My name is—fuck it! You don’t need to know my name—call me Mr. Break-Your-Neck-Two-Times, motherfuckers! Yeah, look at your shoes … That’s what I thought! There’s no question that I’m in charge here and we just started. My name is Russell, and you’ve just been given Lesson No. 1: ESTABLISH CONTROL AGGRESSIVELY RIGHT FROM THE GET-GO. It is the rare individual who will call your bluff. Now, on a typical work night, most of you will take payment to stand in one place and look composed and aware: a task that can only be performed properly after you’ve created the right persona. My 350-pound frame coupled with a natural look of general displeasure loan me a significant measure of alpha-male intimidation. Plus, I’m black, which seems to scare the shit out of everybody. But I’d be a fool not to let my physical characteristics work for me. Also, I like to give one-word responses, look over people, and never make eye contact or smile. I find that people’s intuition tells them to be wary of overly composed men with earpieces.
Which brings me to Rule No. 2: ALWAYS WEAR YOUR EARPIECE. No exceptions. The only time that baby should come out of your ear is when it’s sitting on the bathroom sink waiting for you to towel off. Whether it’s connected to a walkie-talkie or tied to your belt loop is inconsequential. This, along with an ominous disposition, will have everyone around you treading cautiously like a bunch of eggs on stilts, which is a critical step for achieving Rule No. 3: AVOID GETTING HIT.
Violence never solves anything. Now, maybe some of you young guys are thinking to yourselves, “Why shy away from the contact? Isn’t the whole point to be justified in dropping the hammer on ex-frat boys who’ve had one too many Jäger bombs?” Well, I’m here to tell you, guys, being the tough guy is all fine and dandy until a nurse is picking shards of an Amstel Light bottle out of your skull with a sterile pair of needle-nose tweezers. Not fun. The guy in Row 2 with the lightning-bolt-shaped scar across the side of his face knows what I’m talking about. Don’t smile, fucko—this isn’t funny.
And with the growing popularity of this damn ultimate fighting, the rules of engagement have been redefined. Now any Joe wearing khakis could possess the skill set of a Brazilian jujitsu master. One second you’re telling Chadwick that he can’t take his drink outside; next thing you know, Royce Gracie’s protégé’s got his legs wrapped around your neck like an anaconda, choking you out. For $10 an hour, you can keep that shit.
Moving on to Rule No. 4: YOU MUST BE PISSED OFF. Once the earpiece is in, you have to be on. Who here is familiar with the concept of method acting … one, two of you? OK. Before work, try conjuring a notable achievement from your past. Nothing gets me in the mood like thinking about the award I won playing high-school football for Most Time Spent in the Weight Room. And make sure your physique is in proper order. Keep dumbbells in your car and do curls during your break to get the pump. If you don’t want to lug around dumbbells, doing pushups in the alley is a suitable alternative.
Follow these rules and, I promise you, you will enjoy a long, confrontation-free career of keeping the club safe so that people can get cross-eyed drunk with minimal risk to their persons. Now my time is up, but if there’s anything you’d like to talk about in further detail, please do not hesitate to introduce yourself during the 5 p.m. protein-shake mixer in the Grand Canyon Room. And don’t let the looks fool ya—I’m a super-friendly guy.
You’ve been great, fellas.