Never Again. But Really This Time.

This is what nightclubbing in Nashville looks like. Awkward, overweight rednecks whose dance moves resemble epileptic seisures, impressing pearl-earringed buffies who perpetually wear white. Probably rightfully so, I shudder to think.

When he realizes that the vestal virgin probably won't budge, he just moves on to the slutty drunk chick in the American Eagle tank top who's busted so many moves tonight her pits are drenched with sweat. By the way, the girl sitting next to them in the paisley skirt kept flashing our table crotch shots full of fur. I wish I'd captured it on film.

And of course, you can imagine what a relief it was to know that even in the reds, Jersey was still reprezentin'. Kinda made it feel like home. It's not a nightclub without a douchebag meathead with a ubiquitous Kangol on his giant cueball noggin, smoking Parliament Lights. Plaid pants are a good look for you, Dom, or Vic, or Sal, or whatever the fuck your name is.





But thank God for Billy. Would you just look at that punnam? Would you look at that face? How could anyone ever be mad at this guy?!? "Billy, I know you effed my girlfriend and a stripper that you paid for with the money you stole out of my wallet at the same time, and I know that you ate all my really good leftovers, and I also know it was you that ordered countless hours of porn to my Pay-Per-View... But I forgive you, man. Let's go get a beer." To which Billy would giggle and say, "Eeeeys-howl."