Show Thy Tits!

I have come to love very much those blog-chain games wherein a person makes a post based on some theme, and then encourages others to put up a variation. (Five Questions, for example.) I don’t know what it is about them — the community, the continuity, the differences, the similarities, or just the fact that I don’t have to think up a post from goddamn scratch that day. Today, I must have been more desperate than usual, because I made one up, albeit one vaguely inspired elsewhere by Sometime Commenter and Indecisive Blognamer bondgirl.

Call it an experiment: Will this brief diversion progress beyond the always-game-for-a-blog-game Barb, or will it die where it stands? I’ll be interested, if perhaps only briefly. Thus:

The Ten Commandments Of Alism

1) Thou shalt never refuse a drink proffered in comradeship or sympathy.

2) Thou shalt neither demand nor incite either fear or outrage in thy fellow man.

3) Thou shalt learn to appreciate good food.

4) Thou shalt not be cheap.

5) Ignorance resulting in bliss is holy and sacred.

6) Thou shalt not wear a top with thy bathing suit.

7) Thou shalt put others before thee, but not to excess.

8) Thou shalt always take home ‘dogs getting more than four on Monday night.

9) Thou shalt use the telephone only as a tool.

10) Thou shalt remember that life is short, and keep fun thy first priority.

Now, please: Credit the source — me, you dipshit — in your own blog, point us to ya in the Comments, and render unto us the Ten Commandments of the religion based around you.

Tonight At The Dollhouse

RICHMOND TIMES-DISPATCH:

In the world of exotic dancers, Lacey and Pixie of Boston are as big as they come.

So big, in fact, they overshadow much taller and more traditionally proportioned strippers.

“Nobody wants to give me anything,” one such dancer complained Wednesday night at South Richmond’s Paper Moon. “They’re all here to see the midgets.”

Not midgets.

“Dwarfs,” corrected 25-year-old Lacey. She and her 21-year-old half sister, Pixie, don’t much care for their “Midget Twins” billing, preferring the more accurate and gracious “Little Sisters”.

A buncha guys were talkin’ about this thing they heard about, midget titty dancers, right? So I got nothin’ to do this one night, right, and I went to Little Darlings to scope the midget act. I figured, what the hell, how often you gonna see that, right? So anyhow, these chicks are on stage doing a set, and the DJ says they’re available for lapdances. I’m already there, right, and I had a few drinks, so, y’know, what the fuck. Right? Lemme tell you, those chicks can wiggle, man. Damn. So I got two midgets climbing all over me at $20 apiece per dance. Somethin’s and a half, pal, I tellya. I musta dropped two, three grand between ’em that night, and we got to talkin’ later on and anyhow, that’s pretty much how I wound up involuntarily committed for life here at Sick Freak Memorial Hospital. What’s your story?”

Still A Little Full

Some of us guys, we do occasionally take a drink. Maybe a few too many, even. It’s a hallmark of civilization, liquor.

But when life really demands a lift, it’s time to go on a big time bender. We get sideways, swollen, stuff-faced, smoked, sauced. I’m talking dinner for two, apiece. Put a boot on the buffet rail and don’t leave til you can’t stand. Got to get Full so just listen right here, I want one chicken, one shrimp, one steer.

It’s no different than any other blowoff habit. Sure, somebody gets sick occasionally, or gets into it with the maitre d’, or wakes up in unfamiliar circumstances, but ain’t no harm done. We earned these battle scars and the stories that go with ’em, and we wear ’em proud. I could tell you some tales, I could.

I believe I am recovered, now, from going on a three-day eatin’ binge last weekend in Memphis. We had a damn ball. (What I remember of it, that is — I was pretty Full most of the time.)

Ate a mess of barbecue, culminating in a big dinner at Leonard’s, where I may have reached a new behavioral low. (Yes, I was Full, not that that’s any excuse.) Leonard’s — home of magnificent onion rings and far better rolls than I expect from a barbecue joint, plus Elvis’s favorite pig sandwich — is one of those places with rustic, down-home decorations. One of these decorations was a pig scale, one of them stand-the-pig-in-the-basket numbers.

After we’d been eatin’ for quite a while — food brought to us, BTW, by The Waitret Queen Of Comic Timing — it come up that on the way in, two members of our party had weighed the toddlin’ offspring of two other members of our party, and she came in at thirty-two-and-a-half pounds. We then noted that for a child of three years and thirty-two-and-a-half-pounds, she’d been eating pretty good that night by about any size-corrected standard you could name.

If you haven’t got a solid idea what happened next, be proud of yourself.

If you’re starting to grin, shame on you.

So another degenerate and I established the over/under at thirty-three pounds even, laid down the Lincolns — I had the over — and toted the bloated young lady back to the scale near the register.

Thirty-three-and-a-half pounds. Ka-ching!

I had a few proud gambling moments on the trip, too, of course. Won a bunch of coin on four natural ladies from a Bonus Poker-variant machine and invented a new road-trip game, albeit one that made me wildly unpopular in my own car. I call it Potty Chicken.

It’s pretty self-explanatory, if you think about it.

No money changed hands this time — the vehicles involved tied 2-2, actually — but it was a serviceable shakedown cruise, and Potty Chicken can assume its rightful seat on the Road Trip Game Olympus next to Predict The Oldie.

One final bit of pleasing news: The Dempseys, whose rendition of the Dukes of Hazzard theme song on Sunday night was met with wide approval, have a new album on the way. Stay tuned.

Day Of Recovery

I need to devote my energies to digestion. Tomorrow:

  • Gettin’ Full
  • Potty Chicken
  • I Am A Horrible Person
  • Hillbilly Vegas Been Bery, Bery Good To Me
  • Southern Girls With The Way They Talk, And Walk, And Dress, And Act, And Eat, And Dance, And Drink, And Do Just About Everything, They Knock Me Out When I’m Down There.
  • MW4: Some Pig

    Cat: “And they even say that you don’t know what pigs are for.”

    Babe: “What do you mean, what pigs are for?”

    Cat: “You know, why pigs are here?”

    Babe: “Why are any of us here?”

    Cat: “Well, the cows are here to be milked; the dogs are here to help the Boss’s husband with the sheep; and I’m here to be beautiful, and affectionate to the Boss…”

    Babe: “Yes?”

    Cat: “Ah, the fact is, pigs don’t have a purpose. Just like ducks don’t have a purpose.”

    Babe: “Uh, I – I don’t – uh…”

    Cat:“Oh, all right. For your own sake, I’ll be blunt. Why do the Bosses keep ducks? To eat them. So why do the Bosses keep a pig? The fact is that animals that don’t seem to have a purpose really do have a purpose. The Bosses have to eat.”

    “It’s probably the most noble purpose of all, when you come to think about it.”

    MW3: A Love Story

    Have ever loved anything so much that any attempt to explain your smittenness invariably degenerated into moony incoherence?

    For me, barbecue is like that.

    Witness: I have about six restaurants at which I expect to eat while I’m in Memphis:

  • Leonard’s, for onion rings and a pig sandwich
  • Interstate — the Best Restaurant On Earth — for barbecued spaghetti, ribs, a pig sandwich, pulled pork, and sweet potato pie
  • Gridley’s, for barbecued shrimp
  • Buntyn, for a lot of pie
  • A&R, for a pig sandwich
  • King’s Palace Cafe, for barbecued pork and Voodoo potatoes.

    That’s in about thirty-six hours, and those are only the places I’m *planning* to eat. That doesn’t include impulse meals.

    After first time I went to Memphis, I bought a smoker. I learned how to smoke pork shoulder. I learned how to smoke brisket. I learned how to smoke chicken. I learned how to make cole slaw. I learned about real charcoal. I learned about wood chunks. I have driven to Memphis once a year since to buy smoking wood and taste the product of the Masters. I learned the difference between “barbecue” and “grill” and “smoke”. I learned that barbecue is a noun, and what that noun represents.

    I became, essentially, born-again. I’m just as tediously evangelizing as they are, and I worry annoyingly about the failings in this area of those of whom I am fond, and I insist on arguing to those who don’t get it, but I don’t feel bad, for I have seen the Light, and it is good.

    And if ever you come to Memphis with me, you will come away converted, too. Hallejulah! Hosanna! God bless he who gave us slaw! God bless he who gave us slaw on the sandwich! Testify, my brothers!

    (I left this unedited, to prove that, when speaking of barbecue, I would in fact get incoherent.)

  • Memphis Week II

    I’ve decided to devote this week to annoyingly psyching myself up for a weekend in Pig City. Today:

    Things I Like About Memphis That Aren’t Food

  • I like Beale Street. I like the street crowd. I like that you can hear about five bands at once from any given spot. I like frozen drinks bought by the yard. I like hearing “Sweet Home Chicago” played by men older than the lyrics. I like the Diver. I like how bad they want to be Bourbon Street.
  • I like the girls. Specifically, I like the way the girls talk. Actually, I looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooove the way they talk. Give me a bar girl who says “Y’all wannanutha Jack?” or a cashier who says “Kin I hep yew?” or anyone in cute jeans who smiles and says “Thankyew!” and it’s Hello Woody. I need to wear three pairs of shorts to keep things modest.
  • I like a specific FM radio station, the call letters and frequency of which I cannot recall, but which is “Memphis’s Gettin’ Some Station!” Seriously. It’s all Barry White and Marvin Gaye and Al Green and such, and the afternoon drive guy sounds EXACTLY like DJ Eazy Dick*.
  • I like Graceland. It’s slapped right in the middle of a normal residential neighborhood, which is cool, ’cause you’re driving through a regular middle-class suburb, and you hang a right, and there’s an airplane and ten thousand people. (Hound Dog One and the Lisa Marie are across the street from the house.) Seriously, without the sign and the headquarters across the street, you would never look twice at this house. That’s cool.

    I also like the inside of Graceland. I don’t know how it got a reputation for being unbelieveably tasteless. It’s lovely, and very nicely decorated, as long as you account for the fact that no one’s changed a thing since 1977. I want three TVs embedded in my wall, too.

  • I like the people. I don’t know why it is, but the Friendly & Polite Index is much, much higher down south. It’s nice to have people apologize for bumping into you, or not get the stink-eye froma whole bar when you walk in as a stranger, or have someone in a store act like they are in fact Pleased To Be Of Service. Startling, but nice.
  • I like The Dempseys.
  • Tomorrow: Barbecue.

    * From WBALLS. You know, the station that slaps you across your fat ass, with a fat dick.

    Memphis Week

    Lord Almighty,
    I feel my temperature rising
    Higher and higher
    It’s burning through to my soul

    Girl, girl, girl
    You gonna set me on fire
    My brain is flaming
    I don’t know which way to go

    Your kisses lift me higher
    Like the sweet song of a choir
    You light my morning sky
    With burning love (burning love)

    Ooh, ooh, ooh,
    I feel my temperature rising
    Help me, I’m flaming
    I must be a hundred and nine

    Burning, burning, burning
    And nothing can cool me
    I just might turn into smoke
    But I feel fine

    Cause your kisses lift me higher
    Like a sweet song of a choir
    And you light my morning sky
    With burning love (burning love)

    It’s coming closer
    The flames are reaching my body
    Please won’t you help me
    I feel like I’m slipping away

    It’s hard to breathe
    And my chest is a-heaving
    Lord Almighty,
    I’m burning a hole where I lay!

    Cause your kisses lift me higher
    Like the sweet song of a choir
    And you light my morning sky
    With burning love (burning love)
    With burning love
    Ah, ah, burning love
    I’m just a hunk, a hunk of burning love
    Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love
    Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love
    Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love
    Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love
    Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love

    Fat Bastard

    This annoyed me:

    Like millions of Americans, Christine Davies would like to lose a little weight. The 37-year-old paralegal from Tacoma, Wash., says she’s 30 pounds heavier than she should be. And like millions of Americans, she has experimented with whatever is the diet du jour. But in each case, not for long. It wasn’t just the discipline required. It was the price tag.

    “I tried both the Atkins and South Beach diets, but pound for pound, protein is a lot more expensive than carbs,” she says. “The South Beach diet recommends fish about three times a week. I’d have to eat canned tuna three times a week to afford it, and I get tired of eating the same foods.

    “Plus, you have to cook everything yourself,” she says. “Following it on a day-to-day schedule would be completely impossible because of the complexity of the recipes and the cost of the foods.”

    She’s thirty pounds up because of the complexity of cooking meat and salad? Geez, I got fat because I could cook, not because I couldn’t. Be thankful you can’t deal with complex recipes, Christine — you’d have to be moved around with a forklift. Just say what you mean: “I can neither accept being fat nor loving food. I am obviously a whining psycho. I owe numerous boyfriends lavish apologies.”

    I’m also lost on the claim of expensive. South Beach can be a little expensive — it’s basically Atkins-By-The-Sea — but you can keep the costs down. Atkins, though — I could eat, reasonably well, on Atkins for $50 a week. Less. Eggs, soup, pulled pork, salad. Nothing to it. I’m sorry it’s boring, but if you didn’t like food so much, you wouldn’t be a 747, wouldja? You know what else is boring? Not smoking. Not dropping acid. Jogging. Sit-ups. Bo-ring!

    “Boring” is correct for your purposes. Say it with me: “Until I’m in jeans built for one, food is fuel, not fun.”

    And I eat canned tuna six times a week, you spoiled brat.

    ***

    This restored my good mood:

    “John Stamos is getting divorced just as the Olsen twins turn 18. Coincidence? I think not. I think someone is going to be entering the backdoors of two little houses very soon.

    Harder, Uncle Jesse! Harder!”

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