The Diary of a ‘Roided Out Bar Bouncer

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The Diary of a 'Roided Out Bar Bouncer

Wednesday, 8:49 PM

I, Jake Smith, am the fucking man. I, Jake Smith, am the fucking man. That is my mantra, I guess. I don’t really know what the fuck “mantra” means, but I think it has something to do with those animals I saw at the aquarium on a field trip in elementary school. I repeat this to myself approximately 10,000 times a day, because that’s what the inspirational CD I bought off QVC with four easy installments of $29.99 told me to do. It’s going to make me successful or some shit. I don’t know how I could get more successful, because I’m already the fucking man. I can bench about 350, and my biceps are bigger than most people’s heads. I have a kick-ass job that I’m fucking good at. I’m a bouncer at the most popular bar in my town, which so happens to be a huge college town. Some people laugh at me and think I’m a mere doorman, but fuck them. They don’t understand how much power I have over them and their great time. My mom roommate keeps telling me I need to think about finding a “real job,” whatever the fuck that means, but I disagree. Bitch doesn’t understand that I’m the authority on all of the people who go through the door at Paddy’s Pub, and I’m also an amateur body builder. That woman needs to shut her mouth, spend less time worrying about me and more time learning how to make my protein shakes less chalky. It’s like, how fucking hard is it to get a good creatine shake around here, am I right?

Thursday, 6:18 PM
I just got back from getting fucking swole at the gym. The best part of living in a college town is all the access to the hot college girls on the ellipticals at the gym. Bitches fucking love it when I’m squatting in a clear line of sight from their cardio equipment. Just the other day, one of those hot pieces of undergrad ass spoke to me. She said, “Get the fuck away from me, you weirdo” when I was standing directly behind her, watching her ass in her yoga pants while she was on the stairmaster. I used a great line on her: “The stairmaster? More like stair way to my dick, right?” She didn’t like it, but fuck her, I’m better than that. After I went HARD at the gym, I made sure to Instagram pics of my workout so all 52 of my followers know how fucking hard I go. I just got home, and after I have my protein shake, my mom will shoot my steroid shot into my ass, and I’ll be ready for a long night at work. Last night was fucking amateur hour. Thursday night is where it’s at. Hopefully I can get in there and show this town that JAKE SMITH IS A FUCKING BOSS.

Friday, 5:28 AM
I fucking ruled tonight. I started my night by showing up at work, looking great in my fitted v-neck. The bitches fucking loved it. Every girl in line made sure to show her ID to me instead of my partner, Big Vick. We call him Big Vick because he’s fat as fuck. I keep trying to convince him to come get his swell on with me at the gym, but he’s clearly too busy trying to locate his dick. Not my problem. I haven’t used my dick in years, but that’s because I’ve been too busy taking steroids and getting HUGE to worry about having a set of balls. Balls are just the accessories that go with your dick, and accessories are for pussies. Tonight started off like most Thursdays, with a line of assholes wrapping around the building, all of them clambering to make me approve of their licenses before they have a good time. The first group that approached me handed me a set of in-state IDs. They all looked pretty legitimate, but you can never be too sure. This one douche’s ID claimed his name was “Ryan” and that he was 6 feet tall, which is bullshit, because I’m 5’10” and there’s no way this motherfucker was two inches taller than I am. He was maybe an inch and a half taller, so I had to study his ID further to make sure.

“Ryan, what’s your address?” I asked him, because those idiots never know their own address. He repeated it back to me, which was suspicious. I studied his ID for a solid twenty seconds and decided this kid was full of bullshit, so I had to ask Big Vick to take a look.

“Big Vick, what do you think of this bullshit? Think we should take it in?” I asked my partner.

“Nawwww man, it looks good to me,” he said while stamping “Ryan’s” ID.

What a fucking pushover. I guess you win some, you lose some. After about 20 uneventful minutes, the real shit started to go down. A group of sorority skanks approached. Most of them actually looked legitimate, except for this little blonde bitch. She was so fucking stupid. Her ID had a girl with dark hair, and the girl on the ID was named Shannon. Nobody’s fucking named Shannon anymore. Also, this bitch had an ID from a place called Rhode Island, which was ridiculous because we can only take US Government issued licenses from the United States. I can’t fucking take an ID from some foreign island country. What a dumb bitch, what’s next, IDs from Canada? Fucking dumbass. Just to fuck with her, I studied the ID for about a solid minute. She looked impatient, so I pulled the ultimate power move and asked her for a second form. BAM. Got her. She started to panic, and one of the other dumb bitches behind her tugged her hand to pull her out of line. Obviously her friend knew NOBODY GETS PAST JAKE SMITH. Not-Shannon even had the nerve to ask for her ID back. “No fucking way,” I told her, as I put the ID in my back pocket.

Once the initial rush of customers came in, I left door duty up to Big Vick while I started my favorite nightly activity: patrolling the dance floor. If these motherfuckers get out of line, they answer to ME. I was disappointed in how tame these fucks were. It’s not usually a Thursday night if I don’t get to manhandle a few frat bros who were trying to take the mic from the DJ.

After a few hours of stealthily taking pics of girls’ boobs with my Nokia flip phone, my other favorite part of the night came: last fucking call. Once the bartenders start ringing the bells and yelling for those fuckers to close their tabs, I come alive. Some assholes wake up to talk radio, but I wake up to “LAST CALL.” I sprang to the walls and flipped the lights on, waiting on edge to start throwing people out in 15 minutes. Finally, 10 minutes before close, my time came. I started pummeling through the crowd like it was the fucking running of the bulls, pushing assholes out of the way, yelling “We’re closed! Get out!” One fuck tried to tell me to “calm down” while he “paid his tab.” I knew his game. I’ve seen that bullshit before. I gave him three minutes to finish signing his credit card receipt, and just when he tried to chug the rest of his drink, I went in for the kill. I took the drink out of his hand and yelled “We’re closed! You need to leave!” Motherfucker looked pissed, but he didn’t say shit. Wanna know why? Because I’m Jake Smith and I am the fucking man.

As soon as I got home, I opened the binder collection of fake IDs I’d accumulated over the past seven years at Paddy’s and added the fakes I collected tonight. I have an internet business where I sell these fake IDs to underage kids. It funds my steroid habit. I’m now about to tuck myself into bed in my parent’s basement, and once I’m there I’ll probably take a few minutes to jerk off to the boob pics I took tonight. I really need a phone with a better resolution camera.

My job is awesome, and I fucking rule. Gotta go if I want to get some shut eye before I hit the gym in the morning. I am Jake Smith, and I’m the fucking man.

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