Wifey Whittah will be here in, like, a day! I will be reunited with my on again, off again wife that prances her ass back to Kansas City from Denver every couple of months to shack up with me for a weekend of mayhem. You can read about more of our adventures here and here.
And, it should be nothing short of our usual ridiculous shenanigans this weekend especially since we've been frequenting and then raving about Missy B's, a local gay bar, lately - guess where wifey wants to go Friday night?
It's a jovial little joint with a couple of floors housing lots of dark corners for skankiness. If you're unprepared to see shirtless men making out, grinding and touching weens in those
Part of the reason Kate and I like it is because there is mucho dancing and minimal molestation...at least for us. In regular bars, it's usually a constant stream of doucherockets walking up to you and saying "cleaver," "witty" and "sweet" things with their rotten Patron and Miller Lite breath blowing in your face in hopes of wooing you into their bed for "the night of your life." In Missy B's, the men want other men and the most interaction they have with women is when they compliment their fierce shoes and sassy dress.
However, sometimes you run into a bi or a straight man in a gay disguise. Last time I was growled at and eye fucked from across the bar the entire night by one of these. Then Kate was humped and groped on the dance floor by another one for a good two minutes before she grabbed onto her fiance Sam and mouthed, "I DON'T THINK HE'S GAY! WHAT DO I DO?"
Sneaky little straight whores. They'll do anything to grind their penis on a chick including pretending to be flexible with their sexuality in the land of gays.
We wandered upstairs for the first time a few weeks ago where we discovered a whole other dance floor complete with stripper poles - occupied by men of course - and tiny, individual pitchers of beer. This was also the place where Sam's hat was removed and his hair was tousled ever so playfully by a male admirer. Sam's a good sport though so he just smiled, declined, explained the whole female fiancee thing and promised that if he ever decided to love takin' it up the poop shoot, he'd give him a call.
Soon after, Kate and I discovered the upstairs bathroom...I mean, it had a toilet, so I guess it could be called that. Although I'm fairly sure it was mainly used as a rendezvous point for those too anxious to wait until they got home and too timid to utilize the dark corners since it was lit with only a blacklight and also came complete with a shower and a large, sinister gargoyle guarding the door.
At one point, while Kate and Andrew waited for Sam and I to come downstairs and join them in the smoking area, Kate heard the *clicky, clicky, clicky* of stiletto heels on the metals stairs above them and naturally assumed it was me coming down the stairs to meet them...imagine her surprise when a big, black drag queen appeared at the bottom of the stairs instead of me.
Plus, towards the end of the night, the DJ always plays the live concert video of Beyonce in a leotard singing "Single Ladies" and you get to hear the collective squeal of delight from a packed dance floor of gay men as they "put yo hands up." If you don't want to witness that nor do you think it's funny, you have no soul.
So, yes, after a classy dinner at Kona complete with sushi and mojitos and perhaps a few other bars in celebration of Wifey Whittah's return, we will be ending our Friday night witnessing live ween on ween groping.
On Saturday while Whittah is busy attending a wedding, Kate, Sam and I will be headed to Rockfest - the annual gathering of Kansas City's white trash with a few non-trashies sprinkled in to enjoy an all day, outdoor multi-stage rock festival. Check out last year's account right here.
I'm sure this year's festivities will be more of the same just with different somewhat crappier bands. I mean, the headliner this year is Korn. Seriously? Do people still like Korn? Did people ever like Korn? Gross.
Needless to say we won't be staying to mosh with the Korn lovers at the end, so I guess that's a difference. Plus this year's event kind of crept up on me leaving me little time to prepare. You see, since you spend all day out in the hot sun, most of the day is spent in a swimsuit and shorts or something similar. However I am still quite pasty and may or may not have a layer of flab that I didn't have last year, which probably just got bigger in the last 12 hours since I enjoy spraying whipped cream straight out of the can into my mouth and nearly devouring an entire bag of Topsy's mixed popcorn in one sitting. Moo, heifer, moo.
Eh, who the fuck cares. Did I mention the hotness that inhabits Rockfest? Yeah, I'm good.
Whittah leaves on Monday, so how about Sunday night? Anything goes I guess since I still don't have job. WAH-WAAAAH!