This bar can be easily identified by the doorman, who could easily teach an upper level course on not giving a single shit. He can't even be bothered to pretend-glance at anyone's ID, which means the place is full to the brim with overeager teens spewing excitement and hormones and, by the end of the night, vomit all over everything.

You'll only come to this bar as a courtesy to your underage friend who still wants to party, but after weighing the pros and cons of his friendship against the agony of spending another minute half-listening to conversations about Greek life you'll decide it's not worth it and bail.



This is the bar that forever changes your definition of what "loud" can mean. The combined volume of the music playing from blown-out speakers and the chorus of patrons screaming conversations at one another can only be rivaled by what you imagine the apocalypse would sound like.

Immediately after entering this bar, you and everyone you're with will want to leave, but since no one can discuss it you'll end up ordering a drink anyways, forcing you to stand around for the next 10 minutes desperately trying to remember what silence feels like. After you leave, your ears will be ringing for the rest of the night, and possibly the rest of your life.



No matter what your friend group, it's only a matter of time before SOMEONE gets drunk enough to suggest that everyone go dancing, and your own poor judgement will allow you to agree with them. Once you've arrived at the dance club, there are only two possible scenarios that can occur:

1. The place is SO packed with people that it's impossible to move or breath without accidentally ingesting someone else's sweat or other bodily fluids.


2. There's just one shithammered couple on the dancefloor practically having sex with one another, and one incredibly creepy looking guy watching from a few feet away.

No matter the outcome, the only escape is drinking heavily enough that you can no longer discern your surroundings.



You know you're in the wrong place when the cocktails don't have prices listed, everything seems to be in a language you don't understand, and there are more than three moustaches in your line of sight at any given moment.

You'll hesitantly stumble through the pronunciation of some fancy French drink, and sit silently with the full knowledge that you are being judged from five different directions and for ten different reasons. After downing an overly complicated beverage from world's tiniest glass, you'll empty your wallet to pay the bill, and then begin your entirely-too-sober walk home.



You've found it. The perfect bar. The drink menu is reasonably priced, the decor makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and they're playing your favorite jams at a pleasant volume. You sit with your friends in one of the many comfortable booths, and spend the next few hours engaged in conversation while getting pleasantly buzzed.

This is it! This is the one where everybody will know your name! And they'll always be glad you came! This is your Cheers, your MacLaren's, your Hog's Head, your Moe's Tavern!

It will close down two weeks later.