Full Bars, No Service

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When exactly did “We’re going on a beer run,” get replaced by “We’re going to the bars”? At age 21? Passing up a house party for the bars makes about as much sense as Obama without a teleprompter. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for the bar scene, but never in lieu of a rager! Ragers don’t ’86′ you for getting too drunk; they encourage it. We’re in college. In my book, being in college is to maturity as being blonde is to intelligence. Fellow seniors can go ahead and blacklist me for saying so, but I’d rather drink with freshman at a house party than with snooty-ass, pool-playing grad students at a bar any day. So string me up for it, but I’m bashing the bars.

Let’s say you do roll to the bars because, of course, you caved to the classic ‘come-to-the-bars!’ text from some broad. You get there:

“Oh great, there’s a line to get in. God, I just want to get inside.”

Ten minutes after getting inside:

“Man it’s crowded, God, I want to step outside.” But you don’t. You push towards the bar counter and attempt to wave down the bartender for drinks you know will suck with a card you know you’ll overdraw. And then you attempt to wave down the bartender. And then you attempt to wave down the bartender. And then you attempt to wave down the bartender… Holy crap, middle children and texts from ugly girls get more attention. However, like rapper Macklemore, finally you get noticed. As always your tab is left open knowing full well that doing so is a mistake, but you’re too lazy to wait for a receipt to sign and God forbid you hassle the bartender by making him or her run your Visa to close a $5 tab. After chugging your drink down about an inch so that no one tests your optimism by making you spill half the glass, you spot the beezy that made you come in the first place. You tell her hopefully you can do the same for her later. Scratch that, she won’t get it. She walks over and says hi, but too bad as your buzz wore off so did your game:

“I got nothing…” You’re honest.

“Nothing what?” She’s confused.

“To talk about… um… what’s your major?” Like you give a shit. Apparently neither does she:

“I’m going to go find my friend!” Of course she is.

Looks like you found another way to not get serviced tonight. Congrats, Mitt Romney is better at gaining women’s favor. But it’s really not your fault. This is an environment for discussion of internships and standing upright; it’s no place for a functioning dipsomaniac. I think that means alcoholic.

The bars have too many lights on. Too quiet of music. Not enough dancing. Virtually no shotgunning. Bring me to a house party, I’ll tear that ish up like Hurricane Sandy. Let’s get back to those collegiate shit-holes where the only thing dirtier than the ratchet girl you’re grinding on is, well, the house itself. Aside from the sophomores with good fakes, let’s party with 17-20 18-20 year-olds again. Let’s send out mass texts to blow it up and then double fist Keystones. Let’s play flip cup and beer pong and piss in backyards. Screw those pretentious bars and those texts that try to lure you there. Let’s get back to our roots. Let’s go to a house party.