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Over Privilege

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I'm pissed. On Tuesday night, one of Hollywood's top clubs had too many fat chicks and at least one couch that belonged on the porch of a frat house. Yes, I know there are people out there with real problems. Cry me a Red Bull and vodka. I'm not talking about the underprivileged, I'm talking about Privilege.

I didn't want to roll deep, roll dubs, or roll bows. I just wanted to roll out. Privilege (the club formerly known as Shelter, still known as a building disguised as a tent to circumvent smoking laws) was the wrong destination. Don't misunderstand. I know Hollywood -- especially Sunset Strip. You gotta' know somebody at the door, you gotta' drop cash, yadda, yadda, yadda. But this was ridiculous.

Even with absolutely zero line at the door, we (two dudes, no ladies) expected to wait -- but not for almost an hour. We expected to pay cover -- but not $20 when the club was only open for another 60 minutes (plus another $15 for park-it-yourself). Adding insult to injury, the place looked nowhere near capacity. I don't know if they wanted a line out front to look "cool," but there was no excuse when we could have been dropping mad cash at the bar (to put it in perspective, a watered down Diet Coke for designated drivers only costs $4 -- roughly a 39,900% profit margin).

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Mark Cuban and some NBA players were there, which might explain the plethora of Amazonian women. They're fun to look at, but what are you going to do with a six foot chick? There's no way you can toss her around for some good ol' fashion circus sex when she's as tall as the fucking bouncer. Mix in the aforementioned fatties and there was so much extra meat it was like a Bristol Farms for cannibals.

Oh, there were one redeeming qualities about the club -- a solid DJ.

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