I bet you’re asking yourself, “Say, Bar Belle, what’s it been like, turning out a column of questionable journalistic integrity week in and week out?” Well reader, in this column, I am required to tell you! Over the past year, I’ve been forced into frat parties, thrown from dive bars and pushed to the brink of alcoholism – all for no pay and three dozen writing clips I can’t use because my name’s not on the byline.
In short, it has been a wasteful and irresponsible bender (sorry Mom and Dad).
But despite the miserable toil and crippling loneliness I’ve faced while performing my duties as professional social drinker for the country’s most expensive university, there has been one upside: I’ve made my fair share of drinking buddies along the way. It’s only fitting that I dedicate my final column to all the friends I’ve met on the job. So, this column is for the gray-haired stallion staked out at Marshall’s that’s waiting to pounce on the closest co-ed. It’s for the dealer who stalks L Street offering me cocaine bumps and sweet lies. It’s for the shoe shiner in the fedora and suspenders who goes by the name White Pony and sings Johnny Cash at The Reef. It’s for Miller, Jack and Three-Buck Chuck.
“But Bar Belle,” you say, “these drinking buddies you speak of are no more than strange, sad men who lead lives controlled by substance abuse. Many of them are simply names of different brands of delicious and affordable alcohols.” Hush, Reader. It sounds like someone needs a stiff drink.
Most of all, though, this column is for all the real friends I have – the ones who stick around with me, sober or drunk. Thanks for letting me drag you to different bars each week when all you wanted to do was play Erotic Photohunt at Recessions. Thanks also for the Goth Parties, the Cake Parties, the Naked Parties and the Olde-Tyme Round-the-World Balloon Race Parties. And while we’re at it, thanks for playing Erotic Photohunt at Recessions with me when all you wanted to do was go to any other bar – or finish your homework.
As my final year of college comes to a close, I’m glad I’ve got a record of it all: the drinks, the drunks and the debauchery. Its value to posterity clearly outweighs the everlasting embarrassment I’ve caused to my family and friends. So here’s to you, Hatchet. It’s been drunk.