What’s the opposite of a sausage fest? A clam fest? A taco fest? Whoa, I think I crossed the line into unsavoury territory there. Or ultra savoury, depending on how you season your tacos. Annnd now I’ve killed my metaphor.
Headed over to Park Lane tonight, where it was, in case you didn’t guess, a bit of a clam fest–at least at first. It was clearly not a local hotspot; I’ve never been before, but I hoped for a bit more excitement on a Friday. Entertainment was provided, however, by three guys who took over, and then owned, the dance floor. A guy sporting a questionable moustache bumped his way (by bumping I mean sitting with his legs spread and using his hands to propel his bottom forward) down three steps, across the width of the floor, up the next set of steps, and then did a backwards somersault. I was, naturally, delighted. He and his friends performed some of the worst (best) dance moves I’ve ever seen with a complete lack of self-consciousness. Helped, no doubt, by the Smirnoff Ices they were downing, but nonetheless impressive.
Besides the dance floor amusement, the televisions were playing one of the Matrix sequels, which was a weird juxtaposition. So while there were some distractions from the tragic turnout, overall it was pretty disappointing.
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I say that the opposite of a sausage party is a clam bake.
Also, it’s not the moustache that’s questionable. It’s the drinking of Smirnoff Ice while in possession of a Y chromosome.
Clam bake, eh? I like it. And I admit it: the Smirnoff Ice is what actually stopped me from dancing with moustache man when he invited me. I was drinking beer. Light import beer, yes, but I prefer it if the men who are picking me up have at LEAST as tough drinking habits as I do.