Clubbed to Death

Naz doesn't club. Naught, nein, nary.

Nope.

Today though, I said that I'd step into the club if everyone (and there were a shitload of people) did the same, and I didn't have to pay. Of course, as fate would have it, someone knew someone and I got that free pass that saw me stumble into a mostly-empty place which might as well have been an alien planet to me.

I was with friends, though, who had made a Pact not to indulge in any alcoholic behavior (well, most of them, at least), and who were the types who would keep promises made (again, most of them, at least).

We were joined by some newer friends, mostly excited, excitable younglings who seemed eager to raise the toxicity of their bloodstream. Eventually, one of them went past the point of no return and got herself quite sloshed. In record time, too.

A long time ago, I wrote something about girls, clubs, drinking, and how the three don't make for a very good combination, all things considered. That upset some people enough for me to take it down, not an everyday event, but maybe I'll revive it soon.

Probably the thing that annoys me the most, irritates me to no end, physically disgusts me is the guy that lurks around these excited girls waiting for one of them to get so hammered she is inebriated enough to not realize exactly who is around her at all times, but still in possession of the required mental capacity to stand and continue dancing.

This is when the afore-mentioned lurker swoops in for the save, chivalrously extending his trembling hands to the little girl's body whenever she looks like she is about to lose her footing. Or even when she isn't.

Sure, this happens all the time, you cry. Clubs are like that. Takes two hands to clap.

Doesn't change the fact that I have lost all respect for some people now, and those of you who have been paying attention know what that entails.