The Bottom Feeder

Dear Bottom Feeder,

I know you because I have been watching you since I first started in the early spring of 2009.

Through the summer you played like a broken record. It didn't take long for my co-worker and I to realize that you were wearing the same T-shirt Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.

As I made the transition to working the door I had to interact with you directly. Your complaints about the cover charge have turned me from a compassionate man to one who tells you flat out to "pay or turn around and head back out the door".

Your hair is black and it appears to be dirty. The look on your face can only be described as a mix between Bert (of Sesame Street) and Animal (of The Muppets). I see you in the bar on the dance nights with your one drink in hand watching women dance like a hyena fixing its eyes on a wounded wildebeast. It makes me feel a combination of anger, nausea, and disgust. In a way, I hope that you'll do something inappropriate so I can extract you from the bar.

The reason that I have deemed you as 'The Bottom Feeder' is because of your 'end-of-the-night' antics. You are consistently one of the last people left at the end of the night. Because you only bought one drink (for which you didn't tip, or tipped very little for) you are nowhere near drunk.

Like a bottom feeding fish, you circle slowly around your prey and look for the wounded to pounce on and devour. You have a knack for finding the most intoxicated women to 'hit on' and thankfully, all but two women have been able to fend for themselves (that I know of). Thankfully I was able to intervene in those two cases and get them whisked away in a cab, leaving you to head on back to your lair.

Last Friday you somehow succeeded in going home with a member of the opposite sex whom you (from my observations):
- Did not secretly dose with Flunitrazepam
- Seemed to be a nice, outgoing woman
- Actually made out with (see the afore mentioned mix of anger, nausea, & disgust)

Last night (the following Friday) you spent the evening deploying your usual tactics (all while the woman you made out with/went home with) was in the room. Yet, at the end of the night as you circled in your usual way, you finally wound up next to her and she winds up taking you back with her to some unknown location.

To the woman who has such lowered expectations I put out this plea:

Please have more respect for yourself. Please do not encourage sir bottom feeder. Please do not make me put out a sign akin to the 'Do Not Feed The Birds' signs as it would be tacky and likely upset a certain owner of a nearby establishment because of the problems she may have with the 'aesthetics'.

Yours Truly,
Me