4/5 stars
Dear Rhinehaus,
You skinny, skinny bitch.
I can't finger why I love you, but let me feel around in the dark:
1) Maybe it's your short list of shots that don't bury me into a Fireball bunker?
Instead I get to ride across the border on your Mexican Rhino, and sneak into Pink Rhino, your sorority dollhouse.
2) Maybe it's your 80 watt halogens, that make everyone's foreheads shine and lips chap?
With lighting that bright, you can turn an 8 into a 6.
3) Maybe it's your small TVs, too small for a true sports bar, but small enough that the guys still notice the nearby girls? (and don't think I'm dissing your size, it's your thin width that brings us closer ;)
....let me pause on these compliments so you keep your Rhinehoe horn in your Rhinehoe pants...
....we now return to regularly scheduled programming....
4) Maybe it's Wonder Brown the bartender, part Rodeo Clown, part Coors Sommelier?
5) Maybe it's the most competitive Touchtunes in Greater Ohio, more competitive than flavor-picking at Graeter's in Ohio?
And maybe it's the contract among patrons that only rap shall be played, and that the crowd will always rally around nostalgia....
....last Sunday, at a quarter past drunk, Kanye West's "Runaway" played, which is easily my 34th favorite Kanye song.
But when I leaned up in my stool, and gazed down on the craigslist choir, for a moment it was my #1.
Rhinehaus, you made me feel like a King.
Until I walked back out on 12th Street, and remembered that I'm just your side chick.
To soccer, that stupid sport.