My Arch Enemy: The Townie Bouncer

We all have a hater or two. Mine mostly just happen to be overweight and pony-tailed.

This is a buddy post to, Not Everyone Needs to Like You. Check it if you fancy.

Throughout my life, I’ve attracted countless detractors. So, when I say that there’s one group that hates me invariably, know that this comes with a remarkable number of data points. 

And who might this top collection of despisers be, you ask? 

Take a guess. 

…..

Jot it down. 
…..

Say it aloud.

…..

My zero-fail, foolproof group of haters: men in failed positions of power. 

We’re talking mall cops, residence dons, and most enthusiastically, the neighbourhood-friendly bouncer. The pre-diabetic, pony-tailed Police Foundations grad who’s “fallen on hard times” hates me with a passion so great, that if fully harnessed, could’ve turned him into a properly disgraced cop by now. 

You’re probably thinking, “With that attitude, no wonder!”. Fair. 

But rest assured, the level of disdain by every doorway-hugging “Big Jim” aka “Bonez” is without logic. I am singled out before I even get a chance to reveal myself as a judgemental, disrespectful wench. The amount of times that I’ve been thrown out, turned away at the door, or mistaken for the lady carnie who bottled “Pam” aka “Peaches” the weekend before defies all statistical odds. 

Case and point: being kicked out of Phil’s, the grimiest basement bar in Western Ontario.

Phil’s is a bar where juvie delinquents go to hide. It’s a refuge for college kids edging toward irreversible alcoholism. It’s a literal hole in a literal wall, infamous for $2.25 drinks, stripper poles, and baton-passing bathroom barfs. 

It’s a dying breed of dive and during my university years, I was a regular. 

One night during a packed “Hip Hop Wednesday”, something both expected and unexpected happened: Phil’s flooded with toilet water. 

Shit water sprung from puke-lodged toilets and traveled downstream, pooling in the center of the cavernous basement. There was so much liquid that even the bar’s noble steed—an industrial shop vac—was under-qualified.

In order to get to either end of the bar, we had to land a high-stakes running long jump over a swirling stream. Like a washed-up show pony, we’d trot down the narrow bar and spring our wedge-heeled hooves into the air. If you were lucky, you cleared troubled waters. If your legs were of the Shetland variety, you had a pair of shoes to throw out.

During the shit storm, I was there with my long-time best friend, Lainey. 

On this particular night, Lainey was way drunker than me. She was that defiant, droopy eyed, rambling-about-nothing kind of drunk. She was also the least favourable combination of too drunk to be left alone and refusing to be wrangled. Add in a dash of downright menacing, and we’ve captured it. 

In order to convince Lainey to leave, I dangled every carrot from my hamper. I offered a family-sized poutine, pretended to order a cab, and even falsified an ex-boyfriend sighting. I’d also gently pointed out that we were sewer rats floating down a river of turds. 

Despite all my efforts, Lainey refused to leave. Her commitment to pink eye was unwavering. 

Eventually, Lainey sat on a stool and slumped over the bar. It wasn’t long before the on-site Police Foundations grad took notice. We made eye contact and he walked over. For the first time, I was relieved by a fake cops intervention.

“It’s time for you to go,” said the security troll.

“Oh I know. I’ve been trying to get her to leave,” I responded with exasperation. 

I motioned toward Lainey, who now had one eye cocked.

“I didn’t say she had to go! It’s time for you to leave!”. 

The security troll’s butthole mouth clenched tightly. His lips were so contracted that even a craisin, nay a poppyseed, could enter.

I looked around, confused if there was a Clay Aiken, “Invisible Man” standing beside me. 

“Wait, what? You’re kicking me out?!!”

His mouth pulsated. Staring deep into his soul, I plucked his unibrow in my head, then responded carefully. 

“Are you serious? I’m a Quiverfull Christian with sextuplets who’d never drink Satan’s spirit, you ungodly douche.” 

Lainey, a Religious Studies major, was alerted by the mention of “Quiverfull” and knew it was time to go. She stood up, snapping into the drunk-but-sees-a-rent-a-cop-position. Stiffly, she grabbed her purse and slurred “we were just leavvvinnng”.

Above sea level, I was relieved. And livid. Out of all the puking and sleeping drunks, I was singled out as the most unfit person to be inside the actual shittiest place in town. 

In hindsight, he wasn’t wrong (*strokes Gucci rims*). 

Being born as a loud, mostly confident woman, I’ve had my fair share of haters. I’ve been falsely rumoured about, uninvited places, and ditched by my entire friend group upon entering high school—yes, they came crawling back after I got my AirSelect Walker Leg Brace™ taken off. 

Not being liked is inconvenient at best, and downright painful at worst. But sometimes, even when you’re being a babysitter or just your regular damn self, you’ll rub people the wrong way. No matter what you do or say, there will be people (with horrible taste, duh) who don’t like you.

So, who gives a fuck? If some people dislike you, it’s a testament to your strength of character. It shows direction and self-assuredness. 

It also weeds out all pony-tailed bouncers from your orbit.