There are few bars that I really hate. Honestly, any place that serves alcohol can’t really be that bad (unless you count, say, a church or synagogue). Even in awkward biker bars, I can usually adapt pretty well. One of my buddies is even better at this than I am: a couple weeks ago, I took him to Mars Bar, undoubtedly a place where post-collegiate preppies should feel out of place. Within minutes, he was quoting lines from Full Metal Jacket with the regulars.
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