Fun in East Hampton: Fuck You, Blue Parrot.

Half of us finally gave in, sucked it up, and headed out to East Hampton this past weekend. (Really, we went for the 7 different Calypso storefronts — the block on Broome street simply isn't enough!) We deflowered ourselves only because of Manhattan's insufferable heat; the major lure of this eastward excursion was an absurd amount of time on the beach, but only with the promise that we would not, under any circumstances, be forced to enter any sort of bar with the words "jet," "star," or "toni" in its name. Our demands were thus met and, dare we say, we enjoyed ourselves.

Except for when we wanted a drink.

A group of us were thirsty for adult beverages on Sunday night and, being a bit sandy (but still ever so chic), ventured to Main Street for margaritas at the Blue Parrot. "Can we sit outside?" we asked. "No," responded the brace-faced lad who slowly directed us to a table in the back. "Only six people can sit outside," he slurred. As we could see, there were six people who had captured those prized seats before our arrival. We meekly shuffled to a dark booth and gazed longingly at the sunshine outside.

We had said we just wanted drinks but, after waiting nearly 15 minutes, no one had come by to bring us water or menus. We ate the complimentary chips and salsa and stared at one another, silently wondering when we might receive actual service. Finally, a pre-pubescent waitress came by. "You have to leave," she flatly said. "Um, why?" we asked. "Because there's a bigger group here, and they want food and you just wanted drinks so we're giving them your table. So you go."

Fine, bitches. But you better believe we rented Pretty Woman later that night, and we'll be back. Big mistake. Big.