Whaddup, you fine-looking people?! I’m DJ Rave and I’m here to keep the party going ALL NIGHT! Actually, when I say “all night,” I mean until the club closes at 11 PM. I know, It’s a little early, but we just rent this space from the Greek restaurant upstairs and they have to lock up behind us.

So who’s ready to get obliterated and go up on a Tuesday?!

There are just too many beautiful people here tonight! No, really. There are actually too many of you and roughly ten to fifteen people have to leave. I know, such a bummer. Door Guy Dave broke his clicky thing, so he was counting out loud when an ice cream truck drove by playing that stupid song and he lost count altogether.

However, since we only just opened and there’s already condensation dripping from the pipes, and both toilets are completely clogged, we know we’re over max capacity. Please, don’t take this personally. You’re all so incredibly hot, literally so hot that it’s a bit of an issue with the fire code.

It’s not like I’m worried about us dying in a horrific fire. This basement is partially lined with asbestos, so everyone standing on the right would probably be fine. The real problem is Gary Belchman, my archnemesis.

Gary Belchman might be commonly known as the town’s fire marshal, but I know him as the shit-stirrer who’s committed to ruining my life and every single business idea I’ve had.

My roach-breeding operation behind the Denny's was on “private property,” my stint shipping unpasteurized milk across borders was “illegal,” and pretending to be a German heir is apparently a “fraud.”

But tonight, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him shut us down! That’s why, for a special audience of ten to fifteen people, Door Guy Dave is going to do a private magic show in the Walmart parking lot next door.

Trust me, it’s a show you do not want to miss. Door Guy Dave recently graduated at the top of his online magic class and he’s even kept the same rabbit alive for a month! He’s so much better at magic than he is at counting.

I’ll be real with you, Door Guy Dave needs this. You might think that just because he’s big, burly, and has a certain musk about him that he’s content to slouch on that stool forever. I mean, just look at that goatee.

But it would be a crime to limit Door Guy Dave’s potential! He’s destined to shine at small to medium-sized gatherings such as birthdays, retirement parties, and seriously misguided wedding proposals!

By leaving now, ten to fifteen of you will help Door Guy Dave become the next, beefier, Criss Angel, and keep this club out of the clutches of my evil stepfather, Gary Belchman.

That’s right! Besides being the fire marshall we all hate, Mr. “I’m-Only-Looking-Out-For-You-Son” Gary Belchman has been married to Susan, my mother, for five years and I’ll never forgive him.

I had a perfect life before Gary Belchman turned up and Ned Flanders-ed his way right through it. Door Guy Dave and I had a totally sick pad in Susan’s basement, complete with air mattresses, Grand Theft Auto, and a mini fridge.

In those days, Susan would bring us Tostinos pizza rolls and say encouraging words like, “You boys doing OK down here?” and “Oh boy, sounds like a real party,” and “How’s that job search coming?”

But then that asshat Gary Belchman showed up and said that an unfinished basement with a dirt floor was “not designed for human habitation,” and threw out our stuff and put his workbench down there instead! I’ve just had enough of that walking fart cloud raining over my parade!

Listen. Is this club perfect? No. Is the bar also the storage closet for cleaning supplies? Yes. Are these wine coolers stolen from my mother’s book club? Also yes. But am I going to let some lily-livered shit stick like mother-licking Gary Belchman kill my dreams of being the best DJ this side of Concord, New Hampshire? No way!

So let’s get this night back on track and would ten to fifteen people kindly get the fuck out?