A Non-Exhaustive List of Things I've Experienced at Da Club

I've been to what the kids call "da club" a grand total of probably eight times. Each experience has been chock full of fun adventures that have resulted in multiple different consequences. By nature, I'm just not a "clubber." Never cared much for the loud music, nor the ringing noise that followed for the two hours after you leave. It's just a whole bunch of sweaty, half-naked people running into each other, mostly because of too much liquor and/or too high of heels. It's really a train wreck, and if you ever get the chance to experience such an event, I encourage you to do it once. There are some things that should only be attempted once, and God help us if they happen eight times, like it's happened to me.
Going to da club requires some major work. You have to get ready and do things to yourself. You can't just choose a nice outfit because you don't want to look like you're trying too hard, but you can't wear a basic tee shirt either for fear that it might have something gang related on it, and then you have a Bringing Down the House situation on your hands. There's an old woman with an English bulldog in the middle of a race-related gun fight, and... where was I going? Oh yeah. Getting ready to go to da club is hard. And that leads me to the first thing that ever happened to me when I went to da club.


You just can't wear open leather vests to the club as a top apparently. Don't worry. I was not the one that thought that wearing a leather vest alone was an okay decision for a night out on the town. However, during my first club outing, we happened to run into people from the same dorm that we lived in. The girls looked like an interesting combo of a marshmallow and a biker chick. They decided to team up with us to go out to our next location. We paid our five dollar cover, but sadly, one girl was left behind. Even Marshmallow got in. But when we looked behind us, biker chick had been stopped at the door. She tried to bargain, offering to wear her jacket over the leather vest, but the bouncer declined. All that he would say is, "You'll take it off when you get inside, then we're just going to have to deal with (appropriate eye glance up and down) this." He wasn't having this Hell's Angel among the rest of the college students who were rubbing torsos against one another. Not in his classy establishment. So we acquiesced, let Marshmallow leave, and then stayed at the club for all of six minutes. It was nasty, and I don't feel comfortable talking about what happened in there.

I'm sure you're thinking But, Justin, what do you do once you get in da club? Well, you befriend the bouncer. What can I say? I've always had a little bit of a crush on authority figures. So when I was casually dancing with some friends in what I deemed "a sex pit," I couldn't help but offer my big bodied services in helping the bouncer remove two people that were lying on the floor with their pants unbuttoned. I didn't know that people actually did that in da club, but apparently they do. The whole chain of events leading up to that moment didn't make much sense, but neither did fornicating on the dance floor (literally). The whole event started when this lady of the night came through with her hands up. Hopefully you don't, but if you know what I'm talking about, she was that girl. Her alleged boyfriend came behind her, holding his crotch up with one hand, a talent that I'm convinced I could never pull off with such eloquence. Then he started stuffing dollars in her bra, then pulling them out and throwing them in the air. Luckily, my spot girl Patrice went around and pocketed those dollars as the event escalated. Eventually, they just ended up there, on the floor, doing their business. Once the coitus had began and the bouncer noted, I drew as much attention to it as possible and helped form a circle around them. The couple was removed and Patrice made seven dollars that night.

I'm not proud of everything that has happened at da club though, not that I was really proud per se of the previous two events.A brief wrap up of my clubbing experience includes, but is not limited to: returning a stolen traffic barrel that a friend took, picking up an Irish girl because she insists on planking in the middle of the street, getting your shoes thrown up on, dancing awkwardly in the corner without moving your feet, losing your friends, finding one friend only to realize that you've lost another friend, running into people you went to youth group with and finding out they have a baby, consoling your overjoyed friend because a drag queen told her she was beautiful, getting turned in for a hit and run, etc.

I always kind of thought that da club would be like adult prom. Everyone would have the party songs, and we'd all do the Electric Slide a couple times, and then we'd all end by slow dancing to SCLUB7's "Never Had a Dream Come True." That's not how it works; everyone leaves and the deejay chooses the absolute worst song in the world for the last song, and you get so disappointed that you leave and of course, someone leaves their phone behind. You get really pissed at that person and don't talk to them all the way home. From there on: it's your responsibility. When you friend, undoubtedly the one that forgot her phone the last time, recommends that you all should totes go to da club again, you are the one that needs to step up and pull a Nancy Reagan. Just say no.