Frat boys as a whole are fucking stupid. They have no game. They can’t handle their liquor and they fight about as well as a midget with Lou Gherig’s Disease. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to throw some underage jerk off with a Polo shirt and shorts that looks like a clown got his head blown off on them out of a shitty bar. The only reason I will even talk to frat boys is if:
A.) Their soul hasn’t been taken by their jerk off “brothers” that feel the smartest way to get girls is by setting the world record for a keg stand
B.) They are inspired enough by my Ginger awesomness to buy me shots…
C.) They have sorostitute with them that are eye fucking the shit out of me….
It’s not only that they do stupid shit. They do stupid shit for STUPID REASONS. I have never really gotten seriously pissed off or injured by any of their stupid human tricks. That was until one night. It’s like Randy Couture says, “Sooner or later you’re going to get caught.” I got caught. I also got really pissed off and two frat boys got their carotoid arteries cut off for a brief amount of time. Oh yea and BROKE A FLYING BEER BOTTLE WITH MY FOREARM. Here’s the story:
I was working at IrishFratBar. It was about as hot and packed as a slave ship but instead of enslaved African-Americans it was frat boys, guidos, and sorostitutes all sipping on their Bud Lights and lemon drops (or whatever pussy alcohol they were drinking). While everyone else was having a great time I was fucking miserable. I just wanted the night to be over with so I could hop in my car and crank the AC up. I was sweating like Catholic Priest watching Law and Order: SVU.
It was one of those nights where you KNEW something was about to happen. Me and BamBam were working inside and about every 5 minutes we had to go break up some scuffle before it turned into a shit storm of frat boy haymakers (think hill billy haymakers without the technique) and lousy shit talking. I thought we had everything under control.
Silly Rabbit, Trixx are for Kids (yea I know I stole that from Kill Bill….fuck you)….
As BamBam was hanging out by the front door while HeadBouncer was banging his girlfriend or something, IT HAPPENED. I looked over to the dance floor to and see two fucking dumbass frat boys fighting like a badly choreographed reenactment of a fight on Jerry Springer. Just like Batman I popped out of nowhere and had a frat boy in a rear naked choke faster than a Jew on a fallen penny. As I was trying to explain to him that resisting was futile and would be a round trip ticket to unconsciousness I felt something smash into his face and then felt broken glass flying by my face. What the fuck? I didn’t really have time to figure out what happened since I was like in a fight you know? I did the only that made sense since he was already out of it but still felt like putting up a fight. You guessed it, a rear naked choke and a push in his back to take him to the ground. As I took him to the ground BamBam came up and started dragging him out to the front door. I guess the screams of sorostitutes was a clue that shit was hitting the fan. I didn’t really have much time to take things into account as another frat boy who was charging towards my way from the general directing of where the bottle was thrown. Was he the guy that threw the bottle? No clue. What I did know was that he was looking to open a can of whoop ass on the guy that just got choked out and dragged out of the bar and I went to run interference. He tried to resist and come at me. When are frat boys going to learn that the only inevitable conclusion of getting froggy with me is la la land? Maybe if their parents used their money on Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes instead of sending them money for kegs, i.e tuition money, they would have a chance or maybe even a little common sense (why do they call it common when it is so rare?). Anyway I slapped on the rear naked choke with the efficiency of Lindsay Lohan going through an 8-ball. He was out faster than President Palmer in the 5th season of 24.
After he was dragged out I noticed there was blood EVERYWHERE. All over my shirt, my arm, my face, the dance floor, just everywhere. It was like the 50 foot woman forgot her tampon and had the crimson tide rush in all at once. I instantly assumed that it was from the first frat boy getting clocked by the frat-boy-thrown projectile. I went to the bathroom to wipe off my arm and noticed that I had two HUGE gashes on my forearm and they were DEEP. I could almost see down to bone on one. It probably was down to the bone but all the blood made it hard to tell. This was the first time I had sustained a major laceration in my 5+ years as a bouncer. In a way I was pretty lucky. If the bottle had broken and flown five inches higher it would have more than likely sliced open my carotoid artery and I would have bled to death right there on the dance floor with the migrant worker/bar back trying to figure out how to mop up all the blood and disposing of the body so that the owner wouldn’t have a lawsuit on his hands. Mexicans are good at disposing of bodies aren’t they. I watched the episode of Gangland on the Juarez Cartel. They seemed to be pretty crafty. I guess dunking bodies in a gas drum and setting them on fire seems to wipe away all evidence except for dental records. I guess that’s what happens when the cops there are afraid of investigating murders in fear of retribution from one of their hit squads (seriously watch that episode or look up that shit on wikipedia, its scary). Just a thought.
Since there was still 20 minutes left till we could kick people out and I could figure out if I needed to go the hospital, or not, I did the only thing I could think of. I wiped off as much blood as I could from my face, neck, and arms. Wrapped my arm up in the lovely work shirts they give us (imagine wearing a short sleeve wool coat in a club that climbs to 95 degrees when its packed) and got back to work. There I was with blood still on my face, because the cleaning facilities at IrishFratBar aren’t exactly top notch, and an IrishFratBar shirt around my forearm to keep me from bleeding into to any red headed sluts (and infecting them with my ginger awesomeness) and freaking out all the CofC freshman who freak out at the sight of real blood (pussies!). I looked like Uma Thurman from Kill BIll (minus the B cups and yellow crotch rocket suit) after she went ape shit on the Crazy 88 and scalped Oren Ishii. I have to admit I looked pretty bad ass. I also have to admit I kind of get an erection each time I watch the scene in Gladiator where Maximus thrusts his two swords into that one gladiator’s chest only to pull them out and slice the poor dude’s head off in one fell swoop scissor style. There is just something about being covered in frat boy blood that is staining my 5 year old Tony Hawk shirt that made all the underagers (is that a real word?) defer to me. Kicking everybody out after last call was a cinch.
After we had gotten everybody out the owner of the bar, IFBOwner, wanted to take me back to the kitchen to tend to my wounds like I was a 10 year old that just got hurt at the school yard during recess . He reinforced this by telling me that the rubbing alcohol was going to sting when he put it on and i just gave him a "no shit Sherlock" look. I’m pretty sure he was expecting me to cry or flinch or something. He put it on and while it did sting like a motherfucker which was expected since I did have a cut down to the bone it wasn’t enough to get a reaction out of me. Honestly I wish he had gunpowder so I could do the “Rambo trick” (pouring gunpowder into the wound and lighting it with a match in order to cauterize it) just to see what kind of facial expression I got out of him. I used Clorox and steel wool once to treat ringworm, just saying. Anyway I was thinking about getting stitches, but there was one problem. They are really fucking expensive and I owed MUSC enough money for the CAT scan I had recently due to the Asheville fight. No thanks.
Instead, seeing as how I am stuck living with my parents since being a retired MMA fighter doesn’t exactly mean I have a pension plan and bouncing isn’t exactly the most lucrative job in the world, I headed home, walked in and used my mom’s superglue to close and seal the wounds and wrapped those suckers up with some athletic tape. Afterwards I drank a couple beers and passed out. All I can say is that Chuck Norris has broken plenty of boards in his life, but has he broken a flying beer bottle with his forearm in mid air? In the words of one of my hero’s Sterling Archer (yes, I idolize a cartoon character) it was totally ninja. Suck my balls Chuck Norris and your jokes