Most people enjoy going to clubs to dance, look for that special someone who is into guilt-free sex, or just to wind down after a stressful week of shoveling society's shit. But here are the drawbacks...
You're in your college dorm with some of your friends doing the normal things... drinking, applying cologne, and trying to get that Paully D blowout just right. You do all of these things in full view of the fact that you will come home with a sweatoflage shirt, a seaworthy scent about you, and a dilapidated excuse for a haircut. But all of this is alright, because you have the small percent chance in your favor that you might bring home a girl who is interested in all of these things.
Nobody said she'd have morals
Somehow, you and your friends start to dance with attractive women. Congratulations. Things start to get heated and she turns around to get a look at you/ do that knee straddling thing girls do sometimes at clubs. At first she seems content, almost unfeeling about you. Then, as your oceanic armpits and condensating forehead make their way into her field of vision, the tide turns.
You hear a suppressed laugh coming out of your ladyfriend's mouth as she motions to her friend to go to the bathroom. She tells you the unfortunate news that her "bladder" can't handle all of this, when you should very well know that your "waterpark" of an outfit is the real catalyst. She tells you that it was very nice to meet you, before darting into the surrounding sea of people and out of sight. Congratulations again, my friend. Enjoy your evening of remorseful masturbation as you curse the gods of perspiration.
You just got off work, and got a call earlier from some friends about going to a club. You don't have plans tomorrow (big surprise), and agree to their proposal. After trying to inflate your biceps with a quick milk-jug workout in the kitchen, you put on your snazziest wingtips and basically float out of the door and into your rusty Honda Civic. You're feeling good. The kind of good that makes people want to spend money.
You meet up with your friends, who by this point are so shitfaced that they barely recognize you. Even after all that preparation, you still managed to forget one thing- you are still sober. There is no rum-filled waterbottle relaxing in your cupholder. There are no cans of beer neatly stacked next to your exposed seat insulation. You are sober and desperately in need of some liquid courage...and the club is your last bastion of hope for something like this to happen:
Time to clean out the closet
Upon awkwardly exchanging your identification card for a demeaning look from the bouncer, you enter this dimly lit orgy-with-clothes. The bartender looks you up and down, sprays some sort of watered down whiskey derivative into a plastic cup, and hands it to you. It smells like the urine of a dehydrated Arabian shepherd, and has the coloration of gasoline. You promptly decide that your current alcoholic situation is more important than whatever this beverage does to your stomach lining and/or future offspring. By the way, that's gonna be $4.
An hour and fifteen drinks later, you open your wallet to purchase one more at the bar. Upon arriving at the club tonight, you could have fanned yourself with the contents of your wallet. Now it is a black, empty void. Except for that dehydrated, paper thin excuse for a condom you've had in there for months, of course.
Realizing you are broke, you decide it would be best to just leave in defeat as opposed to stay and be squandered for more of your non-existant cash. You ride home blasting every Bret Michaels song you know, crying all the way.
Upon arriving at the club with your friends, you find yourself fortunately intoxicated and decide to go dance with some randoms. Things are going good- maybe even great. Numbers are being exchanged, they're being witty and responsive, and the one you decided to dance with has eye-catchingly large boobs.
And what glorious boobs they were...
But after all these shenanigans, it's time to you to expel some of that alcohol from your system. You tell your female friends that you must be excused, for there is a bathroom floor/wall that needs to be peed on.
That feels better, you say, after pretending your penis doubles as a super-soaker. You recieve a horrified look from one of those guys who hands out towels in the bathroom, and march triumphantly back onto the dance floor only to see your girl being man-handled by another random dude. Ironically, you saw that guy standing right next to you bobbing his head up and down for about an hour. He was waiting for you to leave, so he could make his move on your girl. You have just been the victim of a vulture, my friend.
It's 11 AM. You don't know where you are, and you feel a throbbing sensation in your head that makes the throbbing sensation in your balls feel minor. There is urine on the couch, blood on your hands, and your clothes are nowhere in sight. You stand up, noticing the blended scent of sweat and bad decision making. Your car keys are on the table.
Once you arrive outside, the extent of last night starts to come back to you. The lights of your car are bashed out, the seats were neatly torn apart and thrown into the street, the windshield has a huge indentation of an ass cracked into its center, and somehow you don't mind. All that matters now is getting home and getting to sleep. By the way, you're still naked so let's hurry this up. Thank God you don't own a Vespa.
It's been a long drive, and you flicked off every toll meter on the way home. You laugh to yourself. Maybe they'll send you the pictures in the mail and you can put them on Facebook.
In your barely conscious state, you quickly remember a camera being present last night. In two seconds flat you are logged onto Facebook, ready to untag yourself from the pictures that could literally tear your career limb from limb. You see the red notification number that reads "476". You die a little inside.
Finally, you've worked up enough confidence to select "See All Notifications". Before your click is even audible, ghastly images violate your computer screen in a way that you never though possible. Your mind is flooding with the events of evening, as the pictures let you glimpse into the horrors of what happened at that club last night. You vomit all over your keyboard while you hurriedly erase these memories from a recountable database- at least officially.
Now who's the asshole who brought the camera...
Feeling kind and charitable, you decide to go to a club with your coworkers. First of all, these people are lame, and won't help you in scoring the vagina that you so fervently desire. That's a given. Most of them are fond of talking about their shitty life aspirations, and are incapable of picking up the hint that nobody cares. Needless to say, you're frustrated.
So now you're all pounding down drinks together. Larry, the douchebag from finance, is buying your drinks in order to carry out some kind of companion-bribery scheme. You don't mind. You hate Larry, but you love drinking. As far as you're concerned, this is a neutral situation.
Pretty soon the girls from the office start dancing. None of them are in any way attractive, so you take pleasure in avoiding them. Then you see Margot. She's the new girl with the horse-face and noticeably different-sized boobs. She's standing all alone, sipping a virgin Shirley Temple.
Oh God make it go away.
Larry creeps up on you like some sort of socially-depressed phantom.
"She looks sad, man. You should dance with her."
After you let this completely retarded statement fade from the air like an overpowering bowel movement, you politely tell Larry that you would rather blow an entire zoo than be seen dancing with her. The rest of your coworkers hear this statement, and proceed to back Larry up.
"Yeah man you should dance with her! Look how depressed she looks. Don't be a dick." Says Jake from management. You feel the pressure building behind you.
The crowd agrees in unison, forcing you to walk the plank into the sea of post-pubescent braces and virginity. You feel overwhelmed. Here goes nothing.
You ask Margot to dance. She bats her eyelashes with inexperience and you roll your eyes. Pretty soon the entire office is taking pictures and laughing, pointing as they jeer. You hear a few whistles, but continue your awkward dance. Below you, the menacingly different-sized boobs taunt. Above you, a subconscious spotlight has been placed on top of Margot and yourself, and it feels as though the entire club is laughing and pointing. And worst of all, your peers surround you. The song is over, and you ask to be excused- asking everyone on the way out if they know how to tie a noose.
The day has come. The new iPhone has been released, and you start to collapse your make-shift campsite from the Circuit City sidewalk.
This phone is everything you would want in a piece of technology, or lover for that matter. You love it. People ask to see it, you say they can go fuck themselves. You are Gollum and it is your Ring.
Deciding to celebrate, a group of you and your friends (who also have iPhones) go out to a club. Since you just had the best twelve hours of your life making mental love to your phone, you feel fantastic and decide to get wasted. In your drunken stupor you leave the iphone on the bar when you really meant to tip the bartender. The bartender sees your folly and pockets your obsession unfeelingly.
Upon leaving, you meet some attractive women out front and decide to impress them with your innovative technological advantages over the rest of society. Your pocket is surprisingly warm, missing the noticeable chilliness that a lifeless piece of cold-hearted technology has to offer. Your heart stops.
Literally. You just died.
You've been dancing for four hours straight. At this point, your friends are sitting against the bar, panting and admiring the fortitude you possess when in comes to gyrating yourself against random women. You've impressed the ladies around you, and they complement these abilities with a wink.
Needless to say, to get to this Super-Sayan level of endurance, you had to mercilessly drink all the alcohol you could afford. It's paying off in full, however.
Suddenly, a woman in the corner of the room catches your eye. It's dark, but you can see that she's an appealing mix of races and knows how to dress on top of it. Pushing aside the line of prospective women that want a turn with you on the dancefloor, you beeline for her. You get down on one knee and extend your arm out to her for this dance. She graciously accepts.
She is a woman that deserves your respect. You don't want to rush things with this one, because one day she might be meeting your parents or some shit like that. She turns around to get more personal, and you guys start hooking up.
In the background, you hear your friends yelling "No!" and laughing exhuberantly. Ignoring them at first, you continue on your merry-go-round with your dream girl. Soon you feel flashes of light hitting you. Cool, they're taking pictures! Your roomates are going to be SO impressed.
But then, you trip on your shoe and slump down, fast to regain your balance and recover with a smooth laugh. And in this defining moment, a spotlight hits your dream girl's face just long enough to realize that this is not your dream girl. You have been looking at this woman through beer-colored glasses. You know, the kind Bono looks at life through.
Now you know.
In fact, the girl you have been with is quite heinous. You wondered why her jaw felt like she had neanderthals for parents...why she was unable to close her eyes in close quarters (which you previously thought was because you were so good looking)...and why her shirt felt like 150 pounds of "excess baggage". Well, your questions have been answered. And you proceed to vomit.
It's finally happening. A girl from the club has just asked to leave with you, and you are ecstatic. She's been hanging out with you all night, but even this was unexpected.
Suddenly, you remember the shocking truth. You don't have a house to go to. In fact, you're 4 hours away from where you even live. Bummer. But wait! That guy who invited you tonight has a van! You ask your lady to hold on for a minute while you sort things out with Dan or Dom or whatever his name was. You find him by the bar, and he willingly gives you his keys.
Smiling like a little kid again, you run to your date and escort her to the beat up van in the parking lot.
"Are you serious", She asks.
You laugh to yourself, thinking she should be thanking you this isn't the cramped backseat of your eco-friendly car and is in fact a spacious yacht in comparison. You're classy, she's just obviously used to vans by now. You peel apart the back doors, and show your love companion her romance den.
Pictured: The Romance Den
The next morning, you wake up in the van alone with your wallet missing and dignity permanently blemished. Had this van in fact been a house, or even RV, this situation might have turned up differently. But that's too bad, because you're in the middle of nowhere with a rapist van at your disposal. You did your best, compadre.
It's late, but the club is still crowded with people desperate to attract a mate and enough liquor in their systems to pull it off. You and your best friends are here to celebrate your promotion to boss of the Finance department, and are pulling out all the stops. Girls radiate to your group's confidence all night long as you drop barely intelligible drunken pick-up lines like "Baby why are you so selfish? You get to have that body for the rest of your life, and I only want it for tonight".
The modern woman apparently loves sketchy pickup lines about sex, because they're all over you guys. You attach to one of these girls and you guys drift towards the bar. You tell her you don't have money on you as a social experiment, and she immediately turns around and leaves. Good one.
You shrug and try to play it off, but the bartender just witnessed your comical put-down and pours you a free drink. Then another. And another. And pretty soon you realize that you just spent an hour drinking with the bartender talking about how much girls "hurt your feelings without realizing it". He tells you to grow a pair.
On that note, you decide to go look for your friends. You look on the top floor where all the creepy vultures stalk their prey, the bathroom, the parking lot, and dancefloor- everywhere. An hour later of mowing this sweaty lawn and you still can't find anybody. The sons of bitches must have left you.
A beer bottle smashes to your right. Your friends are sitting on the bench out front, laughing at your retarded search. You play it off as a joke, when deep down inside you feel your soul sink. Once you get home, you'll probably take a 3 hour shower sitting in the fetal position and watch Taylor Swift music videos online. Congratulations, boss man.
Your car is in the shop. However, you decide to go clubbing anyways because you're POSITIVE you'll find a ride home. After all, somebody's bound to live on your side of town, right?
The night's just about over at this point. Everybody is clearing out, leaving you to fend for yourself in the parking lot. You ask Bobby. He says his car is full of drunk guys who like to throw up. The trashbags in his hands let you know he is telling the truth.
You see Dawn, and ask if she has room. She points to the backseat, which is laden with old laundry she's taking home for her mom to wash. Also, her scary black boyfriend is in the front seat. You pass.
And yes, he's wearing the medallion.
Finally, you spot Reese. He's vaccuming out his car in the parking lot as you approach. As you get nearer, the unmistakeable scent of fish arises. This time you don't even ask. On to the next one.
Ahh, Sean. He's a childhood friend of yours, and you're positive that he'll help you out. Upon telling him your car situation, he responds by explaining to you that what you did was fucking dumb, and if you want to learn anything from this situation he'll just leave you high and dry. Before you even respond, car exhaust and topsoil are getting kicked up into your face thanks to his burnout in the parking lot. As his lights fade into the distance, you realize what friends are for.
Finally, you give up. You hail a taxi in the parking lot and sit, depressed as ever, in the back seat. You don't even talk to the driver just because you know he'll ask "why couldn't you find a ride home?".
The whole ride back is quiet and awkward. But you deserve it, you goddamned mooch.