For misplaced, yet upwardly mobile souls, there are places worse than the ATL. However, there are far better places for stratospheric social climbers, like my compatriots and me, to be stuck at on Friday night than lowly, local shit-kicker bar, The Highlander. You see, we exist in an unfortunate state of social limbo, within which we have too much money and infamy to socialize with our commoner friends, but not enough money or style to be buying out the VIP room at the Crobar in South Beach. You see, we ARE ballers -- just one step beneath the pretentious upper crust of society -- but it still is most likely that any of our “normal friends” will not have enough cheddar to make it to the titty bar three nights a week, like we do. Maybe there is strength in numbers; maybe misery loves company – who knows? Either way there MUST be some kind of network within which the Moderately Successful can meet other Moderately Successful people to end the stagnation and loneliness of this social purgatory.

It was one boring fall evening in 2002 that me, Jeremy from Nashville Pussy, and Paul were all sitting around, bored stiffer than 18 year olds on Viagra after the prom. We decided there has to be something better than this! I mean, we are young, semi-famous, somewhat successful, intimidatingly good-looking, with a few bucks in our pockets – we deserve better! We ain’t P-Diddy, but among the crowd we run with, we are most surely local celebrities of the highest order. Every night, hanging around the same scumbags, looking at the same three of four tired-ass bitches we’ve already run up in many times, and occupying one of the same three barstools our asses have been parked on for a year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Obviously, we were moving on while our plebian friends were fast becoming too lame for us. Still, at the same time, we must retain our punk rock sensibilities by refusing to “sell out,” (plus, we don’t own enough nice clothes to make it past the door guy and hang with the elitist uptown snobs).

So what is a nigga to do? The answer: find more people like us. That’s right -- we can’t be the only muthafuckers trapped in this unfortunate social dilemma. We had to find more people stuck in this same rut, form a secret order, and begin recruiting. So, much like the founding fathers did in 1776, we sat down at a table -- drunk with resolve -- and drafted a charter by which like-people can come together to take the doldrums out of our middle-of-the-road existence. On the back of a punk rock flyer we pulled from the wall of the bar, we scrawled the 10 original commandments of The Order of The Moderately Successful Club. Written in such a way as to separate the wheat from the chafe, the commandments are intended to provide us access to better quality pussy, more exciting leisure activities, exotic international travel, and to ensure that all of our drugs are nothing but the finest Schedule One Narcotics. Through the years, this mere skeleton of a document will become clouded with bylaws, amendments, bad interpretations, misguided revisions, and foreign translations. The original meaning will be lost through time, while the original members will move on to form more secret, more exclusive organizations that will insulate us from our mediocre demons of our past! But for now, this will suffice.

The Order of the Moderately Successful Club goes as follows:

• 1. Must have some form of GLOBAL RECOGNITION for something you are doing -- be it in print, recordings, film or even the Internet. And no, your Geocities homepage, the classified ad in the “desperate singles section” of the paper, and your hair band demo from the 80’s DO NOT count!
• 2. Must have $300 of disposable income, which on any given night, you could squander on drugs/booze/strippers/whores and lose no sleep over.
• 3. Your level of fame must be at least to the point where other people will spend money on you just say they “hung out with you”.
• 4. Women between 80 lbs. and 400 lbs. are automatically included in group activities, though, of course, they can never be actual members. On a side note, the 400 lbs. top-limit was enacted to accommodate a certain charter member with a proclivity for the larger things in life. New members are not encouraged to experiment with wide loads – only experienced professionals should be throwing around that kind of weight.
• 5. Must have had sex with prostitutes in at least three different countries. Amen.
• 6. Must have done drugs with at least one famous person, but preferably more.
• 7. Must be tired of the same ole' same ole' and be driven by a desire to create a panacea for the boredom of moderate success.
• 8. Must have some form of self-promotional merchandise. This is very important, and is a likely stumbling block for prospective members. T-shirts, records, hats – hell, even a fucking keychain with your face on it will qualify.
• 9. Must have spent at least a cumulative $5000 dollars on lawyers during your life.
• 10. In an ironic twist of fate, the sheet of paper containing the 10th commandment was lost. What it said has long since been forgotten, but since we need an official sounding even number, I will make my first amendment and address the current needs of the group: Sexual predators like the Moderately Successful move quickly and exhaust the supply of local snatch-o-la at a furious pace. We need to be surrounded with better pussy! Therefore, you must be driven by the all-encompassing desire to bust creamy loads of hot man spackle in newer, fresher, hotter bitches’ teeth on a nightly basis. Sound good?

If you or someone that you know thinks they pack the gear so serve in our beloved corps – if you truly believe you deserve to be among the Moderately Successful, email me at dick@consumptionjunction.com, and we’ll determine if you are indeed cut out for our most semi-prestigious organization. Until then, see you in the middle!