Privilege

Reviews about Privilege

• 1 / 5

  By Ryan 240sx
  You guys need to turn your music down... i live in the neighborhood and can here music very clearly. This will be the last warning i give you guys. I will call the police. I have tried to call you guys about it. It has gone to out of hand.
  
  November 09, 2016
• 1 / 5

  By Josh Vaughn
  Donald Trump dreams big. When the Trump dreams about a night clubs, he dreams about Club Privilege in Clarksville Tennessee. This gaudy disco is nestled next to I-24 and drunken stumble away from a super luxurious budget motel. The club is easy to spot thanks to its industrial grade spotlights, borrowed from Trumps lavishly appointed bathroom to assist in navigating him to his golden thrown for a late night shit. The spotlights are also a clever way to help patrons not mistake the club for an Ace Hardware.
  Club Privilege has a dress code. This dress code requires you to be of “acceptable” attire (cough). Popped collar? You’re in. Flat billed hat adorned with stickers and tags? Come on in. Ladies purse? Get the F*ck out. Women are dangerous creatures who are often packing assault rifles and other dangerous “toiletries”, these are strictly forbidden. Ladies must come with a “clutch” (and guys I know what you’re thinking-not a collection of eggs laid by birds, reptiles, or amphibians)- a clutch is a small bag small enough to carry a driver’s license, a $20 bill for your cover fee, and one of those comically small condoms.
  Once you’re through the jersey shore doorman/TSA you’re met with a lighting display that is a feast for the eyes (or downright dangerous if you’re prone to seizures). The lights dance and sway to the music in a way that almost justifies the insane cover charge. Their money was spent well. Music is playing at a volume geologists use to trigger earthquakes. The bass is impressive, so much so that I’m seeing a lot of women go cross eyed when the beat drops. My favorite song of the night was just a recording of 15 space shuttles launching in formation with “little John” screaming YEAH on a loop to add structure to the songs meaning. Deep stuff.
  The patrons of this fine establishment were types The Donald would call, “classy”. Lots of Affliction. Copious amounts of polo cologne. Women whose men are deployed but they still want to go out and have a harmless night of fun with the girls. Sure you can buy me a shot! Yager bombs!
  Club Privilege is exactly what it portrays in its poorly marketed image. It’s a douche haven. Perfect spot for the guy who drives a ’97 mustang (GT-red convertible-white top) and still thinks it’s fast, he’s festooned in popped collared magnificence, and for some reason begins and ends his sentences with prepositions, just like Trump.
  Much in the way Kid Rock is the human equivalent of an above ground pool, Club Privilege is and brick and mortar expression of Donald Trump.
  
  August 02, 2016