In Da Club

I never realized how traumatizing it is for a woman to go to the club. As much as women flock in droves to get up in the spot I thought they were having a wonderful time.

The way I look at it women spend about 8 to 12 hours in preparations for one night the club. A night is not even a whole night, we're talking 4 hours max. You have to figure in hair, nails, shopping for clothes, make up, coordinating schedules for friends and rides, babysitters in some cases. I peeped you out in the club, shawty, I'm tacking on another hour for practicing those moves. (You ain't come up with that little dip and twist move out of the blue.) I'm thinking to myself, logically who would devote that much time to something and not enjoy it? Especially when you are not only not getting paid but are paying to have be there. Fine women will drink for free and get in free but I've never heard of a fine women not getting hit up for parking. It might be possible though.

Talking it over with some friends this weekend they hit me with the ill horror stories. I've heard about the "Dance Floor Rapist" tales.

Just like being in the wilds of Africa, women go to the club in groups for protection. One of the girls always gets separated from the pack. That's when the hyenas swoop in. They move in quickly. Strategically positioning their widebacked monstrous selves between the pack and the unlucky slacker. Obstructing the view. Suddenly she's all alone in the middle of a crowd with this dude. Touching and feeling and groping. Putting his "equipment" all over her. Breathing his hot breath. Luckily another girl saw her struggling to get away and saved her. Man makes you wonder how many girls go home with mysterious wet spot on their clothes. That s#*$ ain't cool.

I had not heard the "Mr. Celebrity" story before. The girl is barely 5 ft tall. Dark chocolate, island sista. Very petite, very heavy Trini accent, very cute. She's in the club and this tall ass dude comes over to her. (Tall guys love short women.)He hovers over her like the last piece of chicken. After sucking up all her air he tells her to come with him, so he can show her something. She says no and pushes him up off of her. Dude goes into this tirade. "Don't you know who I am?! You should be beggin' to come with me! Don't you know who I am?! You know how many women want to be with me!" Dude geeks out so hard she grabs her friends and heads to the bouncer for protection. Dude won't let up. She points him out and the bouncer says, "Don't you know who that is? He's such and such. He plays for the Clippers." She's a PhD candidate in chemistry from Trinidad, she don't know nothing about American basketball players. Ask her about organic compounds or chemical bonds and she's all over it. I'm from America and I wouldn't recognize a Clipper player even if they had their full uniform on a basketball court with cameras following them around. Dude was out of order but she had to leave! How f#*$d up is that?

Put that with all the "Gold-toothed Po Pimps" and the "Ugmo Nights at Visions" and the "In Love Sloppy Drunks" I don't see how women can have any fun. What is the point really if all this bad stuff is very likely to happen on any given night. Is it worth all the stress, time, and money?

Apparently it is.