Clubbed Over The Head

The other night, I was tricked into going to a nightclub. The wife and I were having a quiet dinner when she received a text. Seconds later, she looked up from her little phone and said, "Hey, Sandy's gonna be at 24K. Wanna go say hi?" Whenever we "go say hi", it never turns out good. If we were meant to go to a club, we would have planned on it. We wouldn't have planned on it because I don't go to clubs.

There are so many reasons I don't go to clubs. First, I'm 36. Second, I hate techno, house, drum and bass, and any other music foreigners dance to. Third, I don't dance. Fourth, I don't believe in paying a surcharge to be surrounded by people I don't like. Fifth, and foremost, I'm married and I don't have to subject myself to the aforementioned crap to get laid.

Clubs are the scourge of humanity. They're gathering points for assholes of all kinds. Trendy assholes and musclehead assholes and bridge and tunnel assholes and cokehead assholes and Middle Eastern assholes. Assholes love clubs! They work their shitty jobs all week (usually waiting tables, selling mortgages, or managing rental car counters), then they waste all their money on party drugs, ugly designer clothes, garish jewelery, and malodorous perfumes so they can shine at the club.

There's a hierarchy at nightclubs not based on merit, but based on cheesiness for men and hoochieness for women. If you're a guy and you wear sunglasses at night, you have facial hair shaved into a thin line from ear to chin to ear, and you bob your head at the first sound of an electronic beat, you'll be treated like royalty. If you're a chick and you wear undergarments that are intentionally visible to anyone with eyes, you have abnormally large fake breasts that you're not afraid to expose, and you flirt with cheesy guys at the first sound of an electronic beat, you too will be treated like royalty. I, however, do not get treated like royalty.

I cringe when the drinks are $15 and I take offense when the waitstaff scoffs at me for not getting bottle service. Bottle service is ridiculous with a capital diculous. Shit! You pay $400 for a $30 bottle of alcohol so you can sit down. I realize it makes you look rich, but if you really were rich, you'd spend your money on more practical things, like stocks (just kidding).

Anyway, the wife and I finished dinner and went to the club (yeah, I wear the pants in the family). 24K is supposedly the hippest club in Denver. Isn't that an oxymoron? Nothing in Denver is hip. I love that these days, there are hip venues in shitty places like Des Moines, Dubuque, Butte, Albuquerque, and Denver. Small cow towns should stick to country bars and dive bars. That's what they do best. Regardless, 24K has all the trappings of a hip bar in a real city, including the velvet rope. There, a large bouncer ID'd and questioned me. I guess being old at a club is the equivalent of being a terrorist at the airport.

Because my wife is hot and looks young, she was able to vouch for me. When we got in, Sandy was at a table with a bunch of basketball players. I have no idea why small towns lionize professional athletes. They're freakish and dumb. I'm short and I don't like sports. So, I can't stand professional athletes. The players were obviously happy to have my wife join them at the table and have her sip from their bottle. I, on the other hand, had to go to the bar. Since I didn't want to buy two $15 drinks, I was fine with that.

After about a half hour of waiting for my drink, I returned to the table and saw the wife and her friend having a grand old time. It seems as if Sandy also texted some other thirtysomething women to come "say hi!". To her delight, they all showed up. Thirtysomething women love to dance. I have no idea why, but it's their thing. Within minutes, they were doing what looked like a tribal menstrual ritual. I had a strange feeling I wouldn't be leaving anytime soon.

So, I stood in the corner and sulked. I already had a headache from the thumping bass and I was claustrophobic from being packed in like a sardine. Every once in a while, I would glance over at the wife to see if maybe she was ready to go anytime soon. She wasn't. If I asked her to leave, she would call me lame, boring, and old. Yes, I am all of those things, but I can't be called that by the woman I love.

Next thing you know, a cologne soaked body came flying at me, knocking my $15 drink to the ground. It was an Armani-clad jackass who got a little too into his dancing to see me standing there. He was about 23, right around that age where you think the world owes you something and you haven't yet realized that your life will suck once your parents stop helping you out. I said, "I hope you're gonna get me another one." He said, "Fuck you, old man! I'd kick your ass right here if it wouldn't get me kicked out. That would really suck. This place is awesome!"

He sauntered away and I was ready to explode when all of a sudden something occurred to me. This little fucker had the key to me getting home without looking lame, boring, or old to my wife. I would get kicked out.

I grabbed a couple of drinks from people that weren't looking. I walked right in front of the enormous bouncer and started to dance like I actually liked that bullshit music. My hands were moving and the drinks were splashing. Clubbing fools hate getting splashed on and soon, there was a major commotion. The bouncer grabbed me like a ragdoll and dragged me toward the door.

The wife and her friends saw me being carried out. I screamed, "I'm not lame, boring, or old! I'm just a bad dancer! See you at home, honey!" Ten minutes later, I was back at my house with no techno, no douchebags, a bottle of liquor that didn't cost $400, AND internet porn. Next time, I'll think twice before agreeing to "go say hi" to one of the wife's friends.