How Many Tools Can You Fit in One Room?
When that same friend invited me along to another bar on Saturday night, I didn't think twice. I should have - because we went to a place that is everything I hate about a bar all wrapped up into one.
So, here's my internal monologue of my Saturday night at McUglies:
- There is a long line out the door and around the corner. Or is it just a bunch of self-important assholes taking smoke breaks or talking on their cellphones? Oh, I'm right. It isn't a line.
- A $5 cover? Is there a band playing? A comedy show? A famous DJ spinning? A dance floor? No? Then why the hell am I paying a cover?
- The DJ starts a "Let's Go Yankees" chant as I walk in the door. The Yankees game ended seven hours earlier.
- The ratio of men to women is about 3-to-1. The ratio of man-hos to sluts is just about even.
- So, I just paid a cover, and I'm now paying almost twice the cover for a drink. This is a bar, not Crobar.
- How many goddamn fratboys have said, "'scuse me, buddy" and put their hands on my body in a chummy way to squeeze past me in the crowd? I know we're in tight quarters, but there's no reason to touch me, unless my secret suspicions of fraternities have been right all along.
- The DJ is playing "La Bamba." There are only two places where "La Bamba" should be played in 2006: weddings and 20-year high school reunions.
- Seeing fratboys dance to Madonna songs is entertaining, until somebody gets hurt. And that somebody is me, who was knocked over by an overzealous asshole dancing to impress a girl. Again, it doesn't do much to disprove my theory on fraternities.
- How many "shout-outs" is the DJ going to give tonight? "Happy Birthday to Julie! The Brew Crew is gettin' down on the dance floor! A big wassup to all my homies from Notre Dame!" This is a bar, not a Z-100 Dance Party.
- How do these people even exist in New York? The fratboy is a curious creature, subsisting mainly on alcohol and bar food. Its mating ritual involves bobbing its head, violently shaking its body on a dance floor, and striking up awkward and meaningless conversation with its most common female mate: the skanky ho. They seek the nearest replication of their natural habitat in Manhattan: McFadden's.
- Most importantly: why the fuck is there even a bar at 42nd and 2nd? Seriously, who goes there? Nobody says, "I'm going to go to bar in the middle of ghost-town Midtown Manhattan on a Saturday night where not a single person is walking the streets."
See also: A Sign - Definitely Not From God