It's Saturday Night. I'm Super Excited to...

Lowbrow Answer: Get Drunk at a Bar.
Can somebody please explain bars to me? I don't get it. You stand in a tiny room that smells like the inside of the machine they use to pump the stomachs of freshmen girls at Florida State so that you can overpay for shitty alcohol and yell into your friends' ears from seven inches away. Man, that sounds awesome. I can see why EVERYBODY loves it so much. Sign me up.

Who are you meeting at these places? Any girl who's even remotely attractive is surrounded by three fatties and a gay dude, anyway. At minimum, talking to her will cost you four Vodka-Sodas and a healthy groping from "Paul." Gag me. Instead, why not just drink the four Vodka-Sodas yourself and watch in amazement as the ugly girls you had previously ignored transform into Penelope Cruz.


Middlebrow Answer: Dance My Face Off.
Dancing rules. It's the only social interaction that allows you to ram your junk into some girl's crotch without being maced. Plus you're on your feet and getting some exercise. Good for you. Keep at it. Maybe someday you'll loose that Freshman Fifteen and people will like you again.

Hey. Legions of white dudes in button-downs and polo shirts. Learn how to dance or stay the fuck out of my way. I don't come to your stupid football games and try to jump in at Wide-Receiver; don't come to my club and jerk around arhythmically while you make "fag" jokes and drink Corona. Ladies - you're partly to blame for this. If you see a douchebag who can't dance; don't dance with him. You wouldn't get into a car with somebody who didn't know how to drive, would you?


Highbrow Answer: Stay Home and Read Proust
Can you say, "Clinically depressed existential French repressed homosexual?" Proust can! This dude is the man. He starts writing essays at the age of eleven, he founds a literary review while he's still in school, and and he literally becomes nocturnal in his later years. He's most famous for a seven-part epic novel called, "À la Recherche du Temps Perdu," which loosely translates to, "I'm Marcel-fucking-Proust, Who the Hell are You?"

Home is great. All your shit is there, you don't have to pay for anything, and you can do whatever you want. Feel like eating a peanut butter and pickles sandwich? Go for it! Need to watch Die Hard 2? All yours! Wanna dry hump your teddy bear while listening to Michael Bolton and crying about your ex-girlfriend? Be my guest! You're in charge! Huzzah!