Let Me Smack One More Asshat...

It's been a month since the last blog. Quite a bit has been transpired. For those of you not in the know, I packed up the circus tents and left the city that used to never sleep. My last week or so in the City went a little something like this...

Going down the stairs for the 3rd ave "L" train to head for Brooklyn, a young lady was blocking the stairs with herself and several bags, chatting on her cel phone. People were walking up on the other side of the stairwell, so obviously I was unable to proceed w/out a little help from her, and a log jam of several people quickly formed behind me.

Me: Excuse me, hon.

Phone Skank: (looking at me like I'd stuck something slimy on her face) Ummm, I'm on the phone!

Me: I can see that, hon, I'm just trying to get by.

PS: (finger comes up telling me to wait a second as she turns her back to me and continues with her call) I don't know, some guy. I know! He can see I'm on the phone!

Me: (tapping her on the shoulder) Your shit will be at the top of the stairs. (Two bags are picked up and tossed to the top of the stairs)

PS: OMG!!! What are you doing!?!?!

Me: Getting to the train, thanks. (proceeding down the stairs as she rushed up the half-flight to gather her crap). And on behalf of the people behind me that you were slowing down with your phone call...kiss my big sweaty ass, you phone skank.

Getting on the train, a hipster couple that had been behind me on the stairs approached me.

Him: Dude, I've always wanted to do that.

Her: I wanted to clap...what a bitch.

I know, it wasn't poetic. It was simply the culmination of a decade of douche-baggery.

I'm not really complaining, mind you. I've had a great run in the City.

I've met a lot of truly wonderful people.

I've seen the sublime and the ridiculous.
I've seen the absolute best and the worst humanity can offer.

I'd say I wouldn't have traded the times for anything, but that wouldn't be quite true. While I greatly appreciate my experiences, I'd gladly trade them all for an extra decade with Rita.

Since that kind of trade isn't going to happen, I'll gladly pack the memories into boxes and move the show back to the ATL. There are plenty of Asshats down south, after all. They're just a little more polite.

With my departure, I would like to single out a few people...

Erik: My childhood friend that made my early existence in the city possible. He took me in when I was dead broke and just off the train.

Gina: Gave me a job when I needed it and became a dear friend.

Autumn, Dieter, Marisa and Cameron: and the rest of the staff from the old Finnerty's that made it a joy to go to work every day and proved what friendship and loyalty are all about.

Garcia-ville and Mr. & Mrs. Ish: Showed me you can have fun with "grown ups". Well, sorta grown ups.

Ricky: One of my best friends in the city, I could always count on him to come with me to each new bar I took a gig at...and take coffee/smoke breaks that could make Teamsters say "Damn, you take long breaks".

Nick K: The Poet Laureate of 14th st and the Ambassador of Keeping it Real. Quite possibly possessing the dirtiest mind in the western hemisphere, Nick showed me you can be a caring father, still be filthy, and keep your kids from being asshats all at the same time. Kudos Nicky.

Frank: for keeping me on board after turbulent head-butting with his partners and giving me the opportunity to succeed, especially at Boss Tweed's.

Renee: I can't say a whole lot. Probably my best friend in the world besides my fiancee.

I'll miss you all.

Departing the city (for the last time?), I took the same car service I had used dozens of time before. The new driver tried to gouge me on the price, however. I explained to him I had been using the service for years and knew the price as I handed the correct amount over the seat. He attempted to argue. I suggested he call his dispatcher to verify the price, if he truly felt he was being underpaid, which of course he refused. I explained to him that I was leaving town for good. I told him to think about it for a moment, and that if he really wanted the extra $10 I would wait on the sidewalk to pay him in shoe leather delivered to the fleshy part of his ass. I suggested if he reconsidered his position, I would bear him no ill will and wish him a good day and a happy life.

He drove away, and I got on my plane.

I'll save the anti-Bloomberg rant for another day, as it would easily fill multiple blogs. I'll also save the rant of the softening up and dumbing down of what was formerly my island. The City long ago traded the seedy movie houses and dirty underbelly for Disney and Applebee's. I'm not saying it's better or worse (actually, it's a travesty), but it's definitely different. Similarly, the Community Boards are trying their damnedest to turn the best urban area in the world into a giant suburb. All rant-worthy, so stay tuned.

Good, bad, or indifferent, I'll miss a lot.

Goodbye, New York.

Gabba Gabba WTF?

Random Scenes of Asshattery and Douchiness...

ON THE SIDEWALK:

During a conversation outside the bar w/ a friend, recently, we were approached by a random young lady...

Asshat Chick: Hey guys, I hate to interrupt, but...

Me: ...but you will anyway, because anything we might be discussing obviously pales in comparison to what you have to say.

AC: Wha?

Me: Never mind. What can I do for you, hon? (knowing full well what was coming).

AC: (batting eyes) Do either of you have a spare cigarette?

Friend: I don't smoke.

Me: Sorry, this pack didn't come with any spares.

AC: (confused look)

Me: Seriously, I'm stuck here for a couple of hours, and don't have enough to share...but there's a store right down the block.

AC: (pouty) I'd go buy a pack, but they're so expensive here.

Me: (annoyed) So it makes more sense for me to subsidize your habit. I'll pass, thanks.

AC: (amazed) You're really not going to give me one?

Me: No, hon, I've only got a few left, and they are, as you said, really expensive here.

AC: (in a huff) I can't believe you won't give me one. You're such a dick.

Me: Well, opinions vary. For example, my opinion of you is that you're a selfish, self-entitled brat whose parents didn't use the word "no" nearly enough.

AC: (furious) What a dick! Fuck You!!!

Me: (walking towards the door) You said that already. Good luck w/ grubbing smokes from people that don't owe you a thing, though.

I stopped and spoke with the doorman before heading back inside, where I took a table near the window and front door. A few minutes later, after successfully grubbing a smoke from someone else, the Asshat Chick attempted to enter the bar, only to be refused by the doorman. She looked positively amazed. After pleading her case, he motioned to me at my table. I waved, removed a cigarette from the pack and broke it open on the table, mouthing the words "I'm a dick, remember?" and blowing her a kiss. She stalked off into the night.

Conclusions:

1) It's rude to interrupt people

2) It's dumb to use "I'm cheap" as a reason to bum anything off people, especially when the person you're bumming from has actually paid for the item(s) you're trying to get for free.

3) It's even dumber to insult people that choose not to acquiesce and give you something just because you think you're cute/hot/smart/charming/blah, blah, blah. Please believe me when I tell you you're not/not/not/not.

Additionally, any combination of these three points not only make you an asshat, it can get you 86'ed from the bar if you do it to the wrong person...in this case, me.

STYLE UPDATE:

Wearing sunglasses at night does NOT make you look cool. It gives you the appearance of a complete asshat. Combine it w/ a polo shirt w/ a popped collar, and you start looking douchey.

(secret tip) The previously mentioned dark glasses are NOT camouflage for the fact that you are higher than the national debt. If you seriously think you're fooling anyone with the shades, you're dreaming.

(to the tune of Billy Ocean's "Get Out of My Dreams")

"...Get out of your dreams,

Get out of my bar..."

Also, get out of the 80's. The 80's died a horribly painful death 2 1/2 decades ago...friggin' douchebags.

FREE ADVICE:

If you have a drunken compulsion to pet every dog you see without checking with the dogs owner, you run a high risk of being growled at, snapped at or bitten.

If, after a dog shies from you and turns away, you smack him/her on the hind quarter, grab the tail, or do some other rough shit, you not only deserve the growl/snap/bite, I'm hoping it actually happens.

Not so long ago, Darwinism would have claimed you for trying to pet a mountain lion and subsequently being dragged into the woods, you fucktard.

INTERNATIONAL FAILURES IN DARWINISM:

My friend Jennifer took her daughter to the matinee performance given by the Broadway road company of Annie in Ontario, recently. Needless to say, there were hundreds of kids and their parents. Jennifer and Maia were fortunate to be seated behind the only two ladies slamming beers at the 3 o'clock show. The two Miss Hannigan wannabe's proceeded to get shit-boxed and bellow along with the songs. Oh, it's a hard knock life, indeed!

I'm a barman. My job is to sell people booze. Tha being said, if you're getting soused by mid-day and going to a show like this, a ballet, a museum, or anything along these lines, I have three words for you: IT's NOT NASCAR!!!

I'm not knocking drinking or NASCAR. I'm a fan of both. I won't wear my beer helmet to the theatre, however, because...well, because I'm not a douche.

THE DEATH of MUSIC:

Earlier in the week, I got sucked in to a conversation with a young lady that insisted Avril Lavigne was not only "punk", but "hardcore". WTF?

I tried to explain, that while I didn't feel the need to shove an icepick in my ear when her music started playing, she was in no way, shape, manner or form, punk or hardcore. She didn't get it.

Shifting gears, I attempted to give a punk rock history lesson. I gave up when she couldn't name any of the Ramones...more accurately, she couldn't name them by first OR last name. (sigh - I feel old).

Raise your children well...

In honor of Graduation season (High School and College), I offer the following:

I'm told it takes a village to raise a child. Evidently, there are villages across this nation screaming for me to go on a rampage and burn them all down, because they are producing a new breed of douchebags of a stunning magnitude at an alarming rate. As a resident of the global village, and since I can't find my lighter fluid at the moment, I submit the following for your graduating children. Clean it up, if you feel they are too sensitive or frail, but share it with them. Their status as douchebag hangs in the balance. Be advised, though, if you really do feel you have to clean it up for a person of graduating age, they're probably already spoiled douchebags rapidly winding down the road to being an uber-douchebag...and that blame rests predominately on the parent.

1) You don't know the law:

"What do you mean I can't come in? My i.d.'s good, you have to let me in/serve me! This is a public place, you have no right to keep me out!! I know the law!!!" If any of these words ever come (or have come) from your mouth, you're a douche. And you obviously don't, in fact, know anything about the law as it pertains to establishments that serve alcohol.

Establishments have the right to refuse you for virtually anything, save race, sex, religion, etc. If your i.d. has been questioned, throwing a tantrum really will not help. Similarly, if a bar/club has rules re. hats, sneakers, or argyle sweaters, you have nothing to say about it. Your recourse is to take your business elsewhere

When/if you use the old "public place" argument, you show true ignorance. I've worked in bars over half my life. Never has one nickel of taxpayer money gone into opening or running one of them. A public place is a park, or a library, or any other place provided for the public good by your community. A bar ain't one of those...douche.

If you try to pass yourself off as an attorney knowledgeable in liquor law, it makes it worse. If you say your daddy is an attorney, walk away from this blog. It's much too late for you...you're an uber-douche.

2) Short and sweet, your parents lied to you. You're not the smartest/prettiest/most charming person in the world. You're just another in an endless parade of youthful dumbasses that think they can get over because their parents told them they're special.

2a) Men - All women do not find you desirable. Don't be a douche when you get shot down in a bar. Yes, I know, your mother says you're the most handsome guy in blah, blah, blah. Get over it and move on.

2b) Ladies - You're not hot enough to act bitchy and men with an iota of experience will know when you're trying to get over by flirting. The only guys that fall for, or are attracted to that are the douchebags mentioned above. If you procreate with them, you'll get what you deserve...asshat babies.

3) Also short and sweet. No one cares who your daddy is. If name dropping is your thing, save it for the other douchebags. If your daddy is the most impressive name you know, though, even douchebags will think you're douche-y. Nuff said.

4) If you regularly think you're the smartest/funniest/richest person in the room, odds are you really aren't. In fact, odds are you're just a monumentally pretentious douche in need of a neck punch. Additionally, even if you are the smartest/funniest/richest, the fact that you even take time to consider such things makes you an asshat.

5) When you show up to pick up a friend/date/whatever at their house, go to the friggin' door. Sitting outside honking the horn is disrespectful to the party you're picking up and the neighbors don't want to hear it. Yes, your Mama told you anyone would be lucky to have a boyfriend/girlfriend/friend like you, but it's another lie.

5a) If a neighbor asks you to stop honking and go to the door in an even remotely polite way, especially due to the early or late hour, do it. If you yell or curse at, or berate the neighbor, you deserve a neck punch. If I'm the neighbor, I'll beat you til your Mama cries.

6) If you're smoking outside an open door or window of a non-smoking establishment and are asked to step away from said opening to prevent your smoke from blowing in, just do it. It's generally called being considerate, or "getting along". The "you can't make me" crap may have worked with your parents, but I promise, it won't work with others...certainly not me.

6a) If you're outside, or in an area where smoking is permitted, and someones smoke is bothering you, ask them politely to put it out or change hands, etc. to alter the flow of the smoke. Making demands, being bitchy, getting preachy or citing shady statistics only make me want to chain smoke and/or shove my cigarette butt up your butt.

7) If someone gets up from the bar, but leaves his/her jacket on the chair and/or has a drink in front of the chair, he/she is NOT leaving. Only a mouth-breathing moron would make that assumption. Only a complete douchebag would argue when the person returns from the bathroom/smoking/whatever to reclaim his/her spot.

8) Pull up your pants!!! You look like a jackass!!! If you're over 21, the phase is over. Buy pants that fit and invest in a belt. Nobody wants to see your boxers or, God forbid, your plumbers crack.

9) If you BYOB to a bar and are caught with it, it will be confiscated, you will be charged a corking fee, or you will be asked to leave. At my place, I'll take the booze AND run your cheap ass out. I'm one of the most frugal guys I know, but give me a friggin' break with this. Call Daddy and have him put some money in the account...dumbass.

10) This is a big one, kiddies. No one owes you respect. No one owes me respect. Respect is earned. Courtesy should be a fact of life in a civilized society, but you can't act like an idiot and expect respect. I want to pimp slap every 21 year old douche that tries to demand respect.

Example: After finding an uber-douche trashing the bathroom at the bar (literally dumping trash from the can on the floor), I took him by the arm and escorted him to the door. There was no incident until we got to the door and I released him. His friends saw he was getting tossed, so they went outside to wait for him. He jerked away, now that he had an audience.

Uber-Douche: You better respect me!

Me: What?

UD: You better show me some respect!!!

Me: I should respect you for dumping trash on the floor? Dude, you're an idiot.

UD: (glancing over his shoulder at his pals, then back to me) You better respect me!!! You don't know who I am!!!

ME: (taking out a small note pad and pen, writing a quick note) Why don't you just interpret not getting smacked as a sign of respect, then? (handing him note) Here. Give this to your parents.

UD: (glances at the note, then looks up to say something, but I'm already back inside)

the note:

Dear Parent,

Your son is an idiot. Please don't have any more children. Consider sterilization, if necessary.

thx,

Matty

Please don't make me send a note home to your parents.

The only people that love you unconditionally are your parents and Jesus. If you're an asshat (or worse), believe me, I'll tell you.

Wait...rain isn't yellow, is it?

Upon closing the bar one evening, the bartender (Autumn), the barback (Rick) and I were having a quiet drink together recounting the general fuckery of the evening. It was about 5 a.m. Sunday morning, and the clientele Saturday evening had made me worry that a little yellow bus had crashed in the neighborhood, and the riders had wandered into the bar. While we were chatting, I heard the gentle sound of water running.

Me - "Did you guys leave the water running in the sink?"


They both responded that they had not. I leaned up on the bar to verify this, as I was sure I heard water running. As my butt came back to rest on the stool, I glanced over to the door. The interior doors were still open, but the gate was down, to prevent the drunken fucktards still on the streets from stumbling into the bar. It was at this time, I noticed the water running under the gate, puddling just inside the door. "When did it start raining?" I asked no one in particular. It wasn't raining.


Walking to the door, I heard voices. Yes, gentle readers, a pair of asshats were peeing onto the security gates of the bar. Gravity and slope bringing said pee INSIDE the bar.


Me - "Hey guys, you're peeing into the bar."

Douche 1 - "I think somebody's in there." (rocket scientist)

Douche 2 - "Well, he better stay in there, if he knows what's good for him." (sigh)


I threw the gate up as the two of them were finishing their stream.

Me - "OK, which one of you hard asses wants to show me what's good for me?"

Douche 2 - "Uhhhh....homina-homina...errrr...mumbo, dogface, banana patch."

Douche 1 - (points to Douche 2)

Me - "Son, did you not understand when I yelled you were peeing into the bar?"

Douche 2 - (pickle still in hand) "Hey, the door should be able to keep water out, don't blame me." (sigh)


The annoyed punch in the chest sent him tumbling backwards across the sidewalk, where he came to rest on the curb. Douche 1 ran to his side to help him up, apologizing profusely for their unwise choice of urination stations.


Me - "Don't sweat it. Just take your friend home before he gets himself in trouble. Explain to him tomorrow that he wouldn't have a bruise on his chest if he just would have apologized, or even kept his mouth shut."

Douche 2 - (beanie weenie STILL hanging in the breeze) "Hey, fuck you man! You can't do that!! You don't know who my father is!!!"

Me - (sigh) "I'm assuming he's the limpdick that didn't teach you not to piss into someones place of business? Or that using a line like that makes you an uber-douche? If you tell me he's a lawyer, I'm gonna wanna know his address so I can go pinch a loaf in his ficus tree tomorrow."

Douche 2 - (thoroughly confused, being led away by Douche 1) "I'll be back. You watch your back!"

Me - (waving) "Bring pie. I like pie."


With the departure of God's Special People, I went back to the bar to finish my now warm beer. Rick had mopped the mess and re-secured the door behind me.


Rick - "Uh, bro?"

Me - "Yeah, man?"

Rick - "Is this yours?"
(turning, I focus on what would be the house trophy for the evening)

Me - "Is that a shoe?"

Rick - "Yeah. He came out of it when you popped him". (I had noticed the dipshit limping, but assumed it was from the roll)

I admit, I felt more than a smidgen of machismo at having knocked the turd, literally, out of his shoe. So much so, that after a dousing in the sanitizer, the shoe was hung on the back bar.

After pouring a smaller glass of beer to finish off the night, a gentle rapping came from the gate. It was Douche 1.

Douche 1 - "Umm. I think my friend lost his shoe"

Me - "You're kidding right?"

Douche 1 - "Well, we gotta go back to Westchester, and he'd like to get it back."

Me - "Did he finally put his cock away?"

Douche 1 - "Yeah. We're looking for his shoe, though."

Me - "And?"

Douche 1 - "Can I have it?"

Me - "Haven't seen it. Tell him to enjoy the train ride...and to say hi to his dad for me...and don't forget the pie when he comes back...I like pie."


The freshly minted uber-douche never did come back like he said he would...so I had to get my own pie...fucker.

The Dangers of Laundry & Self-Medication

It happens to us all, eventually. That momentary, but nonetheless monumental act of stupidity that haunts us for years. This is one of those acts...

Suffering through a bout of the flu that I equated to a mild form of SARS, I soldiered on to work. The misery of the next several hours was astounding. The coughing, the watery eyes, the aching muscles, the production of absurd amounts of snot would have brought a lesser man to his knees...I was well on my way to that position.

I finally drew my remaining energy forth, and trudged the normally short block to the drug store for relief. It was during this hazy shopping spree that I concocted the ultimate flu remedy/horse tranquilizer. After purchasing my goods, I returned to the bar.

Spilling the contests of my bag onto the bar, the bartender looked on with great confusion and fear for what was about to happen. She was kind enough to heat three fingers of Jameson, which was used to dissolve a packet of Thera-flu. A double-shot of Nyquil was introduced to the cocktail. After the mixture was complete, it chased down a dosage of Tylenol PM. Whoooo-ooaaaaa, that's good squishy!!!

With an hour til closing, I was almost instantly feeling the embrace of sweet slumber. Little did I know that the Sandman was about to lure me into a dark alley and make me his prison bitch.

At closing, I shouldered my laundry bag (which I had picked up on the way to work that afternoon) and began the journey home. That single avenue was the longest 750 feet of my life. By the time I arrived at my building, I was swimming in my own sweat. Unlocking the front door was the closest thing to a Rubik's Cube I had encountered in two decades. Resting at the bottom of the stairs, I came to the king of rationalizations. "Just leave the laundry here and get it in the morning". It made perfect sense.

Now, obviously, there are many flaws in the thought processes I used that evening. Not the least of which was that I would be functional "in the morning". I virtually crawled up the four flights, leaving my bag by the foot of the stairs. Upon entering the apartment I began a slumber that legends are built around. 12 hours of uninterrupted "sweat out". I emerged from my hibernation feeling almost, though not quite, my normal self (I had no idea you could get a hangover from cold meds, but believe me when I say it...oh yeah, you can).

I traipsed downstairs to retrieve my bag before work, and lo and behold, the bag was not to be found. Only mildly concerned, I assumed the super had found it and stashed it in a closet. With nothing else to do about it that night, I headed to work.

Upon arrival, one of the regulars checked to make sure I was OK, as she was sure I was on death's door the previous evening (that walking SARS is tough). I assured her that I was fine, and the only problem was not being able to find my laundry. At this point, my friend Lew (Jewish Lew, not Dominican Lou) smirked and chuckled.
Me - (closing my eyes) "What?"
Lew - I'm pretty sure I saw a bum wearing your Motorhead t-shirt. It was way too big for him. So now that I think about it, it was probably yours."
Me - (sigh) "Maybe not, there's gotta be plenty of Motorhead shirts in the city, right?"
Lew - "Absolutely. They hand out 4xl Motorhead shirts at the DMV with your new license." (laughing out loud)
Me - (ugh)

One of the regulars approached at this point. "Are you guys talking about the bum fight?" (what?) "I saw two bums fighting over the biggest pair of jeans I ever saw. It was hilarious!!!!"

Lew clued him in that they were, in fact, mine. It took earnest threats of neck punches for both of them to stop the laughter and get the pertinent information I needed to try to find any remnants of my clothes. Checking the streets around my apartment, and the block of the bum fight proved fruitless.

I learned many valuable lessons from this. Don't over medicate. When they say don't mix things, they fucking mean it. And when they say don't operate heavy machinery, that includes washing machines.

And I never got any of my clothes back. To this day, I have to suppress the urge to attack any fat kid in a Motorhead shirt and take the shirt. sigh

That's no leprechaun...

Upon arrival in the city, I took a job working the door/bouncing at a little neighborhood spot call "The Looking Glass". Dark and divey, it was the kind of place you really shouldn't let any exposed skin touch anything. Unless, of course you had already received your Hep C shot.

8:15 p.m., Thursday night:
The asshats hadn't started flowing into the streets, yet. That wouldn't happen for a few hours still. Only about a dozen people were in the bar. There were a few aging tipplers left over from happy hour, a couple of 30 somethings that had stopped in on their way to dinner, and a few bro-dogs from NYU pre-gaming for their evening festivities on $2 pints of Bud.

Even though St. Patrick's Day had come and gone over a month earlier, I didn't think twice when I saw a gent down the block sporting one of those green plastic derby's that are common on that holiday. I simply assigned the guy as a "colorful NYC outdoorsman" (translation - half-crazy bum). Realizing I was out of smokes, I ducked into the bodega next door to grab a pack, nodding to the guy as I passed.

Having purchased my smoky treats and chatted w/ the deli guy for a few minutes, I was back on the sidewalk lighting up. I looked up and saw the aforementioned gent exiting the bar, counting his change.

"Hmm. Maybe I was wrong" I thought to myself. "Maybe he's just one of those eccentric New Yorkers you hear about stopping in for a quick shot".

I looked into the bar and saw a confused look on the face of the bartender (and childhood friend), and agitation on the faces of a few of the customers. I went in to investigate.

Erik the bartender - "Did you see these guys put any money on the bar?"
Me - "Well, yeah. About 5 minutes ago before I went for smokes."
Customer - "I had about 15 bucks on the bar."
2nd Customer - "I had 10 bucks or so."
(light bulb going off over my head)

Realizing the bum had entered the establishment and raked the bar of all unattended cash, I was out the door like I was shot out of a cannon and down to the corner. Looking down the street, I could see the wayward leprechaun crossing the street, looking over his shoulder (presumably for pursuers). My days of foot pursuit being long behind me, I turned with disgust to head back to the bar. At that point, in what can only be described as serendipity, the light changed letting a cab cross the avenue to me.

I flagged the cab and hopped in. "Next corner, please." The cabbie looked at me like I was nuts, but drove to the next corner. Having slid down in the seat, my quarry didn't respond when we passed him. At the corner, I told the cabbie to leave the meter running...I'd only be a second. I left the door open as I stepped out. The thief was still stealing looks over his shoulder looking for pursuit when I grabbed him by his shirt.

Now, bearing in mind, I do not now, nor have I ever claimed to be a tough guy. That being said, I hit that douche so hard that, quite literally, snot shot out of his nose. I threw him into the corner formed by a building and a dumpster and began unfolding a good old-fashioned south Alabama beat down.

The light having changed, the cabbie began honking his horn (didn't care about the beating, evidently, but he definitely wanted his $2.40). I grabbed the miscreant by his shirt and shook him like a rag doll. "Where's the money, motherfucker?" (bitch slaps to the head) "I want the cash from the bar, you fuck!" At this point, bills started flying out of every pocket.

"Fuck you, scumbag! I know there's more!!!" (obviously, I had absolutely no idea how much was taken, but I assumed he'd hold out). Sure enough, more cash came out. I released him, kicked him in the ass, and let him escape to whatever hole he crawled out of. Gathering the surprisingly large amount of cash on the sidewalk, I hopped back into the cab, telling the driver to drop me off at the same corner. The fare was $4.80. I threw him a $10 and tipped the change for the trouble.

Walking back into the bar...
Erik - "Where'd you go, bro?"
Me - "To get the money back."
The 4 guys claiming to have lost money walked up. The two that had already made their claims were given their money. The other two claimed $14 and $20 respectively, and were given that amount.

Then, confusion, followed by realization set in. I still had A LOT of money left. Going to the end of the bar, I counted it out. I still had nearly $400 dollars in my hand. I had, technically, rolled a bum and taken a cab to and from the scene of the crime. And no, it didn't bother me one bit.

He may not have been a real leprechaun, but I most assuredly followed him to steal his pot o' gold/Lucky Charms.

Introduction: The Journey Begins...

After much procrastination, and repeated prodding from friends, I'm finally getting around to starting this Blog. This will, more often than not, be a semi-educational general rant on the overwhelming stupidity by certain members of the general population. This blog will also contain random observations on other occurrences in my life, because...well, because it's my Blog and I can do what I want.

The majority of my observations will revolve around nightlife, as I've been in the industry, in various capacities, for over 20 years. In that time, I've encountered more than a few examples of how a once small number of self-entitled, self-important uber-douchebags with no sense of personal responsibility have proliferated into their own segment of modern American culture. Since that description is much too long to use repeatedly in this forum, I have decided to shorten it to, you guessed it...Asshats.

These Asshats are a constant source of both irritation and comedy - the tragic and the sublime, if you will. Future posts will chronicle the (mis)behavior of Asshats in general, and specific events and/or actions of the true uber-douche. They'll make you laugh. They'll make you cry. They'll make you want to punch them in the neck. Welcome to my world.

Asshats, like cockroaches or kudzu, have increased to ridiculous numbers. This has been facilitated by several factors. These factors include, but are certainly not limited to: over-indulgent/protective parents, a hyper-litigious mentality in this country, and modern medicine...things like these have led to a breakdown in natural selection. Whereas in previous time periods, the truly lazy/weak/stupid would be removed from the population for doing things like trying to hand feed a mountain lion, or looking up at the sky to "watch the rain" until they drowned, we've padded our world to the point you can't even get a cup of hot coffee from McDonald's anymore. We've, in effect, caused a monumental failure in Darwinism and natural selection.

As stated earlier, I'll also offer personal insight as to what makes me "the Matty". Things that make me happy, sad, angry and confused will be included. I'll also offer, things that are important to me, such as family, honor and the increasing value of regular bowel movements as my age progresses.

If you are squeamish, or easily offended, you should probably not be here. I'll make no apologies for anything written here. It surely won't be suitable for young readers, or complete morons.

That being said...check back, sit back and enjoy the Matty experience.

the Matty