(Don Bartletti/Los Angeles…)
After watching three episodes of "Full House," showering and pouring yourself an iceless vodka water flavored by three Pez pieces from last year's Easter candy, you're running late again, but no way are you not trying this new Blake Lively YouTube makeup tutorial. Ten minutes later, your friends are outside in a cab waiting for you to join them in the best club on wheels, otherwise known as Yellow Cab No. 428. The DJ plays only "Umbrella," but the way he takes those corners ...
Pull up to the club and ... LINE! Or rather, crowd of suburban chicks in their finest Bebe demonstrating their multitasking skills to everyone. They can simultaneously attempt to talk their way in and use a cellphone to text "the owner"!
You're in. Approach the bar for "starter drinks"—the ones you immediately purchase so as not to look like a lame loser with nothing in her hand. Think about how you are very, very broke as you sign the receipt. Push that thought to the cobwebby corner of your mind that also houses texts like this: "I made brownies, wanna come over :D??" No response from your ex.
See some super hot bottle girls huddling in the corner. Wonder how much bottle girls make and, 14 seconds into a thought process rivaling Mother Theresa's upon entering a leper village, contemplate quitting your job for a life of sock buns and first-degree sparkler burns.
Time for a lap! What you're looking for: a Bradley Cooper look-alike millionaire who respects women. What you will never find in this club: that person.
Is this club running a charity mission to help integrate Lower Wacker residents into the nightlife scene? No. That's just the Cubs' starting rotation relaxing in plaid button-downs and grotty T-shirts. Need a smoke? These guys have more cigarettes on them than the saxophone-playing Camel and are friendlier than the love child of Casper and Kelly Ripa, so don't be afraid to ask.
Commotion by the door! Your view is obstructed by Forever 21's entire spring/summer bandage dress collection, but it's clear from the duckling-esque procession of flat-brimmed Toronto Blue Jays hats—your always fashionably late Blackhawks have arrived. They've already taken over the table of some bankers from St. Louis—sorry, but "the boys" need prime real estate. If you look close enough, you can see the Stanley Cup glimmering in their eyes. Oh wait, that's just the reflection of a beer bottle.
You have to get out of here. Now. There is no other option. Your feet are on fire. The neon "Exit" sign is your only hope. No time for goodbyes. You are Columbus and America is your bed.
You cared so much about your hotness level walking into this club, which is ironic, because you're now stalking out and pushing people away with manly force to get a cab. Beg the driver to take you to McDonald's. Order three large fries and chicken nuggets before you can even begin to contemplate checking your cellphone for "Where r u?!?!!!!" texts.
Back home, in bed, fully naked, surrounded by McDonald's. Time to choose a Netflix documentary. Debate between the one about the oldest prostitutes in Amsterdam or the one about the North Korean Mass Games. Pick the prostitutes one.
Molly Fedick is a RedEye special contributor.
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