Never Go To A Club

It happens once every three or four months. I allow my douchey, collar-popping, and assumedly date-rapist buddy to convince me to go out to a club for the night. Because, you know… promises of women on ecstasy and the hottest new DJ actually start to sound good after you’ve avoided it for a few months. But then comes the line to get in, and all of a sudden it becomes abundantly clear why I avoid this drug-fueled, oversexed fluid factory. First, you see the group of girls that walk right in. Sure, they’re gorgeous. Sure, they’re rich. And sure, they’ve been on their knees in the club bathroom so often that the cleaning staff has thought about strapping Swiffers around their ankles like shin pads. But it’s not like there can be more than ten or fifteen of them, right? Wrong. Then, you see the second group. Then the third. Then the fourth. And the entire time, your loudest and dumbest friend is chirping at the security guard as if it isn’t his job to let the ecstasy-toting slam-pigs ahead of the five single guys with mild scoliosis. And just when you think it can’t get any worse, then comes the JV squad.

It’s a common breed; the women who are clearly five years older than everyone, wear so much makeup they could chalk a football field, and get breast implants so guys won’t notice that she’s fifteen pounds overweight and has an unusual amount of back sweat. Guess what. We notice. We really do. But for some reason these unbalanced semen- dumpsters still get in ahead of everyone. Even with noticeable diseases and a face like Mask. Then, of course, the friends of the manager start walking in. Then friends of the bouncer. Then friends of friends. And with each new person you feel smaller and smaller, almost getting as loud as your friends so the bouncer will just break your jaw and put you out of your misery. But he doesn’t. He’s too busy smiling at girls that would gurgle a labradoodle if they thought it was getting them a free drink. It isn’t until an ID check, a 35-dollar cover, and a frisking that can only be described as ‘erotic’ that you are finally let through the door at 12:35 a.m. From there you meet the guy in sweatpants that even steals his mom’s Advil PM, a transvestite that will play meat- swords in the VIP section for a couple hundred dollars, and four guys named Taquito that have the ‘best pills’ in Los Angeles. News Flash: they’re all laced with meth, and your night will end with you shaving your tongue in a feces-filled bathtub.

So you get rejected by the only women worth talking to, dance with girls that were voted off of The Swan in the first round, and try to figure out exactly why DJ Fishkill is the hottest beat man in all of Armenia. And if you’re lucky it all leads to one terrible over- the-pants handjob in the corner of the laser show that you’re only HOPING was from a woman. At about 4 a.m. you stumble back onto the street, eyes and lungs adjusting from the lack of lightshows and smoke machines. You probably grab some Taco Bell and pray not to get stabbed by the local homeless. Then you end up home alone after a 25-dollar cab ride in which you’re sure your driver was calling you a gay slur. But alas, despite the zipper scar on my penis, my newfound tinnitus and the empty bank account, I’ll still probably be back in three months. Because really, how bad can it be?

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