There comes a time in every New Jersey native’s life when they realize they’re too old for D’Jais. I’d say that age is 22.
If you’re not from the area and want the MTV experience of what you believe the Jersey Shore is, D’Jais is your spot. Loud incessant music, impossibly dark tans, hair gel that defy physics, and enough fist pumping to set your biceps up for the entire summer.
If Jersey Shore was cast in 2022, they’d stay in Belmar. Bamboo and Karma are dead, D’Jais is the last man standing. But it’s all the same clientele. Greasy New Yorkers in cutoffs and obnoxious rich Jersey kids who tell people their father is in the mafia.
This bar is prime real estate for people who hook up without needing conversation. Which hey, not a bad thing. But even if you need to tell your friend something you’ll need to text them or go for a cigarette break outside to escape the bass and constant air horns.
Getting off the dance floor is no easy task. It attacks 4/5 senses. We’ve already established you can’t hear. But garbage cans appear to be in antiquated notion in D’Jais. Every inch of the floor is a graveyard of beer cans, plastic cups, ice cubes, straws, and liquids that never made it to peoples’ mouths. Don’t wear shoes you’re fond of. If you don’t trip and fall rendering yourself unconscious, it’s entirely possible that you’re knocked out by the cloud of seemingly the entire Macy’s cologne department. And you’re taking this all on blind. If the strobe lights don’t get you, wait five seconds for a napkin tornado to steal your vision.
But they’re no dummies at D’Jais. You’ll hear the end of their motto, “gotta be shaking that ass” more times than you can count. To their credit, there will be a whole lot of ass shakin’. Every where you turn. The bar, the dance floor, the bathroom, the stage. That stage has seen more ass than a proctologist. But men beware. Bouncers are praying you get on that stage so they can audition their best Ray Lewis impression.
But half-naked girls shakin’ their ass comes at a cost, and D’Jais’ price is that every single guy in there will want to fight you. You can see it in their teeth. Maybe it’s their little chain is cutting off circulation. Maybe the backwards snapback set to the last notch is cutting off oxygen to their brain. Whatever the case may be, every guy is thrown into a secret Cold War the second they pay that cover charge - and everyone’s hand is shakily hovering the nuke button.
Believe it or not, I have enjoyed myself at D’Jais. On Sundays when all the annoying people have gone home. All the people left are there to party. The lost causes who have postponed their responsibilities or abandoned them completely. D’Jais Sunday Fundays are filled with dance contests, t-shirt giveaways, theme parties, other silly games, and a whole lot of alcohol consumption.
It’s possible I’ve just outgrown it, sure. But it’s also kind of a running joke in the area that if you’re over 26 and still going to D’Jais you should probably be on some kind of watch list. As much as I shit on D’Jais it’s an essential part of the experience. So break out your 90’s hip hop tee, buy a pair of ripped jeans, and ask your uncle to borrow his chain… for the culture. Because the best part of D’Jais is that in a sea full of dickheads, you’re free to play the dickhead. Morals, standards, and manners be damned, you’re going to Jersey Shore BITCH!!
