It is a calm, profitable, mid-week night at the strip club. Dancers are busy with their regulars, giving dances to them as the DJ is playing a curated list of unpopular-but-excellent alternative music. The bartender is busy catering to a pseudo-anonymous local tycoon, who is allowed to bend certain rules (hugging dancers, helping himself to extra napkins, etc.), because he’s a generous tipper and a well-known, respectful regular. The bouncer is bored and thankful for this fact. Everything is going smoother than a baby stripper’s butt...until the bro-nado arrives at the door.
Six dudes, in half-buttoned suits and/ or costumed in oddly specific, custom shirts—all of whom are exhibiting suspiciously over-polite gestures and acting a little too respectful of the rules—approach the door in a calm manner. Of course, this is because they have one ulterior motive: to cause utter chaos, destroy the vibe of the club and get thrown out. Before everyone in the group can get their wallets out, one dude in a car salesman haircut cuts to the front of the line. His puka shell necklace and Ross brand cologne give him away...he is the leader of the would-be-bachelor-party (which is actually just six dudes who will never find a woman to marry them), arriving at the strip club after being tossed out of Dirty or Dixie for calling the bouncer a racial slur and grabbing the butt of a waitress. He is, of course...
If there was ever a stereotype that does not deserve debunking, it is Douchebag Joey. Regardless of skin color, this guy embodies all of the worst character traits associated with white suburban kids. Likely a trust fund baby, definitely a daddy’s boy and undoubtedly unaware of the real world, Douchebag Joey packs all of his "bros" into an $80,000 car, that gets 30 miles to the gallon and was built in Korea for seven cents on the dollar. Then, he turns up the latest, overplayed "rap" (read: mumbling over a kick and a snare) "song" (read: one minute of the same hook, over and over again), merges onto the 217 at 120 miles per hour and declares to his posse, "We are gonna get laid tonight."
An off-screen narrator interrupts the scene—reminding the audience, "But, they would not be getting laid."
Joey and the crew then hit five or six bars and/or nightclubs, each of which ejects one member of the crew for "wack ass bullshit," such as calling a bartender a slur or asking a female customer for her phone number, address, Tinder bio, Facebook page, ex-boyfriend’s name and some cocaine. Oh, she doesn’t have cocaine? Time to call the bouncer a "homo," before getting tossed onto the piss-stained pavement. Rinse, White Claw, "TIME FOR SHOTS," new bar, repeat, until the clock strikes drunk-thirty, then it’s time to hit the strip clubs.
Of course, the image I’ve conjured up thus far probably doesn’t need any more details—even for people who have never been in a strip club. But, for shits and giggles, let’s just add some more qualifiers to the "What Makes A Customer A Douchebag Joey" list:
* Waving money around, but not parting with it. Joey and his buddies will sit at the stage, holding a brick of cash, but they will not share any of their tip budget until the dancer makes it clear that she will blow the entire group for ten bucks (the narrator interjects again, reminding the audience at home that the dancer will not, in fact, be blowing anyone—let alone for ten bucks).
* Requesting the absolute worst (read: overplayed and bad) songs from the DJ, insisting that "the bitch on stage" will love them. Selections include "Crazy Bitch," "Get Low," "anything by Tech N9ne" (even though Joey doesn’t know the good Tech songs), "Old Town Road" and "that song by Crazy Town." Then, after requesting these songs, Joey will walk away from the DJ both without tipping.
*Getting in front of the single-file line of his bros at the bar, then asking the bartender for a "strong drink," forgetting that since this drink is a measured shot of hard alcohol, mixed with a splash of off-brand cola, it is just as "strong" for every customer. The bartender then asks the whole group what they’re drinking, to which they all answer the same thing. One of them tips a dollar.
* Loudly proclaiming disgust and/or tactless, crass appreciation for dancers. "That bitch has a bruise on her inner calf...I wonder if her boyfriend beats her," Joey tells the closest person. The narrator attempts to explain to the audience that pole tricks cause bruises. Joey ignores this and further declares, "The fat girl is pretty cute for a fat girl," referring to a 90-pound dancer. "I’m going to give her some money for cocaine, because she clearly needs some."
* Asking the restroom attendant for cocaine, then being told "no," before doubling down and insisting that the restroom attendant must have access to drugs, because he’s black. When the attendant bites his tongue to keep his job, Joey pushes the issue, by asking where the restroom attendant is from. The narrator reminds everyone watching, that the attendant is from 12th and Burnside, ten blocks up the street. The restroom attendant tells Joey, "Compton." Upon hearing this, Joey tips the attendant a large sum of money that would have, in theory, gone to the dancers on stage. .
All of the above culminates in what I will call "the moment." Anyone who has ever worked in a bar (strip club or otherwise) knows what I am referring to—at some point in the evening, the bro-nado will be clustered around a table, standing up with their heads down, looking at their phones. There is a palpable silence as the calm before the storm gives everyone else the signal to leave—but, no one does. Suddenly, the dancer on stage stops her routine, in shock. No one knows what happened (yet...but, here’s a hint: it involves a poorly lit Snapchat photo of a dancer’s right buttocks), but she points at Joey’s table and yells out, "That guy! Right there! He just..." And, without missing a beat, the bouncer who has been eyeballing Douchebag Joey all night long lunges into the table, tackling one of the bros and causing a Worldstar-worthy display of whiteboy violence (chest patting, yelling, holding their bro off so he doesn’t "do something," etc.), which comes to a complete stop as soon as the bouncer decides it does.
After being kicked out of the club, Joey and his bros gather outside, to intimidate customers and harass passersby, telling them that the strip club they just got tossed from is "full of ugly bitches" and that the "bouncer is a fag." One of the passersby, a gay man, hears this and punches Joey in the face, causing him to hit the ground and be out cold for a few minutes. The remainder of the bro-nado comes to a frozen stop, staring at the random gay dude who just knocked their friend out. A stripper, who is smoking on the patio, witnesses the whole thing and decides to escalate the situation. This leads to a soft-R (or hard-A) N-bomb from one Joey’s goons, which causes a black passerby to pause, pivot and stare. A momentary race war breaks out, before the last of the Bro-hicans decides to diffuse the situation by saying, "Come on guys, someone could get arrested." Smoking stripper puts out her American Spirit and goes back inside. Another fight grows in the alley outside, as drunk people behavior is quite viral. The bouncer realizes why he gets paid on slow nights. Then, the cops (or, rather, a cop) shows up, slaps Joey and his friends with a warning and then lectures the door guy about letting in drunk customers.
As their reign of terror comes to a slow halt, Douchebag Joey’s posse of Tylers and Chads return to Joey’s 2019 Kia Turbo, where a six pack of White Claw and a bottle of shitty vodka await them. No lessons learned, no decisions regretted. Tomorrow, they will do the same thing again, because bloggers (and razor blade companies) who focus on "toxic masculinity" are too busy lecturing their allies (and customers), while ignoring the actual cause of the problem, that being the suburbs. Meanwhile, outside of every nightclub in the downtown area, a pile of broken puka shells drown in a puddle of blood and neo-Zima, waiting for a street sweeper to push them aside for another day.
For more of this series, visit TalesFromTheDJBooth.com or visit Facebook.com/TalesFromTheDJBooth.
