This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.

It appears we set our standards too high when we sent Gawker special correspondent David Klein to infiltrate A-lister habitat Kos. Actually, that s a complete lie. We have no standards. This week in our continuing nightlife series, we decided to send David a notch down the social alphabet and throw him towards to shiny new nightspot NA, which boasts such career-climaxed owners as Chris Big Noth and Joey Small McIntyre. Glamour ensues!

After last week's messy attempt at getting into Kos with my hot lady friends, I would play it safe this time and invite my sole famous friend, M. Christian Burr, a.k.a. distant cousin of former vice-president and Alexander Hamilton killer Aaron Burr. He s like one of the Bush twins, only sassier. Alphabet City resident D.C. Elbert and Adam A. rounded out the bill. We were certainly hangin tough, whatever that means.

Our optimism, however soon turned to turd. The scene outside of NA is a tad, how I should I say, ridiculous. No less than six bouncers sealed the club from pesky celebrity terrorists. Why can t we protect Fallujah like this?

The guys and gal at the door were certainly a colorful bunch. There was the gruff Frenchman who sported a black and white striped shirt straight from the Hamburglar s wardrobe. The only words I was able to decipher through his heavy accent were robble, robble. There was the ascot-wearing Frenchman s prot g , who I will refer to as Fred, although Scrappy Doo is more apropos. And on the more thuggish front, a beefed up George Michael look-alike and a beefed-down Warren Sapp look-alike stood by to keep the peace.

While a gaggle of young ladies who resembled the cast of Laguna Beach — if it were filmed in Howard Beach - made their way inside, we stood around like chumps, our cries of he s related to Aaron Burr completely ignored (hey, it worked at the Democratic-Republican National Convention). Our sole pillar of support was a kindly homeless man who assured us that everything would work out.

As much as my posse and I wanted to get into the place, we still weren t entirely sure where we were exactly. Was it N.A., like the initials of moon conqueror Neil Armstrong, or NA, as in Sha Na Na, or Make em say ugh, na na na na, or NACHO (The National Organization of Chemical Hygiene Officers)? Despite several inquiries into the matter, we failed to get a straight answer but then again, we were in the Meatpacking District.

Just as we were about to throw in the towel, Ludacris arrived and got our pulses pumping. When he moved, I moved, but that pesky velvet rope got in the way. Drastic measures needed to be taken, and D.C. had the answer.

Anyone want a sandwich? he inquired, acknowledging the Subway next door. He likes tuna, one of the bouncers answered, pointing to George Michael. George Michael and tuna, who knew?

Moments later, D.C. was clutching our 12 inch golden ticket inside. Although the Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go singer s clone seemed ready and eager to accept our gift, Fred thought otherwise. He doesn t want it! Fred exclaimed, grabbing the sandwich and slamming it to the ground. I guess he has some sort of beef with Jared specifically Heartland Roast Beef, with lettuce, tomato, olives, and peppers on freshly baked parmesan bread. Eat fresh.

D.C. immediately objected to this bold maneuver, but Fred remained wrathful. Kick his ass! he instructed Warren Sapp. This was our cue to exit.

As I made my way down 14th street, head hung low, I turned and noticed our friend the homeless man picking up the still-wrapped sandwich. He shot me the thumbs up as if to say, mission accomplished. Indeed, you can t spell karma without NA. Well, almost.