Words don’t exist to explain, a.) what happened next nor, b.) what boozing it up at Port 41 is like. Let’s deal with the latter first.

Between the game of Big Buck Hunter with middle-aged drunken derelict John to the dude who started doing push-ups on the peep show booth-sticky and filthy floor of Port 41 during some Metallica song, Port 41 defies any rationale explanation. The vaguely-tweaker bartenders are clad in bikinis but do little that could be termed titillating unless you happen to have a fetish form chicks stomping garbage with their kick. To the, surprisingly diverse crowd of drinkers credit, they seem to be there more for the cheapness of the booze and genuine oddness of Port 41 than they are there for the chicks in bikinis.