Boston: the city of drinks I can't afford and girls I can't have. I, of course, am speaking for the average guy. If a man goes through extravagant lengths of grooming, like "showering", he can assure himself a woman and, most likely, a successful future. But what of us who were born without willingness to improve ourselves? Last night I was in a situation at a fancy club, where, in the first 15 minutes, I realized that I was going home to watch Lizzie MacGuire again(which is conveniently aired at 1:30 a.m.; the time all lonely college kids get home after many rejections).
On the website of the club, it told of the strict dress code. My three friends, Tim, Anthony and Joe are Italian and therefore have an upper hand over a Scottish barbarian such as myself. Italians always seem "dressed up" even if they just rolled out of bed. I however, tend to consider "dressed up" as a collared shirt, regardless of its appearance. Thus I usually look like a child molester whose life has taken a turn for the worse. I guess fancy clothes weren't meant for ogres; it would be like Val Kilmer donning the bat suit…oh wait. When there's a dress code give up, it's hopeless.
The ad said the main event for this Friday was "bikini bull-riding". Where there are hot girls, and hot guys watching the hot girls, us average men are obsolete. We must always go for the slightly uglier friend who is two steps from suicide and needs a man to push her either on a bed or in that direction. But in these clubs Ms. Worthless won't even settle for an average kid, because she's jealous of her hot friend. So if the ad has scantily clad, hot girls, don't waste your time; the flyer wasn't meant for your hands young Frodo. Upon finding the club in "the alley", which I assumed to be a metaphor to my narrow, dark mind (although I doubt the 47-year-old manager who hits on the bartenders thought about that or me), I knew I'd have a lonely night. The long line out front was full of the same Gotti brothers clone, manufactured for the sole purpose to brag about cars and fighting or fighting cars. If there's a long line, consisting of said men and a bouncer with a click device to count heads, realize that you're essentially paying for a tease or a good car fight.
Inside the club there was a quaint, quiet bar on the right. I thought great, a place away from the crowd so they can't see me cry. When at my safe zone, I order a whiskey sour. Note: no matter how you drink whiskey you will always be manly; it's just that type of drink. $7.50 was the final price. Knowing that you don't have enough money to get you or a female drunk, means that you can kiss your erection goodnight. Of course if you can do that, stop reading and continue.
The final part of my epiphany ends with the dance floor, as most men's aspirations do. There were several sets of four girls dancing. An important part of hooking-up etiquette is never, EVER being that lone man breaking up a group of dancing girls. When groups of girls are dancing, they don't want men, they want men to want them. You're getting nowhere fast and awkwardly, depending on your dance moves.
Here's my only advice I can and will give in this situation: Be different. Play air guitar. Grind with the tall, black guy. Meow in girl's ears. Or, when all else fails, throw on the bat suit.