We get it, ladies. We get it. You want to dance. Shit, I like to dance too sometimes (albeit not well). But I need to be really drunk/borderline blacked out before hand and I prefer dancing with people I know.
Leo, Dave, Doug and a couple of our other friends head out for a night of boozing on Saturday. I know, shocking. No more than 10 seconds after we order our first round of Bud Lights, a bunch of Doug's friends come in. All girls. Not too attractive, but I'm not ALWAYS about trying to park my beef bus in Tuna Town*. I like to make friends.
Nothing is more annoying than when you're trying to hold a conversation and the girl is clearly thinking about something else. A couple of blank "uh huhs" and "oh cools" doesn't cover up the fact you're just using those as filler until you spew something moronic out. Every other sentence out of their mouths were, "We really want to go dancing" or "Do you know where a good place to dance is?" or "Speaking of Darfur, let's go dance somewhere!"
Damn. We just got here. I just started wiping off the condensation from my frosty beverage.
We finished our drinks and headed in separate cars to a different bar. With dance floor, of course. Cover was $10 for guys. Fuck that. I apologized to the guys for bailing so early on a Saturday night, but the mindless chatter with these broads had taken the wind out of my sails. And I sure as hell wasn't going to pay for cover.
An hour and a half later, I'm on my couch with a good buzz, 5 empty beer cans surrounding me, and Terminator 2's credit are rolling. I'd say that's a decent Saturday night.
* that was totally stolen from Bloodhound Gang's Lap Dance Is So Much Better When The Stripper Is Crying
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