(names have been changed to protect the innocent)
I spent this past Saturday in Washington, D.C. for a business trip, as well as to celebrate the birthday of my frat brother, Dwight. The festivities were set for The Republic, a place that has yielded MANY good memories for myself and my colleagues. As we made our way down Sixteenth Street that night, we figured we would have a ball of a time, as we usually do.
Then we got to the front door.
*taking a deep breath*
First, Dwight & our good buddy Maurice (the guy against D.O.A in the D.O.A. podcast) get to the door first. We had a VIP section pre-arranged, yet the door girls* still asked Maurice if he was on the guest list.
“Woman, I’m standing to the guy who just bought your main VIP section!” was the expression you could clearly read on Maurice’s face.
Now, if you’ve ever been to Republic, you know about the VIP stage in the back of the club on the second floor. That was ours for the night. Yet, as we approach the area, I start saying to myself, “Who are these random hoes* that are already in VIP?” I look over and see that most of our party (which numbered 11) shared the same look.
To add insult to injury, there are four bottles of Nuvo and two bottles of Ciroc on the table already…and when I say these random hoes* are salivating, it’s the understatement of the year.
Soon after, some bouncer comes over and starts handing out wristbands. To everyone. Including the hoes.* Said bouncer had to be told that not everyone here is for the party and needed to be escorted out.
We’ve finally gotten things settled, music is playing, drinks are flowing, everyone’s having a good time. I’m catching up with some old college mates when I see people scrambling out of the corner of my eye.
I turn around and see plaster on the floor. I look up, and there’s a big ass hole in the roof. Yes, part of the roof collapsed.
To be fair, a monsoon passed through the DMV and up the Eastern Seaboard that day, so maybe the rain collected in one spot. These things happen. We made sure no one was hurt, and tried to keep the party going.
Some time later, I see another mad scramble out of the corner of my eye. I turn around and see what you’re seeing in the picture to the right.
I look up to the ceiling and see what you’re seeing in the picture to the left. (FYI that’s my leg in the upper right hand corner).
Obviously, when you agree to a 1000% markup in price to drink alcohol in your own section of the club, you assume the roof will not fall on you.
A manager was summoned and the situation was explained. In a nutshell, Maurice asked for Republic to comp half of the bottles purchased.
The exchange went something like this.
Manager: We’ll comp you a bottle on your next visit.
Maurice: No, you don’t understand. We’re never coming back here. Ever. And this is your #1 VIP area, which means if Jay-Z, Diddy, LeBron, were to visit, they’d be in this section. And if there was even ONE roof collapse (much less two), all the bottles would have been comped, no questions asked.
Manager: I’ll have to talk to the owner.
*Manager shuffles away*
While we wait for the owner, some bouncer comes up to us and says, “Yo, no one got hurt, everything is fine, what’s the big deal?”
Apparently, roof collapses are the norm for The Republic.
After about a half-hour, the owner comes over. She says that she saw the footage on their surveillance cameras and since it seemed that no one was hurt, she didn’t see what the issue was.
Maurice & Dwight continue to explain to her that, injury or no injury, it’s unacceptable to have plaster in your Ciroc and cranberry and that we should be reimbursed something.
After 20 minutes, they agree to a $300 credit for bottles…on our next visit.
Clearly, the, “We’re not EVER coming back here!” mantra didn’t stick with them.
The owner says she’ll be back.
By this time, the club has been closed for over an hour. During the wait, a conversation breaks out between Maurice and Dwight (Alphas), the bouncer (a Que), another Republic employee (a Kappa) and a non-Greek about Greek life. During this conversation, a waitress (not OUR waitress, just some waitress) approach Maurice & Dwight and basically begin to BERATE them.
Waitress: Why are you guys still here?!? We closed an hour ago! No one got hurt! What’s the big deal?
Maurice: Please. You”re a waitress. Go away.
After an hour, Dwight gets fed up and starts looking for the owner. He walks into the kitchen, to find the owner eating shrimp at a leisurely pace, like all is right with the world. Dwight then proceeds to lose his mind.
“What the f–k?!?!? We’re out here waiting for you and you’re in here eating f–king shrimp?!?!? Are you f–king serious?!?!?”
Dwight is soon “escorted” from the club by a few bouncers.
In the end, the best offer they gave was the $300 credit on our next visit. Maurice left his information and asked to hear a response withim 24 hours and left.
Did I mention that between Roof Collapse I and Roof Collapse II, a woman entered the VIP section and started handing out Durex condoms in little Ziplock bag? Not even Trojan…Durex.
(Me and my peoples refer to the Durex brand as “Wifey Condoms,” because you better be using them with Wifey, or else…if you know what I mean.)
I will never set foot in The Republic again. EVER. Neither will Dwight. Neither will Maurice. Neither will Michael, Jermaine, Tito or the rest of the Jackson 5. And quite frankly, we recommend that you shouldn’t either. No place that offers bottle service (which is usually pricey) should treat their customers in such a manner and think it’s perfectly OK.
Please feel free to share this story everywhere you go. Actually, we insist.
– William H. Strafe
PS – More pictures can be found below.