Karen’s Guide to a Toronto nightclub

This past summer I went clubbing in Toronto more often than I would like to admit. While it was noted that the late nights and hangover-induced body soreness was a pretty shabby lifestyle, the other notes that I gathered proved to be premium fuel for my blog.

Typically for a girl, a night out in Toronto begins at 7pm with a phone call to her girlfriends. The preferred attire of the night is of supreme importance and must be discussed and pondered over.  The options are: sexy and freezing vs. practical skinny jeans. Take a stab at whose side I’m on.

Well before the intellectual times of Twilight and Justin Beibz, clubbing was fondly referred to as the disco and it featured the real slim shadys of the disco dance floor with the likes of the Bee Gees,  Boney M.  and Earth, Wind & Fire. Now in Toronto, Usher and Lady Gaga are claiming the souls of little children.

Back to the club, you enter in to the sight of a million or so people, most of who are at the bar trying to get the bartender’s attention. At a club, the bar is just another word for fire hazard.

There are several characters at this club that you will notice right off the bat.

1) The over-excited drunk girl with a plastic birthday girl tiara. She is usually surrounded by all her friends buying her tequilla shots and gassing her head with compliments of how hot she looks.

2) The fist pumping Jersey Shore brotherhood in the VIP booth rocking lame fedoras and AXE cologne. It is unclear about whether they are here because it’s someone’s bachelor party or if it’s just douchebag’s boys night out.

3) The group of girls here for girl’s night out. They all look like they had the work week from hell and are here to get drunk and grind on each other. Stay away from these girls unless you enjoy getting bitchslapped at clubs or you look like a crossover between Ryan Reynolds and Josh Duhamel. I suppose you could always wait till they are more intoxicated.

4) The white guys. These are well…white guys standing on the sides watching everyone, bobbing their heads and drinking their beer. Somewhere in Georgetown or Oshawa, there is a sports diner bar mourning the loss of business from these Molson guzzling wallflowers.

Fast forward three hours later when your pink pumps start breaking your toenails and your view on this club starts to get pissy and critical. The white guys are three hours drunker and still bobbing away. The fist pumpers almost hit an obnoxious level of douche by groping  the week-from-hell girls and the birthday girl is in the washroom crying over her ex-boyfriend.

The bell for last call clangs at around 1:30am. For some, this is a sign that they would have to bust out of this joint if they want to make it to last subway train. For others, it means an inebriated stagger to the bar. By now, the birthday girl’s tiara is on the head of a douchey fist pumper while he drunkenly slurs her praises. Her ex-boyfriend is so two and a half tears ago. There is nothing like replacing douche with more douche. The week-from-hell girls have somehow managed to snag some cuties and everything is moving well for most people at the club. Except of course for the white guys.

They still haven’t moved from their spot. The only thing that moved is their beer from right hand to left.  And then the DJ accidentally plays “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus. Never before would you have seen a white guy jump on a couch and do a happy dance so fast. Except of course on Oprah. Pure joy fills their faces while they loudly sing out the lyrics of the song and do their Miley dance on the couch.  But this happiness is short lived and DJ puts on Jay-Z thirty seconds later.  Everyone gets off the couch and life as we know it goes back to normal.

I would like to say that this story has a happy ending, but no clubbing story has a happy ending unless it is ended by a Big Mac Combo. I actually believe the only way to enjoy a Big Mac is to have it on the way home from a club.

Before I go to bed, I take a Vitamin B Complex pill to kill the morning hangover and thank God for keeping me and bringing me home safe. I also thank Miley Cyrus for single-handedly bringing out the Tom Cruise in white guys all of us.

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