Off-campus: Bars and Clubs

The best four years of your life

You've eagerly awaited college so you can finally go out whenever you want and make poor decisions without having to explain them to your parents. So after your folks wave a tearful goodbye, you round up the freshmen from your floor and head out to the club. Many hours later, after you avoid the campus police and stumble back to your dorm reeking of beer and cigarette smoke, you realize that the whole experience might be greatly overrated.

A Typical Night Out

After putting on your designer clubbing clothes that will soon be covered in beer, you head over to your friend Ryan's house to pregame. Once there, you meet up with three other guys dressed exactly like you. Your posse for the evening also includes someone we will refer to as Ms. Jaded Girl. This fine young lady has seen it all and done it all, and is consequently burnt out at the ripe old age of 22. She hovers from bar to bar with different groups of people, desperately hoping to find some bolt of lightning to strike her back to life, all the while lamenting the fact that four years of heavy liquor and sex with strangers has made her look old and tired. The crew tosses back energy drinks and Skyy vodka, and cheers enthusiastically when Ryan blows 0.20 on his pocket breathalyzer.

Once everyone is buzzed enough, you head out. Large amounts of time will be spent walking from venue to venue and waiting in line, because everyone apparently has ADHD and cannot stay in one bar or club for more than 30 minutes. The college bars you go to are filled with bros, and every single one is suddenly your best friend after he's had enough shots. People who would never acknowledge your presence sober will have no problem draping an arm over you and talking uncomfortably close to your face, as the combined smell of chew and Bud Light destroys your nostrils. Ryan hits 0.30 and goes to the bathroom to throw up.

You spend half your visit standing elbow-to-elbow with dozens of other people trying to get a drink at the bar, sweating buckets and wondering if the club is violating fire code. The bartenders at this venue are all guys, meaning they won't pay attention to you for at least 20 minutes because you don't have breasts. Around this part of the evening you might start thinking, "Wait, how is this fun?" When Brock McRoidson finally gets around to your Amstel Light, he looks miffed at your fifty cent tip. It is perfectly acceptable to tell him, "Listen 'bro', I'm not giving you a $1.50 for opening my beer, it takes two seconds".

The girls are putting on quite a show of T&A tonight, but before you get excited, unless you're man meat they're probably not interested. Chances are you and your buddies will do nothing and just huddle at a table, pointing out the girls and saying to each other, "she's a 6 out of 10, tops", "she has no butt, but I'd still hit it", and other things that would make mom proud. Then after an hour and a half of playing wallflower and building your liquid courage, you decide to try your hand at talking to the ladies. You quickly discover that the average club girl has an attention span of a mosquito on crack. Not that it matters; no one can hear you over the ribcage-vibrating FLO Rida (feat. T-Pain) anyway.

Then you're finally successful in keeping the attention of one young lass who is clearly drunk. Despite the fact that your "conversation" lasted all of five minutes, two of which were grinding, she gives you her number. You return triumphantly to your table and are greeted by high fives and fist pumps. However, the celebration is cut short when Ryan vomits again, this time all down the front of his shirt.

The club closes at 2 am thanks to a city ordinance voted into place by fascist geezers who don't want college kids trashing downtown until sunrise. The other guys leave to go to an apartment after-party where they will likely watch Ms. Jaded Girl hookup with some guy on the couch. You are stuck with dragging Ryan home, who just blew 0.38 and by all accounts should be dead.

The Aftermath

The next morning, as you nurse a raging hangover, you question why people do this every Thursday through Saturday night. Then you remember - because everyone else does it, and they don't want to be considered losers. After all, television and movies told you that these are supposed to be the best years of your life and you've got to party it up.

You decide to call the girl from the bar to see if she's going out again tonight. She doesn't pick up or call back, which is understandable because she has absolutely no clue who you are. The only person who calls you is Ryan, who announces that he crapped the bed while passed out. But don't worry, he'll still meet you at Whiskey Bar at 11:30 tonight.