The Oyster House

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The Oyster House is undoubtedly the most magically seedy dive bar in all the valley. Not seedy in that "rapey" sort of way, but more seedy as in "shabby and run down". And not shabby and run down in that "get into my van, I've got some candy" sort of way, more of the "lets bolt some metal whale yard art to the walls, and see if we can't class up the joint" kind of way. Sure, the clam-chowder rocks my hairy butthole, but more importantly, there's an outdoor smoking area with a bar attached. This is a veritable chain smokers delight.

This is not a bar for "disco dancing" and "picking up hot chicks." Oh no, this is something far better, far stranger. It's a place to summon your minions, and in the dim smokey recesses, together you will engineer your infallible plan for world domination. If your the solitary type, it's a bar to get quietly shitfaced and compose fiery manifestos on the back of beer coasters, all the while giving the "hump eye" to that sassy bottle blond cougar at the far end of the bar.

The valley is lousy with celebrities, and the oyster house is no exception. My favorite bar tender "Bob" pours heavy, is a working actor, and even better, he has a metric buttload of dead baby jokes. For those of you who have yet to switch to the metric system, a "metric buttload" is at least 20% larger than the "standard imperial buttload".