Jaggerbarf

There is this bar in Vancouver called The Roxy. It's usually pretty busy, like people wait in line for an hour to get in. I've sent inquiring tourists there and I've been in there a few times myself. The house band has this really cute drummer. But that's beside the point I'm trying to get at here.

You'll notice that every time you walk by The Roxy when the doors are open, there's this wafting odour that emanates from the bar's liquor soaked carpeting. (Side note - I don't believe carpeting is ever a good choice for a night club). For the longest time I couldn't put my finger on what that smell was. Then it hit me like a wasted chick who's boyfriend was just trying to pick me up... the wretched stench of Jagger Bombs, the average bar star's shot of choice, had saturated itself into every porous fibre of The Roxy and was now the defining scent of the place. That, and a hint of vomit. I call it 'Jaggerbarf'.

Every girl who is not a stranger to the bar scene has, at some point I'm sure, experience at least one shit-faced night at The Roxy. I myself am guilty of this, I am ashamed to admit it though, since I try to steer clear of that raging jock-fest every chance I get. But yes, there once was a time when I was that girl, sprawled across the bar, while the bartender poured some juiced down bitch booze down my open throat, and then placed a Roxy temporary tattoo on my back, while Tom Cochrane wailed in the background. YEEHAW!

Maybe I stay away from that place because I'm ashamed of what I became there... a contributor to the Jaggerbarf shrine at The Roxy. That, and I hate Chads.