Checkpoint Charlie

It's a Saturday night, prime time at the club. You and your peoples are all decked out, ready for a wild night of drinking and chasing the opposite sex. But there's one problem that looms up ahead: a walking roadblock of a man with a contemptuous look in his eye turning the velvet rope into the Berlin Wall. Are you cool enough to get by Checkpoint Charlie? What's he thinking as you approach? Well, we did a Vulcan mindmeld on one of these Mongos and here's what we came up with:

I'm a man of first impressions, see. For instance, one Saturday night here comes this petite blonde bombshell and she's leading a pack of three more beauties. Before I can even ask the blonde for ID she's waving it in my face, smiling and looking up at me like I'm her daddy and she needs to borrow the car. She could be under age as the rest of them probably are - but I check out her license anyway, hoping her looks might be deceiving.

Do I want to let her and her friends through? Yes---these girls are delicious. Should I let them through? I am on the fence. Morally: why the hell not? I'm a bouncer, not a f-ing priest. Recognizing a fake is not as easy as it used to be. Quite the conundrum we bouncers must sometimes face. (Sigh.)

So I do what any good bouncer would do: I make sure all their ID's are acceptable, and then I pull back the velvet rope and feed them to the wolves. Do I feel good about my actions, questionable though they are? That's an assertive YES! These chicks were juicy! And I must, as a human being, contribute to my own species any way I can. If that means administering eye-candy to young male hopefuls in a steamy nightclub so be it!

That said, I'll confess here and now that if you're not a luscious female, you have no chance of getting into my club. No matter what bull you try and pull. Actually, now that I am thinking about it, even I have a price.

Quit your whining. Nobody said life was fair. And another thing, to all you random clubgoers: we are not friends, you and I. You don't know me from the gym, or from the supermarket, and I didn't date your girlfriend's best friend. You see, a man such as myself has seen and heard it all before- -- the deception, the lies, the drunken breakdowns of social corroboration. Know this as well, you petty weaklings: I am not a sensitive, civilized human being. I am an asskicker. And there's nothing I enjoy more than dishing out a good old-fashioned beat-down. Roadhouse style.

So go ahead, chastise me for getting hostile when your buddy mistakes himself for Hercules after a few drinks, or when your chick is puking all over the place. Feel free to lash out at me because you have to stand in line for an hour to get inside. It's survival of the fittest, you pinheads, and I just relish the idea of you resisting my authority.

The development of Atlantic City nightlife, though enjoyed by you, depends really on me---the gatekeeper. You'd better believe that I run a tight ship, and I sure-as-hell don't take any shit from anyone. So walk the straight line and chances are we won't have a problem. But remember, there's always the possibility that I just won't like the way you look.