What does $7 get you on a Saturday night in the small town outside of small town USA? Raped, ass raped to be more specific. $6 for a tourist shot of anything, no matter how good it may be, is refuckincoculous. For a mini bucket… Sure. Oh wait, this is on top of the $7 cover to get in to hear the shittiest wanna-be funk band ever. And did I mention that I'm the designated driver? Oh yeah. The shots are not mine. The only redeeming thing this night holds is the fantastic people watching.
In this corner we have the pole dancing pool wench. It's not exactly a spare tire, it's a spare tractor tire. The jiggle is makin the floor move and it isn't to the beat. And in the hick corner is big bubba in his bibbies of doom. Old school train conductor pin stripes no less, only one side done over the shoulder. We're talkin hat, pants into the boots, bud light, George straight straw hat and a beer gut that's about 8 months along (wait the pole girl is at it again, her humper sticker is frightening.!!). And my absolute favorite! The couple in the leisure suit pants and giant silver belts, coordinating their efforts to get their clothing at tight as possible. It's kinds like watching Chester the molester with his mate (the molestress) out on the town. The PDA's flying between these two is just wrong.
And all over the place are the coke whores, nasty wanna be gangsters hitting on the little hootchie girls being eye balled by Chester the Molester. It's just too much.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
