Tales of a Bouncer: “Dude, Good Punch.” The CONCLUSION!!

I feel that a bit of recapping is in order.

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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