This was not our finest night to meet men, as it was filled with drunken shenanigans, but a fun story to tell regardless.
Since there was an impending dinner reservation in the evening, we figured what better way to get ready for that than having pre drinks. Am I right? Right. To get the job done we chose the Cactus Club in White Rock. It has a pretty excellent lounge, though the downside is that it’s usually ridden with douche bags and the girls who buy drugs from them, but luckily for us we were early enough to avoid this.
How is this possible you ask? Because there are not many douches that have actual real jobs to get to, they are usually out and about in lounges at all times of the day. Douche knows no time. But as we all know from watching Jersey Shore once or twice (you know you’ve done it while nursing a hangover) it takes a good chunk of their day for them to get ready, so going anywhere outside the realm of 8 pm is a pretty tight squeeze. Plus after you go to a lounge, you must then attend a bar and as I’ve been told by many a douche and douche hangers on, no one goes to a bar before 10....but I digress. Back to the story.
I definitely think the afternoon crowd has potential, but due to a dip fiasco and early drunkenness fueled by two bottles of wine guzzled in record time, my brain wasn’t entirely focused on the task at hand.
We shall be back Cactus Club! And for the food update the Goat Cheese & Feta Flatbread is NOT a substitute for dip, but it is indeed delicious. Try it with a side of parm dip, it might just blow your mind.
That brings us to our next stop, the Washington Avenue Grill on White Rock beach. A supposed haunted old house, we would soon find out just exactly what it was haunted with....old men.
As soon as we entered we were accosted by said old men. And when I say men I mean just that, because there wasn’t just one. It was all downhill from there.
Between the being asked to dance, being gestured over to a table to hear the vomit inducing line “I knew I could make you cum with one finger”, and being given roses like we were contestants on the Bachelor, the night soon turned into the train wreck it was destined to be after four bottles of wine.
So no men here, but would be a really great spot to take a date once anyone finally gets one.
The food? Outstanding. The martinis? Double outstanding. They must have been good seeing as we were drinking them like shots.
Special shout out and high fives to Tristan for putting up with our shit.
So how does one end a night filled with future Hugh Hefners and enough booze to kill a horse? There’s only one answer for this. Karaoke.
Thanks to The Sandpiper Pub down the road from the WAG, our prayers were answered.
Though the details are blurry, here are some things I know for sure: that there was an intense sing a long to Brian Wilson, that I’m almost positive I might not have heard since the 90’s which upped it’s intenseness quota, the ripping of a microphone out of someone’s hand because they weren’t doing Teenage Dream justice, being witness to a mild dance floor raping from a cougar on a poor unfortunate young man, only to then have said cougar kiss her equally cougary friend. Finally, the night capped off with a car ride home with Don’t Stop Believing on volume 1000. All in all a pretty good night I would say.
Having been to the Sandpiper before, I knew there was a lack of age appropriate men, but there might have been some potential for ladies on the prowl for teens and those in the early 20’s age group. They’re there. Get there and dance up on them!