While the #62 pros we allow to buy us drinks can wait a lifetime for us to text them first, there's only one man to whom we're left vulnerable every weekend and the only guy we'd ever think to approach: Bouncers. Granted, these big ass bald men not our usual type seeing as they're the overweight/over muscled loser from high school who is desperate to get a taste of the power he never had. When arriving at the club, Betches should always remember that this place has hired him to open the door for you and your besties only because he was too ugly to bartend.
The powers bestowed upon a bouncer are disproportionate to his status in the world and this gives him a false sense of entitlement. Bouncers are literally in an entry-level position. He is also usually pissed because he has to stay sober while a bunch of hot, fucked up people walk past him to rage. Despite all this, #20 clubs are the one place where it's socially acceptable, legal, and encouraged to discriminate at the door so it's no surprise that there's a special place in our hearts for not only them, but their gross, enormous gatekeepers as well.
Betches need bouncers the way they need reflective surfaces: to remind us that we look fucking great tonight. Betches only come to bouncers when we’re really drunk and ready to go, but unlike our #18 VIPs and our #89 BBBs, we actually give a shit what these bros have to say. It goes without saying that a betch would never actually wait on a line outside a club. She would always go right to the bouncer who becomes her BFF for the 90 seconds it takes to get into the club. The bouncer not only does you a favor by letting you in but he also does you a solid by not letting in the fuglies, minimizing the chance one will accidentally be photographed in the peripheral background of your pics. We wouldn’t be here if the club doors opened doublewide to everybody like the fucking subway, and if we felt like hanging around people with lots of inner beauty and shining personalities, we would have joined a different sorority.
Bouncers are the only members of the 99% a betch would have a #88 stop and chat with. While smoking a cig outside, pretend to give a shit about the bouncer’s life story, only interjecting to say things like: wow, I respect you for putting aside your dreams of college football stardom to keep randos out of the club. After your third trip outside, you will have hopefully developed a strong enough relationship that the next time you stroll up, you wont even need to drop the name of the #166 IB you're currently dating.
Let’s say, for example, it’s just after 1 am and you and your betches are arriving at the bar. You just spent the past three hours pregaming and getting ready, and no surprise you’re looking hot as fuck. One of three things is about to happen to you as you approach the Doorman:
- You casually stroll past the line like you own the place, which hey, your dad probably knows the guy who does. You show the door man your I.D.’s and you strut right in. This tends to be the most common interaction a betch will have with the doorman because we didn’t fuck the promoter. The fake down to earth girl of the group will most likely drop a “thanks sooooo much,” but other than that, his existence matters less than that of recycling bins.
- You approach the club, hand over your IDs and everything’s fine, then he decides to question your under 21 friend’s ID. You immediately reject the possibility that her aunt’s friend’s younger sister could possibly not be her. Is he fucking kidding me? Of course it’s her, and no, she doesn’t have a 2nd form because she is carrying a fucking clutch and had to be sparing with space. If you're feeling especially charitable you'll have the pro you're hooking up with just buy another bottle to get her ugly ass in but like, at the end of the day it's every girl for herself. I mean, it's not your fault she's wearing kitten heels.
- The final and most rare of scenarios will leave you frantically texting everyone you know that this club is over and were done with it. Whether your fakes aren’t working, it’s too crowded, or if this mother fucker actually has the nerve to tell you that you’re too drunk to enter after a mere 15 shots. Regardless, none of you are getting into that club. Upon the realization that no amount of bottles that your guy friends bought will get you in, you will take one final jab at the doorman, screaming some indecipherable shit at him and walk away like you didn’t want to go there anyway. I mean, how fucking dare he declare a legal limit to the number of people who are allowed inside his club at one time? Who the fuck does he think he is? Oh the fire department said that? WELL FUCK THEM TOO!
Usually, the relationship between betches and bouncers is all about the approach. The more time spent out of the cab but not in the door, the lower your chance of getting in anywhere that Leonardo DiCaprio is tonight. The club door is all about entitlement—namely, who is convincingly projecting the most of it. If you seem content or unsurprised to idle outside the door, you fucking will. Keep in mind that the relationship between us and our large tan friends is just like any other, in that you can’t lose sight of #32 winning: if you appear to care too much or piss over what this bouncer is going to say like it’s a fucking pregnancy test, you lose. If you make moves to wait in line like a nicegirl, somebody might as well yell that you don’t even fucking go here because you’ve just indirectly alerted the bouncer that there aren’t any vodka shots lined up for you inside.
Keep in mind that who you are at the door is who you are in life so make sure you stride in with confidence, this season's hottest fashions, and sans poor guys. Always remember that the bouncer is merely a fat man with a clipboard and he is literally blocking the entrance.