Why You Shouldn’t Feel Bad About Being Rejected by Expensive Clubs in NYC

    April 18, 2013 at 4:30 am

    Spend four hours getting dressed up only to have the bouncer glance at you and briskly shake his fat head a crushing “no” before turning away? Travel through a rain storm and wait an hour in the rain behind girls wearing the ugliest $2,000 pairs of shoes you’ve ever seen only to get dismissed by a party promoter who looks like a disco leprechaun with a clipboard? If you’ve been turned away from an exclusive club in NYC, don’t wander home sobbing and kill yourself. Here’s why you shouldn’t feel so bad after all:

    The club is a secret code name for ‘a congregation of dicks.’ Almost everyone inside that room is a dick. It’s rare that anyone inside has anything interesting to say, besides the occasional bleak insight into the empty cavity where their souls should be.

    Even if inside lies at least one or two people who haven’t melted their brains out of their ears by way of cocaine, binge drinking and being completely obsessed with money in an evil, (mighty ducks guy) kind of way, it wouldn’t matter. You can’t hear a fucking thing. There’s nowhere you can go but outside where you can have a conversation with someone.

    Inside is for shouting matches. Sometimes you give up trying to talk, resulting in awkward silences that are almost louder than the music.

    The cost of a single mixed drink could buy you an entire lunch. A lunch which you could split into two meals, lunch and dinner, while keeping portions more than reasonable. Unless it’s a fucking health potion that’s going to give you +5(whatever) abilities, a vodka tonic should not cost $14.

    If you’re there to see a promoter, being rejected from the club is only saving you from looking like a total fuckbag idiot by being one of many people in a circle, all holding icy glasses out to the dude with the bottle like he’s Jesus handing out bonerwine.

    After you finish pleading like a dick and have gotten your drink, expect all the free booze you were promised to come trickling in at slow intervals; promoters are only allowed a limited number of bottles during the night and won’t be pulling them all out at once to get your cheap ass wasted.

    (NOTE: That last thing is usually not true unless the party is absolute shit and no one has shown up; no bar’s idea of a party is getting three lone idiots blackout drunk for free).

    And speaking of drinks, I hope you like vodka because that’s all you’ll be getting. You don’t get to order; you choose a mixer. Luckily, vodka is my favorite so this is more of a perk than a problem for me.

    Let’s talk about the people again. As I type this, I think of all the nice, interesting, smart people I’ve met at “Da Club” and feel bad for what I’m about to say. I think of them reading this (which is a joke already) and already hope they wouldn’t think that I’m referring to them. However, the quantity of those people is so overshadowed by the number of sheer dicks I have met at these places that it is truly mind blowing.

    I sometimes feel like I’m an unwilling participant in someone else’s Twilight Zone, like I’m the only one not in on the joke that is my life. That’s how many jerks and morons populate these places; they make me question my own existence on this earth.

    The alcohol, the need to be seen, the need to feel cool (and cooler than others, sought after, revered), the need to seem like you’re having the most fucking fun on the planet and way more fun than you, wooo!!! And something else I can’t quite put my finger on because it’s fucking retarded has turned these people into full blown assholes. But if you’re looking for drugs, you just got rejected from the wrong place. Because if you got in, you would be in the right place.

    Oh, and the music is often shit.

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