Everyone In My County Has Brain Damage

I may be just an awkward white kid from the suburbs, but at least I have one saving grace: I KNOW that I am. I wouldn’t bother pretending that I’m a thug, or a club rat, or a prostitute/hotel heiress. What you see is what you get. It’s one of those qualities about myself I never really admired until recently.

Saturday was my friend’s birthday, and so, with expectations of drunken debauchery in my head, I drove into the bar area of my little suburban neighborhood. I must have been out of my fucking mind. Because apparently, I’m the only person in the county who realizes how fucking lame my county is.

As I pulled into a parking place, four girls stumbled across the road in front of me. The temperature was, conservatively, 34 degrees. Between, they had enough fabric to make one shirt that would struggle to conceal the torso of one of those starving african kids they show in the commercials. Which was ironic, because no one could ever have thought for a moment these girls were in danger of starving to death. Rather, they looked as if they had been force-fed butter, bacon, and congealed hog-fat around the clock for the last 20 years or so.

Really, the only hint I had that the beings weaving their unsteady way across the double yellow line in front of me actually had overies was the shitty make up that slathered across their faces. One of the girls had a belly shirt that was desperately fighting a losing battle with the enormous gut that was making a bid at consuming her blouse and too-tight pants leather pants. Seriously, if the lighting had been better, I guarantee I could have seen an outline of every wrinkle of her bloated vagina. It looked like Jaba the Hutt had gotten a make-over from a blind, transvestite prostitute.

Desperately trying to put the walking horror show from my mind, I headed off to the bar to meet my friends. Now, there’s a clear delineation, in my mind, between bars and clubs. Bars are places you go to get shit-faced on cheap beer and/or whiskey. Clubs are places you go if you’re into sipping champagne, looking bored, and wearing body glitter. I arrived at the agreed upon meeting point that was, in my mind, a bar. Why? BECAUSE IT’S IN THE MIDDLE OF ROCKLAND FUCKING COUNTY. The closest thing approaching a “scene” in 20 square miles was the 11th graders sipping stolen beer in their mom’s basement. That’s it. End of fucking list.

When I arrived there, however, there were two new features: velvet ropes and line outside. Never seriously entertaining for a moment that people would bother standing on line to get into a bar in the home of the world’s lamest night life, I proceeded to simply walk into the place—only to be stopped by a bouncer.

“You can’t come in.” he said.
“Huh?” I asked intelligently.
“Back of the line.”

It was only then that I turned my attention to the people waiting for admittance: hair-gel. Sunglasses. Leopard print pants.

“Wait, you people are actually waiting in line for a bar? You do realize that this is Rockland County, right?”
“Dude. Maxim is holding a party in there. It’s going to be rad.”
“And you’re hoping to over-power one of the maxim girls with your cologne? Jesus, did you use the whole bottle?”
“Man, whatever. This party’s going to be off the hizzle.”

That’s when I knew I had to leave. Because I didn't want to have to shatter his skull against the pavement. If the kid in front of me were any paler, he would have been in imminent danger of being mistaken for a snowman--provided snow men wear armani shirts open at the chest and bathe in Aqua Velva. Besides, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was roughly as black and gangsta as Rick Moranis…of course, that was before the escalade piloted by a 23 year-old white kid drove by, blasting rap.

It’s then that I realized: apparently, I was the only person in town that night who didn’t think he was something he wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t a hot model. I knew I wasn’t black. Most importantly, I knew that I was in Rockland fuck County. And until the rest of you fat, brain-damaged white kids figure that out, I’m through with the night life.