Phish had a farewell tour. So did Cher. But let's be honest, Grant's cooler (Nickie watches Mermaids far too often). We've helped you with wine, hangovers and happy hours for the bursar dependent. You need us even though we don't need you.
We've never said that we aren't self-important, narcissistic and consumed with our own fabulous lives, and we'd like to take this opportunity to thank ourselves. So here they are: our greatest hits. Our superlatives. Our favorite places to get shitfaced. So next time you're feeling down, up, or particularly sober, throw back a shot for us. Just remember: we got you here.
The Mexican Post
104 Chestnut Street
Jose and I were never friends. In fact, thanks to a fateful afternoon on an Aegean Island, we down right loathed one another. After a night of excessive battles, he'd leave me like a two bit Cambodian whore: penniless, pitiful and inevitably on my knees. The Mexican Post, however, has helped us overcome such a hurdle. Don't get me wrong, the food at the Post is bad. Really bad. I personally made the mistake of eating here sober once. Once. The refried beans come straight from the can, opting to bypass any sort of heating apparatus, and the "beef" may actually be "iguana" on any given night. But the margaritas. Sweet Jesus, the margaritas. Get them blended, get them on the rocks, get lime, get strawberry, get watermelon, get wasted. And thanks to the authentic Tex-Mex decor, you'll feel like you're back in Cancun, sans the burning and itching ... you know ... down there. So here's to you, Mexican Post, for getting Jose and I right back where we belong: watching re-runs of Three's Company at noon on Tuesday.
Las Vegas Lounge
704 Chestnut Street
I'm a hater. I don't pretend to be otherwise, and I take pride in upholding the contradiction of shitting on Penn's Greeks, geeks, hipster-wannabes, manorexics and jocks who couldn't make Division One schools (lemmings, the lot of you!), all the while hitting up Penn alumni for potential jobs once Bursar is no longer a possible mode for survival. If you want to divorce yourself from the cult of Penn and scout out the real salt of the earth, look no further than Las Vegas Lounge, home of cheap drinks, disgruntled real people and the High Roller's Club. Becoming a regular (shit)face at this local watering hole grants you entrance to the Philly's alcolholic elite. It's not like I've got a Fulbright under my belt, but for the price of a Cosi TBM or a hand job in a third world country, I can drink 'til my appendages fall off, and flash my High Roller's membership card to anyone with the nerve to aspire to any sort of real ambition. Added bonus: dirty old men reinforcing that I'm young, hot and desirable. Anything to feed my vanity.