Dueling Guidos?

Every once in awhile you find a jewel in the rough.
Here's one, a blog by a New York City bouncer known as The Doorman. He has the right attitude:
"The one operative rule on this site has been this: when in doubt, criticize the living hell out of everyone. The one provision to this one operative rule has been this: when in further doubt, emphasize your point by repeatedly using various derivatives of the word fuck."

And anyone who can write this with a straight face, you gotta love 'em:

The problem with the do-it-yourself car wash is that it's infested with Guidos. The Guidos are there. They hang out in back, by the vacuums, taking up inordinate amounts of space for inordinate amounts of time. This is fine, because they're paying to be there, and they're working. Guidos work very hard on their cars. They spray and they wipe and they wipe and they spray and their brows are furrowed in concentration. I envy them. I wish I could maintain that kind of focus on getting my car clean, but after a while, my energy tends to dissipate. Unlike the Guidos, my resolve begins to fade. After twenty minutes or so, I'm thinking, 'I want to get out of here.'
The problem is, Guidos need a soundtrack. The problem is, Guidos turn their stereos up as loud as they'll go, tuned to New York's club music station, and pretend they're on the dance floor while they're polishing their rims. The problem is, two Guidos will be listening to the radio, while another is playing a CD.
What you have then are Dueling Guidos.
Guidos need this music backing them, so what you have , everywhere you go around here, is doom-chick-a-doom-doom-doom-chick-a-doom-doom... Culo!!!
Culo, Mami, Culo!!!
Everywhere, this "music." And what you want to do, when they're inflicting Culo, Mami, Culo! on you, is line them up, side by side, and bash their mutated fucking faces in with your fists until the brims of their hats face directly forward like they should. To hit them so hard that the resultant trickles of blood form streaks on their spray-tans. What you want to do is walk over and reach in and turn their radios off. And when they protest, what you want to do is rip their arms off and stick them up their asses.
Especially the fat ones. One of the Guidos at the do-it-yourself car wash was fat. He wore sunglasses and the brim of his hat was turned to the side. His car was an Acura, and it had a spoiler. This is a disease. This child has a disease, and what I wanted to do was beat it out of him. I wanted to be the antibiotic that treated his virus. Fuck him, man. Fuck these Big Pun wannabe dudes in their velour sweatsuits with their earrings and their hats pointing east and their unjustifiable arrogance. Fuck them all.
One word: conscription.

They don't call them Bridge & Tunnel people, for nothing. As The Doorman says: "Problems at nightclubs are caused by three things, and three things only: women, money and stupidity." And this shows the kind of shit bouncers get when they add alcohol to stupid people...