Party Poker Blog

Before we start part 6, we need to dip into the reader mailbag again:

Item 1: Alert reader Mike M. points out that it was the Tubes, not the
Plasmatics, who recorded "She's A Beauty." Thanks Mike. At first I was
at a loss to explain how this grievous factual error slipped through. So
I took a walk back into our rigorous quality control department. I found
two empty bottles of Jose Cuervo Gold. Case closed.

Item 2: The lady who emailed to call us "immature drunks" took exception
to Manbeast's reply and followed up. We'll call her Mrs. Stu Pidseeword
(not her real name). Among other comments, she wrote that we "...really
are losers! Your (sic) not funny at all. Your (sic) pathetic!"

We respond:

Dear Mrs. Pidseeword,

We've puked 20, maybe 25 pages of pabulum stating that we are utter and
complete losers. Apparently our subtlety was lost on you. To clarify: We
are a bunch of boozy yobbos. We're social retards. We pronounce "retard"
as though it were spelled "retart." We grok Spock. We believe the truth
is out there. We watch Loch Ness Monster documentaries on the Discovery
channel. Nearing our 40s, we all have Playstations. We go to family
functions and drink until we sound like Ozzy fucking Osbourne, then stand
close to our cousin - the one with the big tits - hoping for a brush-up.
We fast forward through r-rated movies looking for nudity. We've passed
out in stranger's hedges. We've puked in salt water aquariums. In high
school, when the cool kids like you were dating and learning social
skills, we were playing Dungeons and Dragons and drinking lukewarm Pabst
Blue Ribbon. We were playing the Atari 2600 and sneaking bottles of
Manbeast's Dad's homemade Saki, which causes temporary blindness. We were
making prank phone calls. We were going to Star Wars 27 times. We can't
write one fucking paragraph without switching tenses. We were, are, and
always will be, losers in the truest sense of the word.

Get it? Now the only question is: will you, a real-life-having person,
waste further precious minutes of your life reading our future
installments? I think we both know the answer to that question.

Sincerely,
The Losers

Losers 06 - "Fuckin' bird's too smart."
=======================================

"Ahh alcohol, catalyst for bozotropism: That wonderful shift toward the
clownlike end of the behavioral spectrum." -- Manbeast

We'll now recount last year's hunting camp, which is about when I started
compiling this crap. I'll use the present tense because that's easier and
I'm lazy.

Time for the monthly home game. We plan to play right through Friday
night to Saturday morning, then leave for the cabin. Any pussies can get
a little sleep on the couch, if they're brave enough to be unconscious
within reach of their peers.

I drive over to Spaulding's to pick up him and Shithouse for the game.
The door is unlocked, so I walk in without knocking, naturally. Unheard,
I slink into the living room. Shithouse and Spaulding are sitting on the
couch, watching TV. Cartoons, to be specific. They're playing a drinking
game, and they're both apparently playing to lose. Before they know I'm
there, I overhear their little Mensa chat session.

Shithouse: Instead of spending all that money on slingshots and shit, why
doesn't the coyote just buy some food?

Spaulding: He'll never catch that roadrunner. Fucking bird's too smart.

Shithouse: [outraged] You see what I mean? He can afford a rocket but
he can't buy food?

Spaulding: Something is going to go wrong with that rocket.

(the rocket malfunctions, injuring the coyote)

Spaulding: Told you.

Shithouse: (Yelling at the screen) BUY SOME FUCKING FOOD, SUPER GENIUS!

So I hustle dumber and dumbest into the truck and we get to Dreamland.
After a ceremonial round of aqua vitae (you know, the water of
life...stupid in a bottle...fucking booze!) cards are in the air.

To give you a general idea of how tough the home game plays, the most
common pattern sees almost everyone in the pot, rapidly raising or
calling, until the last card is dealt. Now the game slows to a crawl.
Know why? Because only now, for the first time, are the inebriated
dumbasses trying to figure out what their hand is. They'll stare at it,
as though the cards are going to change, ask if anything was wild, then
try to decide if they can call with 2 pair in a game of baseball.
(Answer: of course you can call, got to keep them honest!) Then you have
to hear them explain their logic - "Well, I started with jack, queen, four
and I was going for the straight. Then on the fourth card I had two
diamonds, so I could make a flush too. Then I got a pair. By the end, I
had the fours and sevens and almost made a straight."

First hand - a rarity - Spaulding gets off to a winning start. Seven card
stud, low in the hole is wild, roll your own. By the end I have a
straight flush. Manbeast and Spaulding are still in, heavy action. I
mark Manbeast with at least quads. Spaulding could have as little as
trips and would play just as insanely, so no one knows where he's at. I
fear 5 of a kind from Manbeast, but with a straight flush I have to pay it
off. I call all the way as Manbeast and Spaulding whip-saw me for the
five raise maximum. Spaulding had a real hand for once - 5 of a kind -
and drags a monster. He uncorks his trademark annoying, high pitched,
wicked-witch-of-the-west, inappropriate for a fat guy laugh
"EEEEEEEEHEEEHEEEHEEEHEEHEE!" It is the finest tilt producing mechanism
known to man.

*** Snow White says ***
Idiots get dealt aces as often as everyone else.
*** End Snow White ***

Playing the rush: A few minutes later Spaulding deals hi-lo draw. A high
EV game for smart players, because home gamers are so loose that every
hand represents either a high or low draw. Not surprisingly, everyone
stays in before the draw and we cap the betting. Spaulding draws two
cards to a wheel and makes a 23456 straight. Betting is capped 4 ways
after the draw. Scoop. "EEEEEEHEEEHEEHEEHEE!" Now the trash talking
really takes off.

More abuse: A little later we're playing Homoha, a game Manbeast invented
in honor of Spaulding's aforementioned gay experience. It's Omaha high,
queens are wild, and straights don't count. I'm dealt KQJJ. Board comes
J4T94. Capped every round. Spaulding has two queens in his hand.

Fueled by excitement, everyone manages to play through to sunrise. We
load up the vehicles as Spaulding fixes us the breakfast of losers:
Orange juice and Absolut Mandrin screwdrivers. I pass, having layed off
the hootch at midnight, since I'm driving.

The plan is to spend Saturday night in Atlantic City, check out the
action, then head up to the cabin from there. It is a lot of driving, but
these are the sacrifices we're willing to make for the sporting life.

By midmorning we're ready to pull out, Spaulding has dozed off on the
couch. All attempts to wake him fail. Manbeast brings out a big wooden
plank, and we strap Spaulding to it. Then we use a dolly to cart his ass
outside. The van is pretty full, but Iron Mike's pickup is half empty.
Strapped to the plank, we load Spaulding into the pickup bed. We had
every intention of letting him make the hours-long ride just like that,
sliding around like a hockey puck, until Snow White convinced us that it
might be a tad too unsafe. So we unstrapped him and tossed him in the
back of the van, on the floor. He wakes up a few hours later, and clears
the cobwebs with a little hair of the dog.

At Spaulding's insistence, we stopped in Mt. Ephraim NJ, at a place named
"The Fantasy Show Bar." Mt. Ephraim is a little shitburg out in the
pine-barrens. We had to use the frigging GPS to get there. By the time
we get there Spaulding has had some food and is recharged and raring to go.

Variable: "How the hell did you hear about this place?"
Spaulding: "Internet."

We arrive. Spaulding "powers up" before entering by draining his flask -
hard. That it didn't implode is a tribute to modern flask engineering, as
we estimated the vacuum at around 10 microtorr. Then he sloppily refills
the flask from a fifth of Jack Black, and stashes it.

We enter, get our free welcome hug from a very acceptable looking naked
girl, a free (soft) drink, and some popcorn. The afternoon cover was low
- I think maybe $5. At first, it seemed like a real find. Did Spaulding
come through for once? Don't be stupid. The FSB is, in my opinion, a
minor clip joint. Not terrible, not as bad as the tourist traps in
Baltimore, but I wouldn't recommend it. Lap dances are overpriced and
highly tame (Manbeast tells his dancer: "Less dance, more lap."). The
dancers, even though we are tipping them well, are always asking if you
have "a little something extra" for them. You know - you tip them a few
bucks, then they hold out the right garter ("and one for here"), then the
left garter, etc. Maybe we were targeted as the desperate losers with
money (true) and on a
not-too-crowded afternoon shift they just worked us over. They're always
coming around trying to sell you an instant polaroid of you and a dancer.
Without asking first, one guy snaps a picture of me with my hand on some
dancers upper thigh - kind of brushing against the beaver - as she sits in
my lap, nude except for an elf hat. Guy tries to coerce me into buying
the polaroid, but I refuse.

Obnoxious Cameraman: "Sir, if you don't buy it I have to pay for it out
of my salary."
Me: "Please, you're going to make me fucking cry."

I would later realize they had no privacy policy.

Let me summarize this way: For the amount of cash you're going drop (if
you're not going to be a prick) you could have a far better time, and see
far better talent, at any of the upscale Philly or New Jersey spots.
Unless you insist on dirtier contact, which seems to be available here at
some price ($250, or whatever they think you're good for), look elsewhere.

Oh, I have your attention again, don't I? What dirtier contact, you ask?
You degenerate. Well, the girls allude to some unique action in the
sweetheart rooms. Manbeast asked about it and describes it thusly:

***Manbeast says*** Allegedly, for $250 (discreetly billed to any major
credit card) you pull on a condom and position yourself in what amounts to
a miniature stockade for your weenie. Then the dancer will do a lap-dance
type act, rubbing up against the little general. I said 'Honey, I can get
Greek in Atlantic City for 250, and you want to rub me with your thigh for
that?'
***End Manbeast***

Based on their other business practices, I have serious doubts about this
anyway. $250 probably covers the first song or something. I suspect
Manbeast has done it and doesn't want to admit getting ripped off. I'll
have to think of some way to extort the full story.

We depart the FSB, not before Spaulding marks his territory in their
parking lot in broad daylight.

We get back on the road, and start to talk about aging. Someone notes
that any kids currently in high school were not yet born when we were in
HS. Thanks for pointing that out.

I guess we ARE getting old, because we're starting to tell the dreaded
how-things-were-when-I-was-a-kid stories. Like this one:

Teens today have no idea have good they have it. Forget DVDs and the
Internet, in the early 1980s if you wanted to enjoy a little porn in the
privacy of your own home - and who didn't - you had to rent VHS. Movies
sold for $89.99 and up, so purchasing was out of the question when you
were earning maybe $4.00 an hour. And there were no big video chain
stores. We had to rent our porn at mom-and-pop stores where the
counter-person either looked like (and undoubtedly knew) your grandmother,
or else it was some hot high school babe who you didn't want to look like
a total jackoff in front of. At the store we frequented, the adult videos
were kept on a shelf behind the counter, so you couldn't just browse.
They had this photo-album filled with photocopies of all the box covers,
and so to rent a porno you actually had to look through the book and then
ask for the movie *by name*. And back then the smokers didn't have cutesy
titles like "Forrest Hump," or "Three Men and a Maybe," instead they were
really filthy. You felt like such a degenerate renting them. I'm sure it
caused us permanent psychological damage. For you young punks out there
reveling in the vast ocean of porn that is the internet, here's how
obtaining spanking material was When I Was Your Age:

First you stake out the video store for 15 minutes, making sure that no
one you know is inside and checking that there's no hot babe working the
counter. Then you rush in and try to make your rental as unobtrusively as
possible. You speed read through the book of filth.

You: (almost whispering) Uhm, yes, I'd like to rent 'Cocksucking Teenage
Cheerleaders' please.

Granny: You'll have to speak up, son.

You: (Turning bright red, looking around to make sure no one else is
nearby). Ahem, yes, I say I'd like to, uh, rent 'Cocksucking Teenage
Cheerleaders.'

Granny: Ooooh....(Granny hasn't had an impure thought since Ulysses S.
Grant was in the White House. She's obviously disgusted by your deviant
tendencies) Hold on...

[she checks on its availability. You wish there were some way to speed
her up so you can get out of there asap.]

Granny: ...seems to be out. Sorry.

You: Great. (Flipping through the smut book again) OK, how about 'Facial
Cumshot Cavalcade volume 13?'

Granny: Wait......I don't see it......let me ask my
granddaughter......(out walks the head cheerleader from your
highschool)......Heather, is, uh, Cavalcade #13 in?

Heather: No, that fat kid that they call Spaulding rented the whole Cum,
uh, that whole series.'

Granny: Oh, that spotty boy? My but he rents a lot of 'mature' videos.
I told him he's going to go blind.

Heather: Looks like he's halfway there already.

Granny: Wear gloves when you handle his money dear.

You: Can you just give me the newest release in the adult section that's
not checked out.

Granny: OK, here you go. Tell [your grandmother's name] I'll see her at
church.

Heather: (Giggling) See you in school [your name], where I'll be sure to
tell all my hot friends about your filthy habit!

[As you slink toward the exit your pastor walks in. You accidentally drop
your video and he picks it up, hands it to you and winks. You notice the
video is titled "Gay Boys on Parade."]

Anyway, that's how it was if you were semi-normal, constantly fighting the
internal battle between community decency and raging lust. If you were
Spaulding, lecherousness superceded any sense of decency, and you actually
got a perverse pleasure out of the process:

Spaulding struts into the store, returning a half dozen adult videos in
full view of all the other customers.

Spaulding: "Whoowhee were these hot! I needed a frigging beachtowel and
mop to clean up after "Taboo II: Hop on Pop." Jesus Chri..."

Heather: "Yeah,thanksforyourbusiness.Byenow."

Spaulding: "Anything new come in?"

Heather: (Sigh) "Friday the 13th part 2..."

Spaulding: "No, no, I mean porno. Dirty stuff. You know...(he begins to
make a two-handed gesture)"

Heather: "Yes, yes I know." (She glances nervously at the decent, Ferris
Bueller renting patrons) We prefer to call them adult videos."

Spaulding: "So what's new? Tell me some titles."

Heather: "Look, they're all listed right here in the book."

Spaulding: "I know, but I just love to hear you say them. It gives me a
stiffy."

(Disgusted, Heather makes some excuse to leave the counter and Granny
takes over)

Spaulding: (Pointing) "What's that one, there?"

Granny: "Uhm, uh" (appalled) "Schoolgirls Who Love It Up The Ass."

Spaulding: (genuinely) "What's it about?"

--- To be continued ---

Coming in part 07 - The New Jersey Highway Patrol: Do they have a sense of
humor?