Reader’s note: This story is satirical in nature and published in a spoof issue.
Our Bar Belle will roam D.C. reviewing bars as she sees fit – even if she can’t see straight after visiting them.
Where: You fucking know where this is
Happy Hour: Yes, but only for hot biddies
I went to the best bar last night.
It included a whole night of $2 rail drinks and even the golden opportunity to dance on a bar. Or at least that is what my friends tell me I did, because I don’t remember shit from my night at McPhaddens.
Obviously, before even thinking about going, I made a Facebook group and invited everyone I know. I waited all week until Tuesday night, when the weekend finally came.
After first making it past the giant bouncer man, I stumbled downstairs. In preparation for this moment that only happens once a week, I pre-gamed heavily. It is a bad idea to show up sober to McPhaddens.
I immediately recognized everyone. I had even seen the skanks on the bar during the first week of my senior communication class. I call them skanks, because everyone knows if you dance on the bar before midnight, you’re just asking for negative attention.
My happy hour lasted only until 11 p.m., and we got there with just 30 precious minutes left, so I knew I had to make up for lost cheap alcohol time.
When I got to the bar, I ordered five drinks – all vodka cranberries, of course.
After hearing a mix of Jay-Z, Bon Jovi and Journey, I finished my drink and was starting to feel a little friendly.
As I looked up the stairs I saw that really cute guy who sits near me in my poli-sci discussion. We’ve never really talked, but I just felt like we had a real deep connection, and I wanted to make sure he knew what we could be. I marched right over to him.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey,” he said, looking a little confused or drunk – I don’t really know.
“So we have discussion together, and you’re just like really smart and stuff,” I said and just gazed right into his eyes the whole time, trying to flip my hair really seductively. I think I got a little drink on it.
“Thanks,” he said, seemingly trying to keep moving.
Obviously, he was playing hard to get.
I went to lean in for the inevitable kiss, but he backed up. I think he was just startled we were moving so fast. One of those skanky girls dancing way too early on the bar must have spilled her stupid rum and diet Coke, because I fell. Hard.
I just started fist pumping on the ground to let everyone know I was okay. I think someone even clapped.
All of a sudden, I heard my song.
“All the single ladies, all the single ladies!”
Oh. My. God. Beyonce just has such a way with words.
I got some old man in a suit to boost me and my roommate up on to the bar.
I danced, like really well. I know because people started taking pictures with their phones.
After staying up there for that Jay-Z New York song, represent tri-state area – even though I am from New Jersey, I can practically see New York from my house – and singing to an Eddie Money jam, I slithered down.
That’s where my night goes black.
I know I had fun, because I woke up with an empty pizza box from Dominos and a text from a number I don’t know, along with some tulips. I mean, it’s McPhadden’s. If you remember it, why would you go back?