Opening Up My New Las Vegas Nightclub

I don’t get nightclubs.  I don’t understand them at all.  The ass baggers who will pay $750 for something called “bottle service,” which basically consists of a fifty-five dollar bottle of Grey Goose stuffed into an ice bucket with four glasses, wheeled out by a 90-pound waitress who’s now expecting a 25 percent tip.  Bottle service — VIP rooms — velvet ropes….it all adds up to a pricey parade of pricks.

Who in their right mind stands in line for two hours on Saturday night?  And that’s just to get past the front door.

What sadist puts up with this abuse?  Who stands there like some zonked out farm animal entering a giant slaughterhouse, subjecting themselves to the “you don’t belong here” treatment from a bouncer with an 82 IQ who bathes in cheap cologne, his one and only job gatekeep out all the stiff-pricked pretenders begging to rush inside just for the glorious chance to get turned down over and over again at a shot at getting laid?  It’s like some cruel medical experiment.

Do people really go for this?

Are there really so many clueless dopes willingly and eagerly forking over twenty bucks to enter a madhouse — where drink prices are utterly obscene, where seating doesn’t exist, where the music’s so loud and fuck-me awful you can’t hear your own thoughts, and were everyone prancing and preening in a jam-packed rugby scrum is a scumbag?  If there’s such a thing as hell-on-earth, I’m not sure how it can be any worse than a Las Vegas nightclub, other than perhaps the Black Hole at the Oakland Coliseum.

The mindfuckfest of the grand drama begins at the door with two distinct lines.  One is for “somebodies.”  The other is for “nobodies.”  Guess which line is shorter?  The somebodies are ushered straight in, whisked around like royalty.  Meanwhile, the nobodies might as well be flying economy on Spirit Airlines.

If and when you do manage to make the cut and finally get inside, that guarantees you a 20-minute swim through a sea of sweaty drug-infused bodies.  The goal?  Making it up to the bar to get a drink.  Once that mission’s accomplished, there’s the “HOW THE FUCK DO I GET THE BARTENDER’S ATTENTION?” game you’re forced to play.  Gee, what do I need to do to order a drink — do a handstand on the bar and light myself on fire?  When the miracle of getting a bartender finally comes, you’ll then be popped for $15 for one ounce of Popov Vodka shaken with lime juice.  Oh, and the bartender will just assume that extra $5 on the twenty was her tip.

The real insult comes once realizing that even when you’re inside the nightclub, you’re still considered about as intriguing to everyone else as a stray cat.  Okay, so you made it inside and you’ve got your overpriced drink.  Unless you’re Shaq O’Neal or Jennifer Lawrence, you’ve got as much chance of starting up a conversation with anyone inside this wretched place as Donald Sterling receiving a humanitarian award from the NAACP.  Oh, wait.  Bad example.

Oh, and then there’s the age gap.  The generation gap is alive and well!  If you’re a day over the age of 30, all the twenty-something twinks and twerps look at you like you escaped from a nursing home.  Unless of course, you’re really, really rich and/or famous.  Then, you’re suddenly the coolest guy in the room.  Whoever’s paying the bill is always the coolest guy in the room.

Still with me?

The real outrage is the nightclub caste system known as VIP treatment.  It’s Calcutta, India — but with shitty music.  The unwashed untouchables mingle in the general public area are stuck paying $15 for drinks.  The masses desperately seek out just one face in the crowd with a scant expression of humanity.  But the really cool people, the people far better than all the rest of us get to hang out inside the red velvet ropes.  They get privileged access to special cabanas and VIP rooms.  Because it’s so hard to tell one douchebag from the other, the richer douchebags are given wristbands.

Where’s Che Guevara and the Revolutionary Red Guards when you need them?

Truth is, these are the real saps of the circus.  The ass baggers who will pay $750 for something called “bottle service,” which basically consists of a fifty-five dollar bottle of Grey Goose stuffed into an ice bucket with four glasses, wheeled out by a 90-pound waitress who’s now expecting a 25 percent tip.  Bottle service — VIP rooms — velvet ropes….it all adds up to a pricey parade of pricks.

Well, if the world has indeed become a ship of fools, then I’m prepared to take my rightful command as the captain of all nightlife.

Accordingly, I’m opening my own private nightclub.

My first management decision is this — Sheldon Adelson is permanently barred.  And we’re not serving fucking Merlot.

TAG: Nolan Dalla writings