My buddy Drew and I went to Barnacles the other night after the Alan Jackson concert. We had fun, if only because we witnessed the entire spectacle of human degradation. We saw things you wouldn't find in a bus station bathroom.
For the uninitiated, Barnacles is a sports bar with more than 458 televisions and 15 big screens. It is Mecca for any sports fanatic.
But at 10 p.m. on Saturdays, half of the bar converts into a dance club. I'm not exactly sure why. It just does.
But since it's not your normal dance club, you find this odd confluence of amped up wannabe jocks and, um, very amateur dance club aficianados.
We took our cameras on Saturday night, expecting to witness spectacle in what had the makings of a target-rich environment.
Oh. Billy.
As a result, I have started a list of the images I never again want to see.
They are, in no particular order:
1. Middle-age dirty dancing.
2. Pot-bellied nipple ring dance floor displays.
3. Unsolicited sunburst back tat revelations.
My therapy sessions start in two weeks.