conveniently popped out of my ass this evening and I’ll be getting some shit accomplished for the first time in a couple of weeks. This includes posting here on a regular basis again. Thanks for your patience.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007


There haven't been any real posts here this week because my editor wanted me to make some last minute additions to the manuscript. The positive part of this is that the book is going to be a bit longer than I'd originally expected. On the negative side, I'm buried in fucking Word documents and don't have time for anything else at the moment.

I also need to submit some photos for the book jacket, so if anyone knows a good photographer -- preferably one who'll be willing to work outside of Manhattan -- who won't make me look like a complete tool, please let me know.

Monday, January 08, 2007


Someone told me that maybe we shouldn't get mad when people do stupid shit, because they probably don't know they're doing anything wrong. This is interesting. I will consider this and report back.

Also, I need to stop getting pissed off when people who never played football want to argue with me about it. There are probably more important things for me to become incensed about, provided I can manage to regain some semblance of perspective sometime soon.

Additionally, I went back to the gym yesterday after a week of pressing my face to the kitchen floor in order to find a "cool spot."

Thursday, January 04, 2007


I'm sick, and getting sicker. I love when you wake up with something and feel it getting progressively worse all day. If I ever break out my signature line - "I only get sick once a year" - don't believe me because I've now been sick twice in two months.

Tip: If you wake up thinking you have something caught in the back of your throat, you're pretty much fucked.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007


Anyone know who "Alphonso X. Alfonse" is? I love getting hammered for Gawker posts I didn't write. Very flattering.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Welcome back

When you’re in a nightclub on New Year’s Eve, and you have a complaint, the last person you should be approaching is a bouncer. This is because we couldn’t give a flying fuck what your problems are. We didn’t care about your problems this New Year’s Eve because none of us wanted to be there. That’s what happens when New Year’s Eve falls on a Sunday. Most club employees have already worked two or three nights in a row – most bouncers have “day jobs,” remember – so the last place in the world we want to be, at that moment of first-contact, is there listening to you.

So, fuck off. Seriously.

Bouncing is a dichotomy. We’re dichoto-mice. We hate you. By definition, our job is part of the service industry, but we’re not servants. We’re not wired for it. We take tip money as it comes. We don’t dress up for it, we don’t try to ingratiate ourselves to random customers for it, and above all, we won’t kiss ass for a few extra dollars. We’re not bartenders and we’re not waitresses. For the most part, we walk into the club every night knowing there’s a possibility we won’t be making anything more than our base shift pay. Bouncers don’t subordinate themselves.

That said, my advice to you when you have a problem in a club is to avoid telling some random bouncer. When you begin the interaction by telling me how much money you’ve spent, I’m actually happy your night’s not going the way you want it to. In fact, when you corner me and bring up the money issue, I want to make your night worse. You’re making me hate you. Really, you don’t want that kind of attention.

We’re at different points in our lives. You’re spending money to be there. I’m there because I can’t afford not to be. Therefore, I’m intellectually incapable of empathizing with you. And when you try to continue the discussion past the point of utility, I want to hurt you. I want to throw you through a plate glass window and be done with it.

I’m done with it because I’m not rich yet, and because I know the value of a fucking dollar. I resent the amounts of money you people spend in nightclubs. I resent you demanding things of me because of what you think these amounts of money imply about our respective stations in life. When you walk up to me and expect me to understand, and to capitulate, what you’re failing to realize is that I want to kill you.

The ironic part about “I want to kill you” is that I really want to kill you. This is not the metaphorical “killing” we used to threaten in the schoolyard. It’s a full-circle wish to end your existence that goes past the point of wanting to punch you in the face or choke you or break off your arm and shove it up your ass. When you come up to me on New Year’s Eve and complain like I’m supposed to give a shit, I want you not to exist anymore.

Here is Rule Number One: Don’t inflict yourself on other people.

Irrational service fits are part of the game, but the thing I’ve never understood about the industry is why people feel the need to demand satisfaction from people who can’t possibly give it to them. If someone flat-out tells you they can’t help you, move on to the next guy.

“You see all those cars out there passing by?” I’ll ask.

“Yeah,” you’ll reply.

“You may as well go flag one down and explain your situation to whoever stops, because they can do just about as much for you as I can.”


“And they’ll probably be a lot more interested.”

Don’t misunderstand me here: I’m not a complete asshole. If someone comes up to me reasonably and explains what’s gone wrong, I’ll usually see if there’s something I can do to help. If anything, I’ve been known to do too much for certain customers, only to get burned as a result. It’s the expectation that kills me – the idea that I’m there to do anything other than check IDs and throw people out.

The customer is always wrong. I’m not part of any “team,” because I have no stake in any of it. The customer can go fuck himself. This is reality. No bouncer cares. We hate you all. You think we’re stupid. We laugh when you pass out in pools of your own vomit. I spit on the hood of someone’s car last week. This was an unexpected pleasure for the three bouncers standing on the sidewalk with me. The customer whose car it was deserved worse. I hadn’t done anything like that in a while. It was liberating. The pussy drove away.

Yes, I know. If I had spit on your car, you would’ve jumped out and kicked my ass. That’s terrific, but this wasn’t you. I would’ve done it anyway, even if it was. I’m not that tough, but I’m still pretty okay, and I’m not afraid to spit on the hoods of random people’s cars. Even ones belonging to those almighty keyboard thugs who’ll go on message boards today and tell each other what they’d have done to me had I spit on the hood of their cars. Fuck them. They’re wrong too.

Yeah, the job’s still a fucking joke.