So the weekend is here, and it's time so hit the town, huh? Want to go to a place where girls dance in large, bulletproof circles? A place with bass notes that can effect the earth's rotation? A place with an overheated dance floor where douchebags with popped collars grind your ass without permission? A place where you can walk through crowded areas and have drunk people's sweaty shoulders hit you in the mouth? Well you are in for a treat, my friend.
As you can see, we have a velvet rope out front. This indicates importance. You know you are entering a classy joint when there's a velvet rope. It really screams "exclusive." See also: "movie theatre" or "mall bank." You will pay a cover charge that will gouge your ass like a Vlad III pike. Of course, we're not going to let you wear your coat in the club, so that will be four more dollars to simply put your coat on a wire hanger, and don't forget to tip this soldier of fashion for having to walk up to a marathon-esque thirty feet.
Now that you have the honour of stepping inside the premises, it's time to meet our ready and capable staff:
"Are you sure this is you in the photo?"
I roll up my sleeves to make my arms look bigger, know the radio ten-code off by heart, and call all the customers "perps". I am under the false sense that women are into me because I am a bouncer and I give a bad-boy image of security. I also collect empties from around the bar and stack them in cases. Later on, I will select ten customers at random to throw out so more can come in and pay the rip-off cover. Then I will get ice for the bartenders. I also watch Road House before my shift. Always.
Ego Grade: B+
"I am a bartender. in the Industry."
My name is probably Ricky, and I do a LOT of preacher curls at the gym. I have seen Cocktail 237 times and it still gives me the hippy-hippy shakes. I treat hot women like royalty and all male customers with humble scorn, sometimes calling them "chief" or "bro". I will charge you seven dollars for a Red Bull and allow you to drink one third the can, dumping the rest out of the sink. Sometimes I will ignore paying customers for eight straight minutes to yak with my hot co-workers, finally serving them with a purely condescending manner to charge them eleven dollars for two dollars worth of beverage. Don't forget to tip your bartender, folks. Or his pee is going into your long island ice tea.
Ego Grade: A-
"Dude, I'm trying to spin here."
AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW yeah son this track is SLAMMIN. I am a DJ. I bring this up in virtually every conversation I have ever had with a new person. I don't actually know how to mix songs, but my laptop secretly solves that problem for me. I hardly do a thing and get paid eight times the amount of the door staff while playing pre-recorded music by various artists. If you are a hot girl, I will invite you in the booth in hopes of rubbing up against you, if you are a dude I will flip on my headphones when I see you in my peripherals so I don't have to tolerate your bullshit requests. Fuck off, I have magic to create here.
Ego Grade: A to B
"I have the power to fire you monkeys."
I am the bar manager. Not the bar owner, but a guy can dream. I wish Tony would sell me this place, I would have it SO bumpin'. Instead, I use my little authority to keep employees on eggshells and sexually harass the hot females staff members by overstating my leverage. When a fight breaks out, I believe I have the authority to use a blunt-force weapon in the fight, and will direct the arriving police at only customers to avoid red tape. I have perfected skimming the count to perfection and have a lot of chest hair. FUCK I wish I owned this place.
Ego Grade: infinity
There are various areas of the club. First upon your arrival is the parking lot, which will consist of many poorly-parked cars by not-so-sober drivers who pee on handles of other cars after spilling out into the dirty gravel. Guys will throw empties against granite brick walls and yell "LET'S GET SOME FUCKIN' PUSSY BOYYYYYYYYZ!!" while girls will stumble in painfully tall heels on poorly-graded construction clay. After that little obstacle course you arrive at the front door, which consists of a long line to the right of ugly people, a shorter line to the left of good-looking people, and an invisible line where if you look close you will see women with breasts appear in front of the bouncers for a split second, then magically disappear into the club.
After the shitshow wait in line watching your friends hit on girls that hate them and listening to everybody complain about how "Fuckin' freezin' it is out here, meng!!!" you are in the club, ready to cut rugs, dazzle ladies and put on a drinking clinic. Of course, you have something in the way of that much-needed first drinks(s). The Sea Of Money-Waving Assholes, a gigantic crush of mostly men waving various bills around in the air and calling bartenders "buddy" and "chief" and stealing tips off the bars by pretending to lean too far over and scooping them with their hands. You will get drinks splashed down your side and have your feet stepped on by spiky high heels. You will finish your drink before you finally get to your table, which will consist of a surface four feet off the floor with the circumference of a frisbee and will shake if sneezed on.
But hey, the music's bumpin' and you wanna hit the dance floor. Now, if you're white like me this is already-- in its own way-- a lost cause, so the plan is to let the dance floor pack up with enough women and rhythmic ethnics that nobody will notice your terribleness. If they're playing 90's R&B, that's the cue for females' asses to be ground by raging semis from behind. House music is the cue for frighteningly happy people with large pupils to perform dancing featuring arms moving in many directions. The top 40 and hip-hop is the usual flavour at most bars, which results in small groups of men shuffling around in trains between dancing women waiting for one drunk enough to start rubbing her shit all over him. That's the cue for him to give his friends that sly "This bitch soooooo wants me" smirk and ditch his buddies to cut a rug with Coyote Ugly. Guys, don't dance on speakers or tables. Nobody wants that since it's for pretty drunk girls and if you get hit in the face with a loaded pint glass just pick yourself up, spit the blood out and accept you made a huge mistake.
Of course, you may need some fresh air to flush the pungent mixture of Axe from your lung so you may want to go outside on the patio, a concrete slab painstakingly decorated with nothing. Here you can witness male customers on the patio throw punches at men walking by on the sidewalk and on the other end clothing-hating noisy girls sans underwear falling drunkenly when their heels catch on the slab joints. It's a place where they force you to dump your drink into a shitty plastic cup and you can have menthol cigarette smoke blown directly up your nostrils by a woman that just vomited into an open garbage pail. Drinks do have a habit of being cheaper out here so it may be worth having to shiver around umbrella space heaters, at least until you find a girl drunk enough to fall for one of your jokes that you stole from a stand-up comedian.
No bar journey can be complete with at least half a dozen trips to the restrooms, where people do things that by and large, are disgusting.
Eventually all good things must come to an end, and when those lights come on and nuke your retinas, it's time to start shuffling out the door and pathetically trying to locate fictitious after parties and desperately trying to score the leftovers. Most instead will settle for street meat and discreetly throwing up on the cab floor on the way home.
Free cover before 11.
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