You must be at least this tall to ride this ride

::Tip Jar::


View My Stats

eXTReMe Tracker

Crusader for Christ Crusader against Islam

This blog is protected from memes by Grundir the Implacable

Creative Commons License
This work
licensed under
a Creative
Commons License


email me


Pat Dollard

James Lileks
(My Idol)

Sharp Knife
(My Other Hero)


Now With Best ofs!

Haunted Soldier

Curses & Chrome

All Atwitter

Maiden Magnetic

Random Bits of Pomposity


Vox Day



Doc in the Box

Protein Wisdom

Atlas Shrugs

Twenty Major




  • One For Shorty...

  • ::Past::
  • September 2002
  • October 2002
  • November 2002
  • December 2002
  • January 2003
  • February 2003
  • March 2003
  • April 2003
  • May 2003
  • June 2003
  • July 2003
  • August 2003
  • September 2003
  • October 2003
  • November 2003
  • December 2003
  • January 2004
  • February 2004
  • March 2004
  • April 2004
  • May 2004
  • June 2004
  • July 2004
  • August 2004
  • September 2004
  • October 2004
  • November 2004
  • December 2004
  • January 2005
  • February 2005
  • March 2005
  • April 2005
  • May 2005
  • June 2005
  • July 2005
  • August 2005
  • September 2005
  • October 2005
  • November 2005
  • December 2005
  • January 2006
  • February 2006
  • March 2006
  • April 2006
  • May 2006
  • June 2006
  • July 2006
  • August 2006
  • September 2006
  • October 2006
  • November 2006
  • December 2006
  • January 2007
  • February 2007
  • March 2007
  • April 2007
  • May 2007
  • June 2007
  • July 2007
  • August 2007
  • September 2007
  • October 2007
  • November 2007
  • December 2007
  • January 2008
  • February 2008
  • March 2008
  • April 2008
  • May 2008
  • June 2008
  • July 2008
  • August 2008
  • September 2008
  • March 2009
  • June 2009
  • July 2009
  • August 2009
  • October 2009
  • November 2009
  • May 2011
  • September 2012

  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

    This page is powered by Blogger.

        Monday, April 28, 2008

    One For Shorty...

    I really enjoy his blog. It always gets me fired up. The juices flowing. I have enjoyed watching him grow, over the years. I feel almost...patriarchal towards him. He's still got some stages to go through, but I think he'll do fine. If he lives.

    See, I have a rule...put your hands on me, and you get cut, deep, and wide. I hope he stays frosty, in case he meets someone like me, in the course of his duties.

    I used to do what he's doing now, working as a bouncer, but I worked solo. I don't like, nor do I work well with others. And when you are alone, you can hit anybody you want. They have to watch out for their friends, you can use their friends as cover. And projectiles.
    Nothing stops a group of assholes quicker than for you to move in on their Alpha and put his back against you as you hold his larynx and make him choke every time his posse moves toward you.

    Frog-march him to the edge of your turf (never leave the light, always assume one or more of them has a gun) then press down on his shoulders until his legs spread, step back quickly, and kick him in the balls (still from behind) to send him staggering forward. Go for a Field Goal. it will take at least two of his cohorts to carry him to their car, while you back away up to the front door of the bar, keeping an eye on them all the way.

    Real, genuine badasses do not generally cause trouble. It will behoove you to learn who they are, and glad-hand them, and comp them a drink here and there, so if the shit really hits the fan inside, you can call on them to help you out in a pinch. Those guys just love a chance to kick some ass for free, and after, make sure they don't pay for another drink for the rest of the night.

    I remember after one particular brawl, and the mess was cleared up, and the cops took those who could still walk to the pokey, having my waitresses deliver about five pitchers of beer to the guys who helped me's table, and line up about a dozen shots of good whiskey for them. Small price for not having to go to the hospital, and not having the whole place thrashed.

    Fighting in your bar is like fighting in your house. The people who live there already know not to fuck with you, and you know your way around the place, intimately. And every bouncer knows the difference in degrees of a chair scooting back. If it grinds back and clatters, you know you got a fight happening, or about to happen.

    Or the sound of a pool cue slamming on a table. And my favorite, bitches talking trash. For all the child rearing, and monthly cramps, thank goodness they can't handle simple pain-compliance holds, and cry all the way to the front door, their mascara streaming down their face like a sad, sad clown.

    And I loved calling the cops on drunks I'd just chucked out, as they weaved away. Enjoy your DUI, asshole. And I gave the pigs the asshole's plate number, too. In case they made it home.

    I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before, but a real, serious fight should not last more than a few seconds. It should sound like a drum riff, and end with your opponent reeling, or on the floor in a heap. The next time you buy a steak, and set it out on the counter, still in its packaging, take one of your sharp knives, and slice through the plastic, into the meat. Draw the blade from the top of it to the bottom. And listen...

    That is what getting cut sounds like. So watch it.