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| - Mother. Of. God.
I heart you Wet Republic. Not for your strong drinks? Not for the excellent set up? Nope, for the plethora of eye candy that caused my neck permanent damage this past Friday.
I mean, seriously. I like to think that Atlanta has beautiful ladies everywhere. Wet Republic takes the best of the best from across the U.S., fills them full of alcohol and then encourages debauchery. You have my gratitude.
So, we're there for a Bachelor party. One of those Bachelor Party's that each guy has disposable income, but still saved for for months because we wanted to act like we were the white people's version of 50 Cent and his Entourage. And that's exactly how that shit went down.
We got the Bungalow on the far left for all day on Friday. From 11am until they were literally kicking us out, we rocked that crap as hard as we could. We had two alternating waitresses. One was named Claudia. Claudia, have my babies. The other was named something... I was drunk when she started helping out. Something, have my babies.
I mean, there are Sports Illustrated swimsuit models that look like pot-bellied pigs against this ladies. Must be a 34 C/D requirements, personal trainer work out status, and booties that can safely rest my Vodka Soda on them to obtain employment there. For this, Wet Republic, I give you eleventy billion rupies.
The service was off the charts good. It was literally an amazing experience. Our tab looked like a Trans-Pacific First Class Ticket Charge on Singapore Airlines for two it had so many zeros. Still, I will do it again within the next year.
Get a big group of friends together.
Party your asses off til your eyes bleed and liver drops out of your body.
Profit.
That is all.
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