SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR FIGHTING

Saturday night, 11:45 p.m.

We've got a full house in the club. The kind of night where you just hold your bladder because it's going to take forever to work your way through the crowd to get to the bathroom and back before the song that's currently playing ends.

So I'm standing in the DJ booth doing the Peepee Dance which is sort of like Freak Dancing in that I've got my hand squeezing my genitalia firmly but it's to keep the urine in and not to look like a gangsta.

Speaking of which ... it may be cool for today's gangstas to walk around with their hands on their crotches all day long ... but would that have flown in the day of the real gangsters? I'm having a hard time picturing a 1930s gangster all dressed in black with a fat cigar hanging from his lips and cradling his balls like they were made of crystal.

Anyway ... I've gotta pee ... huge crowd in the club ... can't get to the bathroom and keep a dance floor going at the same time ... debating on pissing my pants.

At this point, a guy starts talking to another guy's girlfriend out in the crowd.

I have no idea what was said between the guy and the girl.

Judging by the aftermath, I'm guessing that the conversation went something like this:

GUY: "Hey. Wanna fuck?"

HER: "I have a boyfriend."

GUY: "I said, 'Do you want to fuck'?"

HER: "He's standing right behind you."

GUY: "So do you want to fuck or not?"

HER: "Honey, please start beating the living shit out of this guy for me."

Because it was right about this time that this huge mofo punches this guy in the top of the head, taking the guy down to the floor with one punch.

Then the guy starts kicking the living shit out of him. He's landing foot after foot into the guy's belly while the crowd around them tries to distance themselves from the guys.

I see the crowd part like the Red Sea and think "Now's my time to run to the bathroom!"

But, as always, I'm caught in a dilemma.

I'm a big boy myself.

I used to be a bouncer (a private shout-out to Mattie Gee there).

But as big as I am ... my bladder is a teeny-weeny one.

Most five year-old girls probably have bigger bladders than me.

Being in the bar business as long as I have, I know enough not to yell "OHMIGOD! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" into the microphone like a frantic cheerleader.

All that does is send people flying out the door.

The protocol in this situation calls for the male employees of the bar to drop whatever they're doing, rush to the scene of the fight, pull the fight apart as quickly as possible and usher the fighters out the door with no regard to bar tabs or friends left behind.

So I jump out of the booth and start running over to the fight when I see the bartenders have beaten me to the scene.

I pull one bystander aside and dive in to grab the shoulders of the guy getting his ass kicked.

When it suddenly dawned on me ... I'm a DJ.

I'm NOT a bouncer.

I'm 44 years old.

I haven't broken up a fight since 1988.

That was 18 years ago.

I've got a wife and kid at home.

This guy could have a gun on him.

THIS ISN'T MY BAG.

Seeing as how the bartenders were laying on top of the guys, the two bouncers were on their way to help them (I'm telling you ... the place was PACKED), I just whistled casually and slowly walked away from the fracas.

...And straight towards the bathroom.

The bathroom had emptied out because every guy likes to watch a fight.

Drunk guys in bars are fascinated to watch how the bar employees handle these things.

And I've gotta hand it to these other employees, these guys are QUICK and don't mess around.

By the time I was done going pee-pee, the two fighters (or the fighter and the guy getting the living shit kicked out of him) were outside and sent home.

I worked my way through the crowd to the DJ booth and made the smooth transition from Petey Pablo's "Freak-A-Leek" into Usher's "Yeah" without missing a beat.

The dance floor grew even larger with people dancing through the crowd on their way to the dance floor.

It was a good night.

I had urinated.