So Rutland, Vermont doesn’t provide the hipster youths on the town with many late-night social possibilities. The floors at the movie theaters are too sticky to walk on unless your feet are greased with butter, and the skatepark is closed. There certainly isn’t any terrain on the town to skate at night.

Of course, you could go to the Bowl-A-Rama, but it’s only open until eleven. The coolest part about that place is the bar. You always need a bar when you’re bowling. Of course, you could just cut right to the chase and go straight downtown to one of the local watering holes, depending on which one fits your particular socializing desires.

A good start would be Two Shea’s, nestled on Wales Street. The best part about this spot is the nightly drink special. If you happen to be a winner, you’ll go to Two Shea’s on a Friday night when you can get a margarita for two bills. If you happen to be a loser, you would probably be in attendance on a Saturday night, when the drink specials only include Canadian beers. Everyone knows Canadians suck, and accordingly, their beers suck even more. There happen to be specials every other night, so check it out. The hippie bartender is an alright guy too, except for when he kicks out our underage friend Brian Regis.

You might run into Pat Bridges here, who is always good for a little entertainment. He might even buy you a drink. Well, maybe if you’re a girl. After you get liquored up, the next stop is Rhythm Alley. This place is always filled with your typical dirty hippies. They even have dirty hippy bands playing so that all the dirty hippies can dance and swing their shitlocks around. So one Monday night my trusty roommate and drinking partner, the world-famous Brian DeRosia, headed over here after a couple of beers at our usual watering hole, Two Shea's. We met a few Rutland counterparts, including Bridges. He must have expected action from one of us, because he sent a few beers our way. By the way, DeRosia likes one of the waitresses here. I think she goes by the name of "Ponyboy."

I was kind of tired of the hippies on this particular night, so we went across the street to a disgusting shithole of an establishment called Pony’s. If you’ve ever been to other local shitholes like Kick’s or Finnius T. Flubberbuster’s, you’ll know what I’m talking about. While these places certainly suck, Pony’s takes the cake in terms of suckingness. Some drunk redneck wouldn’t let us take ONE of the chairs at his EMPTY six person table because "someone was sitting there." So we shot him the hairy eyeball until his other five redneck friends came back from macking mullet-headed whores. I envisioned them running to their pickups to grab their thirty-odd sixes off the rack and returning to give us a typical neck-style beatdown. We took the secret entrance out onto Center Street only to hear DeRosia empty his stomach like a true champion. "Oh, I guess I was full," he gargled. "Let’s go home," I said.