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I tend to pride myself in being cool. I own several
different types of sunglasses which I wear on varying occasions, my jeans have
small, trendy rips in them, and I go to a club called The Gallery.
This place, in Plaza New York
just off Calle 50 across from the World
Trade Center,
is supposedly the new hipster joint since the ever-standard Next has been
temporarily closed. Because my friends hold my social status in such high
regards, I decided to see what all the hype was about and casually make my way,
one Saturday night, over to The Gallery where surely hundreds of women would be
waiting for me. "Not right now Linda" I'd shrug. "I'm dancing with Cindy."
Because my friends are so popular, they got me on the list
and I was allowed to enter free of charge. But once inside, I found it to be
pretty boring. The club itself is not that big—about the size of a movie
theater—and all the people were just standing around looking at me. “No
autographs” I pleaded, but they just kept on snapping their photos. It was 1 AM and things hadn't really started yet.
The drinks were fairly expensive (about $5/per and $50 for
the entire bottle) and I just found the music to be too loud and not up my
alley. There were several attractive womens sitting near the bar and when they
asked me for my phone number I gave them the wrong digits: not enough studmuffins to go around I guess.
The crowd was too young also. Lots of teenie bopper-looking
girls if there exists such a thing in Central America.
The last straw, was when I went outside to make a phone call, the bouncer—some big
hyena of a man—wouldn’t let me back in without standing in line all over again
and paying the cover charge. “Excuse me” I begged to him in the sort of voice
that really said, “move aside or I’ll make you”. He didn’t budge and I decided
The Gallery wasn’t quite cool enough for me, so I left and went to sleep.
Lying there in my bed, several of my friends called my cell
phone and asked where I was. “Oh, I am up in the special VIP area” I told them.
“The party up here is great, but you won’t be able to get in.” I then hung up
the phone and fell asleep while watching a movie with Chuck Norris: Chuck
Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.
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