In Da Club

I have never been a fan of the club. In my single days I occasionally viewed it as a necessary evil, but I could wear a catcher’s mitt on one hand and still count the number of times I enjoyed my sojourns.

The club, for the uninitiated, is the bastard child of the disco. It is a crowded, sweaty smoke stained room with terrible music blasting through the speakers. People wait in long lines to get into the club, facing rejection at the door, often paying an exorbitant fee to gain entrance. Once inside you are faced with overpriced drinks, the inane lyrics of The Black Eyed Peas, and the high probability that you might get in a fight with some stooge who couldn’t handle his liquor. Why do people suffer through such indignities? For men it is all in the hopes of bedding a scanitly clad woman, for ladies it is the desire to find someone to pay for their drinks.

My trips to the club have never led to sexy time. Probably because I was too cheap to purchase these beautiful strangers drinks or the roofie to accompany it.

This is not an environment where witty banter is to your advantage. Conversation should be kept to an utter minimum since the music is so loud that any words you say can be misinterpreted as any other random pattern of words. It is best just to get on the dance floor and shake your booty. It is not necessary to have rhythm or grace as clubgoers twenty years ago needed to perform the Running Man and The Roger Rabbit. In today’s (or tonight’s) club, the most popular move is known as grinding. Grinding entails grabbing your partners backside and thrusting your pelvis towards theirs as forcefully as one can to the beat of the music. The only aspect of grinding which requires any training is the ability to stop oneself from ejaculating.

The time in the club can get fairly monotonous. There are often different rooms with different djs playing slightly different variations of the same song, but searching for a more diverse environment coupled with an intake of alcohol will eventually lead you to the bathroom. After taking care of business you are left facing the bathroom attendant. He is armed with mints and a paper towel, He is the archenemy of hygiene for if you are not ready to tip the man marooned at the worst battlestation on Earth you must storm out of there as fast as you can after flushing the urinal.

In California the only good thing about the clubs is that they close early since establishments are not allowed to serve liquor past two. In Miami or New York however, once you are dragged to the club, it can be an all night proposition. In such instances it is best to get yourself a drink or three and pray that someone slipped a roofie in it.


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