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I’d imagine there was a point in time, probably in the late ’80s, when going to a club on Friday night was cool. I’m thinking Pat Bateman and his buddies being pissed off because the bathroom doesn’t have a good stall to do cocaine in.
But guess what, assholes? It’s 2015, American Psycho isn’t as relevant as it used to be, and clubs fucking suck. Am I a 24-year-old curmudgeon? Maybe. Excuse me if I don’t like spending 25 bucks on two vodka sodas, yelling over music to talk, and hanging out with bros who think a good one liner is, “So what was your major in college? You know I went to Cornell right?”
Don’t get me wrong, the idea of a club is fun. But the act of going is not. And even if you aren’t the goober from Cornell and will argue that clubs are “lit,” look inwardly for a second. I’ll bet there’s a small part of you that knows you’re a lemming for even considering a club to be a cool hangout spot.
What is the appeal? Techno remix of Ed Sheeran’s ‘Thinking Out Loud?’ Check. Girl you were trying to have sex with just walked out with some random she met five minutes ago? DOUBLE CHECK.
So why do people go? When I’m in downtown Chicago, there is never not a line at these cesspools. Let me hit you with some knowledge, though. Most people that frequent said cesspools are idiots. And you know exactly what kind of dumbass I’m referring to. It’s that dork from college who now works in finance, wears a different variation of button down and dark denim every Friday, exclusively listens to Drake, and thinks that if he throws enough cash around at some bougie night spot he can get a hot girl to have sex with him.
See, the main problem with this particular type of douchebag is that his social awkwardness borders on Asperger’s and (besides having a seemingly disposable income) just doesn’t know how to talk to people. So at this point in my article, I know a lot of you (who probably suck) are saying, “Hey John, how about you turn that judgmental spotlight onto yourself instead of ragging on others?”
Well, let’s fuckin’ go. I dress like a retiree, I’m currently living paycheck to paycheck in a hole that in no way should be referred to as an apartment, and I’m not the most attractive or intelligent guy on earth.
But guess what? That’s not relevant because you will never find me waiting on line at Club @tmosphere and paying Xander the bartender twelve dollars for a fucking drink. And to address my other claim that bros who go to these places are socially awkward — I’ve been to clubs before. The only people who ever have bottle service and a VIP table are sketchy bros and the button down/jeans bro I’ve described above. I don’t need a table elevated above all the poors to get a girl to talk to me. Am I unsuccessful? Probably like 75 percent of the time. But shooters shoot. And it’s a hell of lot easier at a bar with some Phil Collins playing and decent lighting.
I’m like the Doug Flutie of talking to girls. Did Doug make some questionable throws from time to time? Abso-fuckin-lutely. Do I make a complete ass of myself in front of pretty girls? All. The. Time. But Doug is now one of the most beloved quarterbacks of all time because he wasn’t afraid to take a chance downfield. I’m not saying I’m the most beloved person of all time. Quite the opposite, actually. What I am saying is that I’m not scared of the moment. I’ll go up and see what’s what. You have to at least throw your hat in the ring. Worst case scenario, she laughs at you and walks away. Pick up, move on. Rinse and repeat.
Guess what the squid in the baby blue H&M sports jacket is doing. He’s sitting at his VIP table with his dick in his hand and a fake phone number from a former sorostitute named Lexi (all her friends call her Lex, though). No worries. Lexi got her fill of free drinks from Generic Bro A, and is now ready to leave for a chiller spot. Hopefully, where I’m at. If not, that’s cool too.
Look, if you want to go to a club that costs 20 dollars to enter, dip into your savings account on watered down drinks, and listen to shitty house music, be my fucking guest. I’ll be the guy at the hole in the wall down the street tossing up Hail Marys to smokes — just hoping one of those trash bags comes down with the ball and takes me to the metaphorical end zone..
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