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If I were ever to engage in the practice of subtitling articles, like those dickchops that subtitle horror movies before adopting Roman numerals to track the latest celluloid smear of ass you PVR'd off of AMC (I'm looking at you Hallowe'en III: Season of the Witch...Stonehenge laden mass-murdering masks...oh noes! By the way, the movie is entirely stupid, devoid of Michael Myers and as a massive cliffhanger that goes nowhere, one station airs the commerical. I just saved you an hour and a half of your life. Call your first child Dayseed. Thank you.), I'd subtitle this: You can't go home again.

Once upon a time, I too went to clubs. Those ugly little dungeons where chicks dress like awesome (not a typo), booze is $900 a glass, guys wear bad wrinkly shirts with ultra-dark jeans, the bass is turned up enough to rock your face's ass right off and some loser DJ has given himself an atrocious moniker and works for free drinks.

And once upon a time, I loved it.

But I had an opportunity recently to go back to these clubs, and much to my chagrin, nothing had changed. All of those staples I knew were still there.

TOO DRUNK CHICK WHO THINKS EVERY DRINK WITH A STRAW IS FOR HER

This chick can usually be found by the bar. Chances are, she's got a shitload of glitter smeared on her tits, too much makeup and may even have become Queen Too Drunk Chick by adopting a tiara. Her cheeks are flushed as hell from the liquor she just picks up and drinks. She started the night off with a couple of Smirnoff vodka-coolers, moved on to Mike's Hard Lemonade and is now blitzed out of her mind on whatever shit comes with a tiny little straw. If a guy comes near the bar and orders more than one drink, she'll accost him with a cutesy "Is that drink for meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?" before throwing up (actually throwing down) all over her pointy-toed highheel shoes purchased at Le Chateau. Do not go home with this chick. She will barf again in the cab and you've got to pay the clean-up fee. If encountered, this chick is best directed towards the homeliest geek-loser in the bar who will fill her with alcohol before she pukes on his Chewbacca shirt.

THE DANCE FLOOR POINT

People who do the Dance Floor Point believe that they are "the shit". All day long they suffer at the hands of reality, what beats them like a thirteen year old wang as they toil installing debit machines at Shoeless Joe's. But, come Friday and Saturday, on comes the wrinkly shirt, ultra-dark jeans and loafers (or God fucking forbid the funny t-shirt, tweed blazer, sunglasses combo) or small whore ensemble (which again, looks awesome) and out comes the attitude of the mighty Olympic Gods. Apollo and Aphrodite, they're not.

To signify to other people on the dance floor that something is "the shit", be it them, the song or the person they want to messily fuck in a bathroom stall, the dance floor point is used. To accomodate the cramped dance floor conditions, drunken user and drunken recipient, it's simple and easy to use. Keeping the arm entirely visible, the hand is curled into a fist with the index finger (Peter Pointer) extended. The arm is then positioned such that the curled palm faces downward in addition to the extended index finger. Then, with short up and down motions at either the shoulder or the elbow, the index finger points down at whatever is deemed to be "the shit". Often times, the dance floor point is accompanied by the Oh Yeah Smirk. The oh yeah smirk is generally a modified smile filled to the brim with bullshit smugness.

Beware the oh yeah smirk as it usually involves a head-bob in time to dance floor point gyrations indicating that this chick's tits are "the shit".

At times, the dance floor point can be used to indicate to non-dancing acquaintances that it is time to dance. Thus, the person will catch the eye of a geek on the sidelines, do the dance floor point indicating that dancing is currently "the shit" and that the other person must come too to dance to a remix of the Battlestar Galactica theme. Or, a self-starter may use the dance floor point on the way TO the dance floor to indicate they intend to find "the shit" somewhere up there. These particular people usually end up dancing on the speaker with a Coors Light.

MUSIC MUST NEVER EVER END

Since clubbing is essentially a lame, artificial parade, those people must never ever be given a moment to think clearly about how much they look like drunken crack-whores or man-whores. Pamphlets were tried earlier, explaining the benefits of clubbing, but a simpler method of "crank the music and blast rational thoughts out of their heads" was used.

Consequently, the music never ever stops at the club. Relying on samples, looped melodies and rave calibre beats, one "song" can easily blend into the next "song" with nothing more than an abrupt shift in tempo followed by DJ Dickmouth shouting into his mic "DJ Flavamix comin' atcha wit' another tu-uuuuuune! Go ladies, go ladies, go!" before he resumes impressing nobody or trying to get some chick to drink a mojito, which he claims he invented. However, due to the artifice established inside the club, at these tempo-shits, some bitch in the back will shriek loudly to her other friends that the Doompsh-Doompsh-Doompsh beat that became Du-Du-Du-Duu-Du is her absolute most favourite song. She may even dance floor point her satisfaction on the way to the dance floor where she'll dance wildly, before grinding up against some dude with a hawaiian lei around his neck and an MGD in his right hand.

It's true folks. You can never go home again.