You are at home, rocking out to some sweet Etta James before your night on the town, taking in her sultry, sexy mojo before you try to snag yourself a hot B-town babe.

You have approximately three hours to paint the Burlington bar scene red. You plan your night accordingly, and have three stops in mind.

You start out at the ever classy, low-key joint Drink. It’s early on a Friday night, so you encounter an odd scene. 

You are surrounded by bros pounding cosmos, trying to get a buzz before they, too, head to the next, slightly rowdier stop in the night.

There are a number of other possibilities for your next stop on the bar crawl. 

JP’s Pub might be an interesting stop on your party train. It, however, is the only karaoke-free night of the weekend. If you can’t enjoy the broken movement of dancing to alcohol-laden, off-key vocals, it’s not for you.

You think about venturing to Ake’s Place, but are deterred by the mid-30s, former bros that hover around the bar’s pool tables and barstools.

You are walking up Main Street when the vague smell of pine-sol and hard liquor wafts in your direction. It calls to you.  

You finally decide to spend your middle hour in the pine-smelling basement of What Ales You.  

After finishing your middle hour, leaving the music of Ales, which seems like a bartender’s iPod on shuffle, you are ready to dance. Yep, that’s right, dance.

You have three options for your dancing hunger. Metronome happens to be having 80s night. And, while the high-pitched tones of Tiffany and Cindy Lauper seem appealing, but the few lonely singles you find in your purse are just not enough for the steep $5 cover of this dancing zone.

You think about Lift. You look good tonight, so the wall-to-wall mirrors are a draw. The shininess calls to you. You, however, are distracted on your way there by the purple glow of Rasputin’s Bar.

There is an outrageously long line outside your bar of choice.  Normally a soft-spoken person, you become a real housewife of New Jersey in the chaos of the ‘Sputies line.

You get into a verbal confrontation with a guy who is at least twice your size. Where did the accent come from? You grew up in suburban Massachusetts.

You become very protective of your space in the line. “I was definitely in front of the ‘s’ in SkyBurger,” you think as someone pushes in front of you. Finally, after several more tense words in line, you descend the glorious entrance to the purple lights and bumpin’ beats of the bar.

You end your bar hop here with Grateful Deads and some sweet dance moves. But the night is not complete. You stop by Mr. Mike’s for a slice of pesto pizza and some sweaty comradery from your fellow UVMers who have also finished the long arduous journey of the Burlington bar crawl.

This column is not meant to be taken as actual advice, but as social commentary. The Cynic does not advise you to do or not do any of the activities mentioned above.