Hey!

Long time no speak. Well, not really. I just spoke to you approximately 25 minutes ago when you alerted me that I could not enter your precious little club. I’m torn with my feelings on this rejection. Not because I wanted to go to your club so badly (I really didn’t. I had friends who wanted to go and I was simply following) but more because of the dumb rational of me not being allowed in.

It seems that you felt that I was wearing sneaker like shoes. Not sneakers (because seriously, I don’t think sneakers normally have an argyle print on them) but sneaker like shoes. Really? That was the idea behind your rejection? I would have felt better if he you had said “Eh, we don’t let fat guys in.” or “It seems that you may have one eye. We dont let the deformed in.” But a flimsy thing like “sneaker like shoes”?

What was amazing was that you allowed a young lady in a wife beater, baseball cap and jeans with sneakers on right before us. But me with dress pants, a button down shirt and a pair of pimping argyle print canvas shoes is unacceptable for this particular institution. I understand that. I guess I don’t up the eye candy quotient at your lovely establishment like the slightly slutty dressed patron who was allowed admittance. But really. Sneaker like shoes?

The sneaker like shoes in question (Yes they ARE pimpin)

I now have a special little hatred for you. Not even because I wasn’t allowed into your abnormally loud venue (which i wasn’t looking forward to. I’m not even 30 but I’ve become a seriously grumpy old man) but now since I am in an alien city not my own(Not that anything is wrong with DC), and staying with a friend who is currently IN your establishment, i now have to stay awake to assure her re-entry into her home. I could have requested we all leave and find a new place to drink and be merry but that would seem douchey to me. Forcing a group of people to leave because of your intolerance of sneaker like accoutrement. But know this: I was recently introduced to a young lady who has dabbled in the dark art of voodoo. I’m not going to wish death on you but a slow eating cancer seems like just reward for your inappropriate flaunting of power. I mean hey, i’m not a vindictive guy, but you having to have parts of your intestine taken out cause of “the cance” eating you up? Sounds like my idea of heaven.

Ass.

(This is what happens when you have to stay up and wait for your friends to come back from partying. You write unnecessarily mean blogs to people that will never read them. Ah well. Here’s hoping to the cance.)

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