Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Brace Yourself For All the Sexiness

I often joke that I'm like a boy scout — always prepared. However, I'm also a "yes" woman. I rarely turn down an invitation even if it's something that I'm not even remotely interested in. Curiosity and spontaneity just takes over and I feel the need to have this "experience" whether it's going on the sixth float trip of the summer, painfully transforming body parts into something that resembles a baby seal or naked mud wrestling.

A few weekends ago, it was an MMA fight (Mixed Martial Arts) in Grain Valley, Missouri at a little joint called...Whiskey Tango...and with a name like that, you probably already know where this story is going.

A friend of ours had a bunch of free tickets to this thing and Kate said, "hey, we're all going, wanna go?" and I was all, "Yeah, yeah I do."

And, since we were fully aware that we'd probably never get an opportunity for better people watching except maybe at Rockfest, Dave came up with a little game called "Stick Your Flag In It." We usually play an ongoing game we lovingly call "Your Team." Whenever you come across a hideously awkward person in public, you casually point them out to the person you're with and say, "Your Team." However, with "Stick Your Flag In It," the rule is, you must find the most horrid person you possibly can, let the group know that you "stick your flag in them" and at the end of the night, whoever picked the worst of the worst, wins.

It started before we even got inside the door. We drove about half and hour east of Kansas City to this little podunk town that I frequented when I was younger because my cousins grew up there, however, the sights were much different these days. You would have thought they were giving away free punch and pie at this thing with the massive crowd that showed up. We had to park a mile away and with the giant, pre-manufactured shed of a bar looming in the distance, we skidded over snow and ice covered banks, leaped across drainage ditches and slopped through a gravel-mixed-with-slushy-snow lake of a parking lot while some guy with a mullet in a leather Chiefs jacket loudly exclaimed over and over again:


...stretching the ever popular "bullshit" into a three syllable word with a backwoods twang...impressive...but we all refrained from giving up our flags so soon.

Once inside, we all marveled at the size of the place and the "cage" where the fighters would brawl, but mostly at the sheer disgustingness of the audience - the greasy hair, the ill-fitting clothing and poorly selected fashions, the rotting meth teeth, the general lack of regular hygiene, the horrendous grammar, the raunchy behavior. I mean, I don't consider myself to be high class, but my five friends and I were quite possibly the only people in the entire bar that had bathed within the last three days and found it inappropriate to openly and seriously grope each other's genitalia in public. Needless to say, we didn't exactly fit in.

As we were standing in line for a much needed beer, the announcer came on, the lights dimmed and the speakers began to blare a familiar song, "Oh, oh Black Betty, Ram-a-lam, oh, oh Black Betty..." and I immediately spotted a flag candidate flailing dancing next to bar by her strapping, wanna-be cowboy mate. She was one of those incognito trashy ladies. At first glance, she looked better than most — fairly decently dressed, but with a slightly weathered face when you looked a little closer. I was somewhat envious of her before-8:30 p.m.-completely-shitfaced state since I really needed to be more drunk to handle this situation. As the end of song neared I watched her attempt a major sexy-time dance and gesture that only actually happens in movies.

"Ram-a-laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam..." the music blared as she backed up to the bar, slid down, then up slowly in time with the music, then stuck her tongue out to catch her straw and take a drink of her booze. I saw Dave's eyes widen and he nodded yes, when I asked if he just saw what I saw. And, while Dave protested, "she's not that bad," I knew better and placed my flag.

The fights began just like any other ring-type event — with extremely hot, fit and scantily clad ladies jumping up and down in an attempt to pump up the crowd...except you can go ahead and take away the "extremely hot and fit" part for this event. I've never seen a ring girl with a more than sizable muffin top let alone one that was downright rotund. I may sound like an asshole for criticizing, but wearing two strips of fabric as clothing, then jumping around in front of a gigantic crowd is only flattering for a minute percentage of the population.

The chubby trend continued with the fighters. While I knew these guys probably wouldn't be completely ripped, I at least expected most of them to be in fairly decent shape simply from the hours of practice and conditioning. However, not one of them was without a little friend I like to call massive beer gut. Some even gave me the pleasure of some moob sightings. And, if you find that amusing, try picturing all that sexiness jiggling and rolling around on top of each other, all sweaty in tiny spandex shorts...except of course when it's jiggling, while they're punching each other in the face. Mmmm, yeah baby.

At one point, I cursed my beer filled bladder and made the mistake of venturing, along with Kate, across the bar to the bathroom during an intermission. The crowd was loud, rude, pushy, crushing and SMELLY. Along the way, while I was at a standstill smashed between Kate and a mass of toothless miscreants, some guy with a heavy hillbilly accent leaning against a second bar on the outskirts of the slowly milling crowd asked me if I was heading towards the bathroom and I was all, holy shit! No more talkie!, since his breath smelled as though a raccoon with gangrene had crawled into his mouth and died six months ago.

As we got closer to the bathroom, the crowd suddenly became unruly and I saw my life flash before my eyes as I was crushed to point where I could no longer breathe. Since I refused to die by way of trampling by a crowd of body odor ridden white trash, I bailed out to the left and waited until a path to the bathroom cleared, then made a run for it. I found Kate in the bathroom just as traumatized from the near death experience as I was. She told me that at one point, her feet were no longer touching the ground because the crowd was so squishy and she made it into the bathroom by clinging to the back of a linebacker sized woman with a greasy ponytail who threw bows through the mass with brute force while yelling, "Comin' through!" Ah, yes, I remembered that woman. Right before I almost died, her greasy ponytail smacked me in the eye then slithered down my cheek.

Other highlights of the night: Witnessing a guy taking a piss behind the change machine and watching various groups of trainwrecky men and women grind on each other while screaming 'whaaaaaaaaaaaat!'

We had to leave before the fights were over for obvious reasons and as we got closer to the parking lot we accidently interrupted a couple that would have surely banged it out against their pick-up truck if we hadn't walked up. The guy looked extremely pissed off by the disruption and immediately shoved the drunk ass girl into the passenger side of the truck while she exclaimed, "Oh HIIIIIIIII! If I had to walk all that way I would be on my aaaaaaaaaass! and he hurried to the driver's side.

When we got closer, we realized the girl was none other than my sexy time, "Stick Your Flag In It" lady and, as we walked past the truck, sexy time slurred, "If any of you are interested in girls, I have a phone number and I'm right heeeeeeeeere."

"Thanks, but I'd rather die," I called over my shoulder.

And that, my friends, is how I won the first installment of "Stick Your Flag In It."

(I still won even though I might have illegally switched my flag to a man with a wicked face tat and a salt and pepper ponytail later in the night, then switched it back to sexy time. I make my own rules, dammit. Although Dave's head to toe, sparkly, marijuana leaf-clad douchebag was probably a close second.)


Steam Me Up, Kid said...

"Holy shit! No more talkie!"

Heehee, that's cracking me up.

Elly Lou said...

I believe the PC way to refer to the gentlemen with the beer guts is "members of the DickeyDo" foundation. As in bellies hang out further than their dickies do. Lord let me tell you how many drunk old men told me that when I was slinging drinks in rural Virginia...

Megs said...

Gee, how could you pass up such a tempting proposition from such a class act?

Also? Had to stop reading to laugh like a maniac after reading how your friend hitched a ride to the bathroom on another woman's back.

Dingo said...

It seems your "yes woman" status ends with sexy time asking if you want her number. I applaud your discretion!

Tgoette said...

That was frickin' hilarious! I admire your self-control in turning down sexy time like that. Great story!

Vic said...

Ewww - the greasy ponytail in the face did me in!

They all sound like a lovely group of people. It's like cotillion, only with extra beer guts!

Kurt said...

I like that you put meth teeth and bad grammar in the same category. Totally appropriate.

Pearl said...

Delightfully told. I could smell it from here. Sounds like you ran into a number of swamp heifers. :-)


p.s. We play a similar game called "Whose Your Wife/Husband With?" Same premise with the addition that the skank is actually married to you...

Harna said...

Steamy: Yeah, I say that a lot, like out loud.

Elly: Those shirts are all over Ozarks country of Missouri. I remember being completely disgusted by them when I was a kid.

Megs: She was pretty sexy, but probably out of my league. I mean, we should all try to be realistic. I pretty much fell over too when Kate told me about her little ride.

Dingo: I do have self control when it comes to a few things...mostly those that involve contracting the clap.

Tgoette: Hello! Thanks, I appreciate your support of my decision. It was tempting, but I refrained.

Vic: Dude, I would love to see a white trash cotillion. Can we say reality show hosted by Tom Arnold on CMT?

Kurt: Yes, they are equally appalling to me.

Pearl: Haha! Swamp heifers! Smell is definitely the word.


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