These questions will all we told in stories that I will write for you a little further down the line (Lord knows that I love talking about my libido).  In my initial re-introductory blog post, however, I want to speak about the reason why I have not been able to write for you in a little over a month.

After graduating from the University of Pittsburgh in April 2009 with a Bachelor’s Degree in Communication and Rhetoric, I did not have the slightest clue as to what I wanted to do with my life.  All I knew is that I wanted to be put into a position where I would have the opportunity to motivate those around me.  There is no better feeling in the world than seeing the look in somebody’s eyes where you know that something you said or something you did influenced them for the better.  It is a look that is a lightning bolt to my veins.  I thrive off of inspiration.  This is something that I always felt that I had the ability to do.  I might as well get paid for it.

It took two years through a pride-swallowing siege of random employment for me to finally discover my purpose in this world.  I want to teach.  Many go into the field of education with the hopes of getting decent pay and having summers off in order to play golf and tan to their heart’s content.  While these are most definitely perks that come with the position of instructor, they have nothing to do with why I want to be a teacher.  The instructor has the seemingly daunting task of educating our country’s future.  There are aspects of the position that are undoubtedly daunting.  Days will come where the students in your classroom will find it necessary to have conniption fits, act militant, and commit acts that rival the intelligence of swan-diving onto a live grenade.  At the same time, I was that age at one point.  I have no doubt that I have past instructors that punch puppies after the shear mention of my name.

Regardless of the degenerative actions that occasionally take place inside of a school, the instructor has the rare opportunity to dispense knowledge upon the future of our country; knowledge that may not always seem necessary at the time, but knowledge that will serve as the foundation of the future college student, parent, guardian, or maybe even President.  One can make an aspiring mind work harder than they ever thought may be possible.   This mind can, hopefully, develop into a young adult capable of producing something of merit.  Will this happen to each and every life you encounter within your classroom?  No.  However, the instructor can have a lifetime of full nights of sleep due to the fact that they can look into the mirror before bed every night and say to themselves, “Damn it.  I gave it my best.”  The success rate is not always going to be perfect.  Regardless, you attempted to be the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned.  This is more than the strong majority of the human race can say.

I am pleased to no end to announce that this ex-bouncer has recently been accepted in to the Master of Arts in Teaching program at the University of Pittsburgh.  In a short year and six months, I will be a certified educator.  Who would have thought that a kid who once spent his weekends tossing asshats on their…uh…asses (I almost tried to become a journalist…go ahead and laugh) is going to be put into a position to educate the children who will one day take care of all of us?  Life is indeed a cabaret.

This is usually the time where I end by blog post with a witty phrase or catchy catchphrase (journalist…HA!).  I am taking a different route this time around, my friends.  All of those who are reading this may be in different points in their lives.  Some of you may be completely content with a family and success.  Some of you may be flat broke and busted.  Some of you may be just as lost as I once was.  Without the intention to sound cliché, just know that the night is darkest before the dawn.  Remember that life is called by many a “journey” for a reason.  It is a journey that can truly go in any way of your choosing.  I chose to become an educator and embark on an often-sleepless quest in order to achieve that goal.  I have done this without any inkling of regret nor apology.  My smile has been maintained and my goal has been realized.  I can only hope that this will allow you to sit back and look within yourself to see what it that truly matters to you in this life.  Once you find it, hold on to it with an iron-clad fist.

Later, kids.   I gotta bounce…

REMEMBER TO FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER @DJJB78.  Still looking to start an “Ask JB” blog.  Seriously, ask me anything that comes to mind.  I’ll send out a retweet to anyone who sends in a question on Twitter and I will do my best to answer EVERY question that comes my way.

Here is the difference between these guys and me.  All of them are fictional characters (Jerry Sandusky has pretended to be a man for years.  Fiction.).  I am a bouncer.  I am a living, breathing, hairy, American bouncing machine.  When you walk into my bar with the intentions of performing an inebriated act of extreme asshattery (Remember the word “asshattery.”  It’s gonna be a thing.), I will drop you faster than Creed’s concert ticket sales.  If there is one individual on this planet who deserves to have his own catch phrase, it is me.

Allow me to paint a mental picture for you.  Some roided-out shitburger walks into my bar, taking in the smoky air while wearing his super-cool Affliction t-shirt and indoor stunna shades.  He looks around and thinks to himself, “I have just finished watching the entire Jersey Shore Labor Day Marathon.  There is no need to spend a night at a Holiday Inn.  I now know how to conduct myself in a bar.”

After five-to-six vodka-cranberries, Roidy (I am calling him Roidy) is feeling pretty good.  He soon spots one of our titillating, vivacious cocktail servers and thinks, because his super cool Affliction t-shirt says so, that he can put his self-tan-soaked hands on her.

Nuh uh.  Not in J.B.’s universe.

Faster than a speeding bullet, I come over and lay Roidy out with a sinister rendition of Sweet Chin Music.  (You don’t know what Sweet Chin Music is?  View this clip:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3ebI-nAMBk&feature=related.  Yeah.  I can do that.) As he lays on the ground unconscious, dreaming of fist-pumping on the main stage at Chippendales, I look at him and say…

“Lights.   Camera.  Action…bitch.”

No.  The action already took place.  That makes no f*cking sense.

“Drop your pant…”

No.  I already used that line in this piece.  Remember that opening paragraph?  Wasn’t that hilarious?

“The Jerk Store called.  They are all out of YOU!!!”

This is not 1995 and I am much more attractive and agile than George Costanza.  I am better than that.

I am drawing a blank.  One would think that a wizard of the word such as myself would be able to come up with a semi-decent catch phrase.

GREAT F*CKING IDEA!!!

I will allow you, the loyal followers of WeDebate.It to give me my own catchphrase.  Should the right one come along, I will thank you personally right here on this blog.  This is a big deal.  Seriously.  If you Google search “Tales of a Bouncer,” my blog is like the fifth thing to come up.

Later, kids.  I gotta bounce.

Look at that.  Maybe I do have a catch phrase.

Remember to follow WeDebate.It on Twitter @WeDebateIt and me, JB, @DJJB78!!!

First, let us begin with the reason one may walk into a bar.  The simplest reason is because this person happens to be thirsty.  Maybe the person is lonely and wishes to strike up a conversation about the recent dramatics going on within the Pittsburgh Steelers (or dramatics that involve a Pittsburgh Steeler within a bathroom stall.  AM I RIGHT?!?!?!?).  There is even a chance that a person has not been laid since the Bicentennial and needs to get himself inebriated to the point where a three-toothed, mole-infested, smoker’s cough spewing, degenerate gambling sea donkey would suffice as a warm body to cushion the fall.

What do these and other examples of bar patrons all have in common?  They spend their well-earned money inside of the bar to that the bartenders inside can serve them alcoholic beverages to fill whatever nutritional or emotional voids have been left in their lives.  Please allow this difficult concept to somehow seep inside of your brain.  The alcoholic beverages are stored, positioned, dispersed, and are paid for INSIDE of the bar.

Get it?  Got it?  Good.  Moving on.

Despite being paid to ensure the bar’s security, which means I have to sit on a stool and check the ID’s of those who are destined to have a much more eventful night than me, I am a pretty laid back guy.  I have witnessed drunken asshats fall of the bar while attempting to moonwalk (that drunken asshat being the owner of my bar.  That is another story for another day.).  I watched three girls that I attempted to date make out with guys within fifteen feet from where I stood.  One time, I watched a member of the university softball time regurgitate what looked to be half of a gazelle.  Through all of these things, I was able to maintain the James Dean coolness I have been known to possess.  The one thing that truly chaps my tits is when dodo bird patrons forget the main concept of what a bar is and think that they have obtained the right to act like they are the king of the f*cking castle.

So it is about 1:45 AM one night and I am gearing towards the end of a night that was just like most nights.  People drank.  People made out.  People struck out.  Some left alone and some were destined to show their special purpose to a fellow drunken buckethead.  ‘Twas a normal night.

This Waldo- (as is “Where’s Waldo?”) looking pencil-necked geek comes stumbling towards the exit of the bar.  I notice he has something in his hand.  If your mind works the same way as mine, you are probably thinking that this object was a calculator, a guide to Magic the Gathering, or maybe even what he was going to exchange in order to get a pet turtle.  This object was none of the above.  This object was a half-empty bottle of wine.

Now, as I stated before, patrons enter the bar in order to purchase alcoholic beverages FROM THE BAR.  Not to sell my bar short, but we do not sell full bottles of wine (to the best of my knowledge), and we certainly did not have this particular wine anywhere within our inventory.  As I usually do, I politely asked him to give me the bottle, as it is illegal to leave a bar with an alcoholic beverage, let alone an actual bottle of wine that you thought your skills acquired during ten summers spent at magic camp, while the rest of us explored our unusual interests like football, baseball, and chasing girls, could get past the bouncer.

Poindexter (I never got his name, so I am choose Poindexter because he looked like a Poindexter) eloquently states, “This is mine.”

I ask, “Where did you get it?”

If this pocket protector-toting shitburger had any sense about him, he would have at least attempted to reply with, “At the bar.”  This would have been half-way believable.  What did he reply with?  Crickets.  I had him.   I asked him again to give me the bottle, and he did nothing.  I snatched the bottle of wine from his hand and asked the bartender if we had this brand of wine in stock, which was a “no.”

“So should this be consumed right now, it would not cost the bar any money?” I asked.

“Not a dime.”

“Excuse me, sir.”  I proceeded to pop the cork from the top of the bottle and chug the remains as Poindexter watched on with sad embarrassment.   I think he may have called me an asshole or something after I threw the bottle in the dumpster, but my point was made.

Again, people.  Just because I have cruise missiles for arms and bimbo-like good looks does not mean that your intellect surpasses mine.  Stop by my bar sometime and challenge me in a battle of wits.  You will be bringing a knife to a gunfight.

Later, kids.  I gotta bounce.

Now, I can understand how a lonely asshat can find him/herself naturally drawn to the bouncer.  Regardless of the fact that my rugged handsomeness calls upon the early works of Marlon Brando and Clint Eastwood, I am one of the few that are by themselves at the bar during any given night.  I’m alone.  They are alone.  Nobody likes to be alone, so they feel inclined to come over and force witless small talk that has all of the enjoyment of a bowling ball to the nards.  “Can you believe the lack of European beers that are on tap at this bar?”…”How long has this bar been here?”…”Did you see the latest True Hollywood Story on Justin Bieber’s diaper-changer?”

Please allow me to answer your question with another question, lonely patron.

WHO THE F*CK CARES!?!?!?!?!?

If there is anyone reading this blog who is a lonely bar patron on a regular basis, please take no offense to this awesome blog posting.

Check that.

Take offense.  If you are, in fact, a constant loner while at the bar, there is a reason for that.  It could be because you have the charisma of a wet fart.  It could be due to the fact that your voice sounds like Lil’ Wayne with throat pollups.  Maybe you are just an asshole.  The fact that you having the majority of your bar conversations with the beer sitting in front of you should be a solid indicator of the fact that there is something you clearly need to change.  At least try to change so that I do not have to talk to you.

Take offense.

This reminds me of a story.  As we all know, alcohol is the routine security blanket for the breakup.  When a former lover takes that proverbial dagger and penetrates your bloodbox, a bottle of Jameson provides that momentarily sense of relief (I am so transparent).   Bars serve alcohol.  Bars serve security blankets; blankets that force conversation upon the bouncer from pain-stricken patrons that are seeking a shoulder to cry on.  This one girl, who had a voice that rivaled Gilbert Gottfried’s, talked to me for about a solid hour about how she wants her boyfriend back.  Making the judgment that the boyfriend was better off, I offered no piece of advice…at least until the end of the conversation.

I couldn’t take it anymore.  If I had to listen to one more minute of this broad’s estrogenical verbal diarrhea, I was going to lawn dart myself in front of a school bus.  She finally asks me, “How can I can get (let’s just name him Einstein) back?”   Because I clearly wanted her out of my sight, I did my best Hannibal Lectar impression and said, “You find out who he loves most in his life, and kill them.  That way you move up a position.”  She walked away in fear and I had a wonderful rest of the night.

If you are going to converse with the bouncer, at least make yourself interesting.  I do not want to hear about your breakups.  I do not want to talk about the architectural aspects of the building we are in.  Unless you are offering me money or a phone number, you best be off.

Later, kids.  I gotta bounce.

Listen up, kids.  I am about to hit you with some truth.

Since arriving at The University of Pittsburgh in June of 2005, I have had the chance to ride upon every link one could imagine being part of an emotional roller coaster.  Lofty goals of mine have come to fruition, only to be taken away from me by the swipe of a doctor’s knife.  An industry I had long wished to become a part of had shown its true colors to me by proving to be a breeding ground for blood-sucking acquaintances rather than colleagues; forcing me to presently continue my education far beyond what I ever thought would be necessary.   I have stood upon love’s great altar only to be cast to heartbreak’s dreary basement.  These hazel eyes have seen every possible high and every possible low that a young man can experience in his first twenty-five years on this earth.

And yet, I still stand here with a smile on my face.  I am still the happy idiot struggling for the legal tender who can name you the title and artist of any song just my you submitting me the lyric that causes the jam to linger in your brain.    I often wonder what keeps me going; what still allows my heart and mind to seek happiness in this life.  After all of the tears, kisses, well-wishes, contestations, obstacles, and finish lines, I have come to simply one conclusion:

The only thing that truly endures is character.

Bob Seger once said in his song “Against the Wind” that “I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.”  I can understand how one may be able to think this.  The brutal actions and deeds conducted by the albatrosses hanging around the neck of our lives often leave us in doubt.  It leaves us thinking, “What have I done to deserve this?”…”Why has this happened to me after doing what I thought was right?”…”When do I get mine?”

The person who walks through life constantly wondering these things is one who will never achieve happiness.  This person will never come to understand that this life is a journey, not a destination.  We are put here to learn.  We are here to endure all of the bullshit that life finds necessary to dump in our laps.  We are here for this reason so that we can help those closest to us to see that no matter how dark your night may seem, the dawn will eventually appear.  We learn this by walking through this life as if we do not exist.  By doing this, we will never seek respect, riches, fame, reward, or even happiness.  Instead, we will receive through the process of being a person with character.

Who knows?  Maybe this is just me sitting here, five years away from turning thirty, pondering what I could have done differently.  As I look back, I realize that my life has been one that was, is, and will continue to be worth living.  Have I endured a decent amount of heartache?  You damn betcha.  However, through a mixture of character and vulnerability, I am sitting here tonight still the happy idiot struggling for the legal tender.

…and I wish for you my kind of success.

There is also an origin to my becoming a bouncer and beginning a bouncing career that makes me look like Cal Ripken Jr. as compared to all other bouncers.  Unfortunately, my father decided to make friends with the two twin gypsies that own the bar I bounce at back when he attended the same college in the 80’s as I did in more recent years (You want to know which years?  Look it up in the Bouncing Hall of Fame, bitch).  As he was “having lunch” in that bar one day, it came up after many hours of drink….or….uh…conversation that I was set to attend college nearby.  The twin gypsies (let’s just call them Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dipshit for right now) that own the place basically said, “We’ll put him to  work.”

SIDENOTE:  I want it to be known to anybody reading this that the twin gypsy owners I speak of are being insulted in this way because this is how we actually talk to each other.  When I walk in my bar for lunch, they never say “Hello,” or “How are you?”  The more accepted greeting at our bar is, “Go f*ck yourself.”  These two twin gypsies are two of the finest human beings that I ever have or ever will meet and I love them very much.

So, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dipshit, if you ever have the opportunity to read this, I love you guys.  I love you guys like the weird uncle that buys me tight jeans for Christmas and follows me into the guest room as I try them on.  I love you guys like I love peeling my eyelids apart when having an eye cold.  Deep down, I should probably scrub my skin with steel wool just for being associated with you, but yet I still love the fact that you have been such a big part of my life.

I love you guys.  Go f*ck yourselves.

Back to the story.

The twin gypsies did put me to work.  They decided, with their infinite gypsy wisdom, to start me on a Thursday night during the first week of summer classes nearby.  At 19 years old, with my virginity just recently being evacuated and my baby fat sticking to my ribs like Bill stuck to Monica, I was asked to work the door with no experience during a week in which every college student that is of drinking age (or any hot female college student with a really good fake ID) is set on soaking their brains and livers in Rumple Minze and Jack Daniels.

Miraculously, nothing really out of the ordinary happened until about 1:30 AM.  I had been keeping my eye on this roided-up, Affliction t-shirt-wearing f*ckrag going around the bar looking for a fight.  He was kind of short of stature, like George Costanza with muscles.  I decided to just keep my eye on him.

Lone behold, he gets hit in the forehead with a peanut that a group of guys were throwing at each other.  I literally blinking and our little jacked-up nimrod had one of the kids in the corner of the entrance way and landed three of the quickest right hands to the side of the guy’s head that I have ever seen.

Have you ever seen a Chihuahua hump anything?   It was like that except a guy’s right fist was humping another guy’s forehead.

Not knowing any better, I decided to take my lifetime of watching and adoring professional wrestling and use it for something positive.  I ran over and placed Roid Rage in a full nelson and pressed his face against the outside window.  What came next is the best part of this story.  Roid Rage cried.  Cried like a bitch.  He cried like England cried over the death of Princess Diana…like Scott Baio cried over the death of disco…or like Justin Bieber is going to cry over the death of his career in five years.  I stood there laughing as I watched his HGH-soaked tears run down the outside window.  I felt like I was watching The Shining.

That is really the end of this story.  I think that I just did not have a chance to insult my owners in person today and chose, rather, to insult them in literary form.  I enjoyed this.

Later, all.  I gotta bounce.

Group of shitcanned asshats walked into my bar while I was working the door…a 21^st birthday was being celebrated within said group…birthday boy could not stay awake, forcing me to kick him and the whole group out…a loud CRASH came from the bar’s dining room….and…..SCENE.

The only punch I have ever thrown as a bouncer had a very detailed sequence of drunken events.  Like I said in the first part of this captivating, titillating, furiously masturbating tale, I am not a fan of getting physical while on bouncing duty.  With all due respect for those who have chosen to remain in the noble industry that is bouncing, I am not one of those who got into this line of work out of the sheer love of knocking over drunk people like bowling pins.  I do it for the quick buck until my hopefully prosperous future endeavors come to fruition.

However, the little f*cker I am about to tell you about had it coming.

The “CRASH” that I heard from the dining room was a massive framed ESPN flag.  This flag, which had been nailed prominently to the dining room for years, was signed by various members of an ESPN crew that worked one of my school’s football games and placed into a nice glass casing.  It was kind of a cool souvenir.   This cool souvenir was violently yanked off of the wall by one of the enraged, intoxicated f*cktards that I just kicked out of the bar.  As the great Chris Berman (who was not part of the ESPN crew who signed the flag…asshole) would say, this sign went “BACK…BACK…BACK…BACK…….CRASH!!!”

As I ran into the dining room, I saw the shattered souvenir and an open back door.  Now, I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but all signs pointed toward this inebriated asshat running out the back door.  Despite it being colder than a witch’s tit outside, and despite the fact I had only a t-shirt and jeans on, I took what little speed I had left after two knee surgeries and ran after this kid.  This kid became my white Ford Bronco.

I had about 120 pounds on this kid, but I was still keeping up.  Street corners were flying by me like Lance Bass’s career flew right by him.  As little as ten yards separated me from bouncer glory.  Finally, my size (and smoking habit…sorry) caught up to me.

Lucky for me, my lungs spontaneously combusted right in front of the hot dog shop the asshole was hiding in.  He emerged from the hot dog shop with his brightly-colored shirt covered in sweat, his jeans dirty from an apparent fall, and wearing only one shoe.  The brightness of his shirt combined with his jigsaw puzzle of an exterior made me think he looked like a homeless Power Ranger.  He looked like every line cook that has ever worked at a Hardee’s.

As a man who, again, is really not into getting into a physical altercation with anyone, especially with someone I could use as a mop, I simply grabbed him by the arm and calmly said, “You are coming back to the bar with me.  I am going to take down your information and you are going to pay for the damage you caused.”

With a look of retarded defiance, he pulled his arm away from me and said, “No…let’s go.”

“Let’s go where?” I said.

“Let’s fight, you runt.”

SIDENOTE:  He did not say “runt.”  What he said rhymed with “runt.”  I refuse to type the word here because it is a word I use only when referencing meter maids and watching Jersey Shore.

Where I come from, them be fighting words.  I took one step towards this pencil-necked geek and he proceeded to run away for a good 20 yards.  One would have thought I showed him a massive pulsating cist…which I…uh…never had.

Irrelevant.

Some cracked light bulb must have gone on in his feeble, appletini-marinated brain because he proceeded to run towards me and throw a punch.  Apparently he wanted to show me his favorite Muhammad Ali impression.  The only problem is that he forgot to impersonate an Ali in his prime instead of the current one.  Due to my God-given incendiary quickness, I dodged his limp-wristed punch.  It managed to clip my earlobe, however.  It was like five degrees outside, so it kind of stung.

Like, who punches a man in the earlobe?  Honestly?

What happened next was the finest punch that Pittsburgh has seen since Billy Conn (Wikipedia that guy).  I grabbed that walking q-tip by the collar of his shirt and extend that arm.  As I pulled him in towards my fist, I imagined every single horrific event that I have ever seen in my 25 years on this planet:  the Pittsburgh Pirates being below .500 for 16 straight years…The Blair Witch Project…Zima…etc.  With a mighty Captain Planet-like swing, I connected right into the middle of this face.  Q-tip (I’m calling him Q-Tip now…no relation to the AWESOME rapper) fell backward into a drunken, anorexic heap.

His friend, who looked to be more afraid than Whitney when Bobby got home, said something that blew my mind.  He did not cuss at me.  He did not beg to be let go.  He just looked at me with complete and utter shock and said, “Dude…good punch.”  He knew his friend had it coming.  Q-Tip, with his face looking like downtown Hiroshima, slumped himself over his friend’s shoulder and they simply walked away.

I thought it was a fair trade.  Q-Tip broke our souvenir.  I broke his face.  There is no sense of pride that is radiating from me as I am finishing typing this delightful story.  Fighting really is not my cup of tea.  You know what is my cup of tea?  When patrons, no matter whose birthday it is, come into my bar and act like normal human beings.  That way I can just sit there and enjoy making money while you all lose it.

This concludes the tale of the only time I was forced to throw a punch while bouncing.  I hope that you all learned something after reading this.  Do not cross Big Sexy (I’m calling myself Big Sexy now).

Later, kids.  I gotta bounce…

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It is our wits that make us men.

Then again, there is that rare occasion where a near-fatally intoxicated shitburger chooses to chap the tits of the big man.  Hell hath no fury of a bouncer’s scorn.

As I have stated in past blog posts, I enjoy the occasional cocktail(s).   Since I am a fairly sizeable young lad, there is not an abundance of bar patrons that are bigger than me.  Regardless of the fact, if the late great Andre the Giant walked into my bar (probably dragging a keg of some sort of European lager under each arm), I am not going to make that big drink of water angry.  If anything, I am going to force him to tell stories of the thousands of groupies that undoubtedly pleasured him and “Ravishing” Rick Rude while driving to wrestling shows in the 80’s.  (Please respond to this blog with any kind of visual you received after reading that)

Thankfully, there was only one occasion that involved a bar patron attempting to tussle with me while on duty.  I am telling this story for entertainment purposes, not out of pride.

Since my bar is located on a college campus, there tends to be a lack of available workers over Christmas break.  Being that my hometown is only a half hour away from campus, I usually chose to stick around to work and earn a little extra money for presents for my siblings whom I love very much.  I was bouncing on what I believe to be a Thursday night.   There could not have been more than four people at the bar.  For the first time in three years, I was afraid to break wind while bouncing because it would be all too apparent who it was.  Once again, I am a large man.  With this size comes a deep affection for buffalo wings and Taco Bell.  The results tend to be catastrophic.

The point is that the bar was f*cking dead.

All of a sudden, a group of ten guys walk in apparently celebrating the 21^st birthday of a friend.  Some, if not all of them looked and smelled like they had been practicing their breaststroke in a pool of Jim Beam.  With business being so slow due to the holiday, I figured that it would be pretty easy to supervise these idiots, so I let them in.  All of five minutes went by and the birthday boy is sound asleep at the table the group was sitting at.  He was more unconscious than Snookie at a spelling bee.

Understanding that business was slow, and also understanding that our bar is firmly against patrons passing out on the premises, I simply walked up to the table and said, “I understand that it is this guy’s birthday.  Please keep him awake.”

I took three trips over to this table, and the inebriated wank stain kept passing out after each trip.  Finally, I informed that group that they did not all have to leave the bar, but someone had to take birthday boy outside.  The ringleader found it necessary to look me dead in the eyes and say, “Go f*ck yourself.”

Now, before this young man’s abrasive response, I firmly believed that I was rather cordial.  I mean…three trips over to that table to keep that asshat awake?  When I was a little boy, I burnt my hand on the stove.  It never happened again because I took a f*cking hint.  Apparently, the birthday boy and his band of merry morons were unable to take the hint.

Obviously, I kicked them all out.  What happened next was something I did not even come close to anticipating.  As I was standing at the front door, I heard a “CRASH!!!” (I don’t know how to create a comic book sound effect bubble. Sorry, kids) come from the dining room.  This was the beginning of what led to the only punch I ever threw as a bouncer.

…..TO BE CONTINUED.

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COMING SOON: WEDEBATE.IT’S BRAND SPANKING NEW “ASK J.B.” BLOG.  WHEN LIFE THROWS YOU THAT FORK IN THE ROAD, YOU NEED A COLD, HARD SLAP IN THE FACE.  I AM HERE TO OBLIGE.  POST QUESTIONS ABOUT ANYTHING YOU NEED ADVICE OR AN OPINION ON.  ALLOW ME TO BE YOUR SLIGHTY ABSURD VOICE!

Speaking of returning to work, I should let it be known that I do not technically have a steady bouncing shift anymore.  Due to my endeavors stated above, I have chosen to devote the majority of my time to school.  However, should any of the bouncers at my bar need me to fill in, I do it when I can.  If any of you are reading this, I have to admit that I usually lie 40% of the time when I say that I cannot fill in.  It has nothing to do with the job.  It has everything to do with the up-and-coming drinking crowd.

Please understand that I was 21 years old not that long ago.  I did my share of stupid shit (to the old lady who found a new brand of manure in her garden, my apologies).  One thing that I was not, however, was repugnant (except for the manure thing …nobody saw).  Like the classy drunk that I am, I would show up in time for a Jack Daniels special, drink until I was a sip away from singing “Oh, Canada” naked on the bar, and disappear in complete and utter silence.

In short, I puked at home.

On the rare occasion when I still work at the door, I find myself physically ill by the mind-fornicating, abysmal actions that today’s 21-year-olds commit.  Never did I find it necessary to projectile vomit all over a bathroom so that nobody else had the ability to use it.  The girls I hung out with never took lessons from the Paris Hilton school of dressing.  I am probably in the minority when I say that I am not really a fan of a girl, no matter how hot she is, flashing her crotch to anyone who is within six feet from her.   I prefer to see that either in private or on the internet after a long night of striking out.

Dudes are not much better.  This is why I hate the Jersey Shore.  These f*ckwads walk around with gelled hair and Affliction shirts that I could use as an eye patch; fist-pumping to whatever piece of shit record Lil’ Wayne made that week with the help of his little sister’s Casio electronic keyboard (unintentional product placement throughout).  It makes me ashamed to be a man.  I am going to laugh when these jagoffs are going blind on child support payments and twisting their ankles as they skip through the neighborhood having to, by law, inform their neighbors about their pederast past.

Please do not think for a second that the real world pissed on my universe and I am now a bitter man.  I have two little sisters who have a chance at becoming one of the disease-ridden gutter sluts that I mentioned above (they won’t because they have a prophet for a big brother).  Those who are going to someday take care of me and my peers are going to be, as far as I can tell, handicapped due to their brains being marinated in stupidity.  I don’t know about you, but that scares the ever-living shit out of me.

Later, kids.  I gotta bounce.

*Remember you can follow me on Twitter @DJJB78*