(What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic with plastic flowers and a cauliflower ear.)
Lots of things seem like cool ideas when you're drunk: Taco Bell, texting your ex and fucking a bouncer. One of the best things about being a bouncer is banging girls way too hot for you. You see, you might talk to hundreds of chicks a night. There has to be at least one with enough mental issues to think she wants to hump you.
I've never banged a bouncer, I've only worked as one, so I know some of the good reasons to sleep with your local doorman. The good reasons to bang a bouncer are, like, um, we have jobs? Yeah, that's all I can come up with too. Bad reasons? You don't need any more of those.
But there are plenty of bad experiences. On my part.
Many times, drunk girls don't see you as a potential hook up, but a free taxi. You know women, always looking for something gratis.
Most often, the romance ends when you hit the bed and she hits the hay. Barfing, snoring and generally making you into her personal nurse. Then there are the girls that just want to cry about their ruined relationships and how low they've sunk in life: I mean, they're with a bouncer right now! How dreadful!
However, in all seriousness, there are many liabilities for a bouncer when he takes home a drunk chick. You never really know how drunk somebody is. There are plenty of horror stories about when a guy takes a girl home, bones her, then she wakes up and cries rape. Who's right? Who's wrong? I don't know. If you're a guy, the smart thing is to go home solo and play with your weiner while pretending the girl is with you. Otherwise, learn to enjoy other dudes making you their bitch in prison. Or just be branded as a sexual predator for the rest of your life. Or play all-star basketball for the Lakers. Any of those options really.
I don't take that many drunk chicks home from the bar. Why? Not because I have a moral highground or something.
1. I have absolutely no game, even with retardedly intoxicated women.
2. I hate most people, even to the point where I won't put up with them long enough for a cheesy orgasm.
3. I actually have a career on top of my bouncing job, I don't want any part of sexual assault.
But all in all, here's the real reason I rarely bed drunk chicks.
SCENE: Out of a pack of about six chicks, two girls come up to KC.
RACHEL (Pretty, but big, but not fat): We think you're hot.
KERI (Skinny and really hot): I think he's hotter.
RACHEL: No you don't, you have a boyfriend.
KC: Ladies ladies, there's enough of me to go around. Introduce yourselves. Let's talk about art and the fascinating politics or literature of yesteryear.
So eventually KC's swooning worked and the bar closed. Luckily, the bartenders threw the girls a bunch of shots – which made KC better looking, funnier and cooler, and the girls sluttier. And it didn't cost him a dime.
RACHEL: Okay, let's get in my car and go to that PARTY!!!
KC: Um, now I have the moral obligation to tell you that your Blood Alcohol Content (or whatever "C" stands for) is more than Jager. So I'll be driving.
RACHEL: Thank God! I cannot afford another DUI.
KERI: Can I sit on your lap?
KC: Now?
KERI: Yes. I'm so cold and I like it when people touch me.
KC: Um.
RACHEL: It's true.
KC: I'm, uh, supposed to, err, do the, duh, driving. Thing.
RACHEL: I'll keep her company. With my tongue.
KC speeds to the party, ignoring all traffic lights and rules of the road. In fact, the drunk chick would have been safer driving than him, because now all he thinks about is his boner and who gets to polish it: the hot, skinny girl, or the pretty hot, bigger girl. And what does our hero choose?
KC: So, Keri, you must weigh, like, fifty pounds.
KERI: Oh come on. I weigh 96.
KC: I weighed that in first grade.
KERI: Andy, you're so funny.
KC: My name is KC.
KERI: No it's not.
KC: Do you want to call me Andy? Because that's cool. I want to call you Cheetara.
KERI: What's a Cheetara? Are you one of those cheater guys?
KC: (in his best yet unintentional Michael Cera voice) Um, Cheetara was on this cartoon in the eighties, which now I'm realizing is older than you are since you were only a caterpillar-thing during the eighties.
KERI: Are you saying I'm not pretty?
KC: No, I'm just realizing the fallacy of expecting a 21-year-old girl to remember a 25-year-old cartoon.
KERI: Are you calling me stupid? (KC says nothing). Are you?
KC: No. I'm not.
KERI: Andy, come to the bathroom with me.
KC: You know, when you say something like that, I don't mind you calling me the wrong name. Even though, it's only a syllable different than your own name.
KERI: I'll show you a syllabus.
Keri shuts the bathroom door on KC's foot and then pulls down her pants.
KC (thinking): This is so awesome. I can't wait to tell my friends…
(Tinkling noise.)
KC: That she's peeing in front of me.
KERI: Can you hand me some toilet paper? Or a paper towel or something. I knew this fucking lesbian black bitch wouldn't keep a decent fucking bathroom.
KC: Did you just call your friend a lesbian black bitch?
KERI: Yes! I don't really like minority people. Get over it. Now hand me a paper product of some sort.
KC: Maybe a tampon?
KERI: I don't get periods. I have a pill for that.
Keri wipes with something. KC's stomach turns a little more.
KERI: Now, where were we Andy?
KC: Seriously, my name is KC. I would find it cute if I thought you were doing it to piss me off, and if you are – tell me. Otherwise, you're too drunk for me.
KERI: Okay, I'll remember. But kiss me.
KC (thinking via Junk from the ultra-famous My Organs And I series): At first I wanted to date this girl. Then just fuck her. Now I demand to hate-fuck this racist little bitch. But she's hot so I'll make out with her for a bit.
The young lovers tonsil wrestle.
KERI: Andy, you're a great kisser!
KC (pushing her away): Okay. Now's your chance. What's my real name? (Keri starts to talk). And here's a hint, it's not Andy.
KERI: Just shut up and kiss me.
KC: No. Either remember my name, or I'm going home. Because I smell pounds of treachery on you.
KERI: What does that mean? And who cares? I'm hot. I can make out with any guy I like.
KC: And I'm the only guy here. And I'm about to leave.
KERI: You can't leave. What are you, a faggot? You want me to tell all your faggot friends how big of a fucking faggot you are.
KC: Since you can't remember my name, I'm not really worried about it.
KERI: You're missing the best sex of your life.
KC: I know, it's called masturbation. I really should be going.
KERI: Why?
KC: Because I was going to hate-fuck you, then cum in your hair, take a photo of it and send it to all my friends. But I think you might like it. So now, I'm giving you whatever the female equivalent to blue balls is. Which I know you won't like.
KERI: But!
KC: Don't worry, no matter how good or bad you or I would be in the sack – your drunkass wouldn't remember.
KC leaves, but Rachel (the other, bigger girl) is outside smoking a joint.
RACHEL: Did she do something to you?
KC: Nah. She's just, hmm, a "free spirit" if you will.
RACHEL: You can say it. She's a bitch.
KC: Yeah. But you're not.
RACHEL: No, I'm not. But you made the wrong decision big guy.
KC: Yes. Yes I did. Can I make it right by you?
RACHEL: Not tonight Hot Shot.
KC: Oh man, I even like that you call me nicknames.
RACHEL: And you can keep on liking it. Dummy Mistakerton. Have a good night.
KC walks home, once again, realizing, always take the pretty good looking bigger one. Not the hot skinny one. But, he's a man and a total fucking idiot and never remembers the lesson until it's way too late.
END
So folks, if you made it through that story, now you know why I don't take drunk chicks home from the bar. Usually I get a phone number if I can. Or I let them take me home when I'm drunk and they're sober then I pass out during foreplay—which happens to everyone from time to time.
And that's me, KC, from Bouncer Wisdom. Telling you it's last call.