That's right, we said Eight Lounge. As in, "Ei8ht" is not a word, and we inside the loop be a literate mob. The Lords, however, are as forgiving as we are magnanimous. We will overlook this linguistic tomfoolery in our quest to find the next best thing. And so we did, only to find ourselves confronted with a sight more rare than a crowd at a Quanell X rally.
Eight Lounge had itself a line. Out the door. To get inside. Say it slowly and let it sink in. We make it our business not to patronize joints with lines because we don't fucking have to. This is H-Town, and we are the Lords, and the fun follows us like fucka follows mutha, so we are not waitin in no mutha fuckin line. We will take our hollapalooza to someplace chill, and that's all we have to say about that.
But see the paragraph above regarding Pearl. Maybe we should rethink our policy? Our dates were getting antsy. And this is where our story turns sublime, because just as we began our march forward to grease the palms of the palace guards, an unlikely savior appeared from nowhere, as if sprung full-grown from the head of Zeus. Some sort of benevolent Jabroni-king had taken a shine to our dates' friend! This gentle man of indeterminate Mediterranean origin offered to slip us in the side in exchange for her digits. And so it came to pass that we did visit Eight Lounge that night. Thank you, Jabroni king. We are not sure about your judgment, but you are a credit to your kind.
And the sights we saw! We admired the Houston skyline from Eight's impressive rooftop terrace. We sipped champagne and admired our beautiful smiles. We danced to the oontz oontz until the lights came on. And then we broke up a catfight by the ladies' room, just for good measure. To the cute brunette who eats, it was the coked-up skinny blonde's fault. And we will testify.