Bachelor Party Trip Report
WARNING: This is REAL THIN on poker content. In fact, this is probably the last mention of poker in this entire entry. If that pisses you off, makes you upset, offends you, or anything else--sorry. This blog entry is dedicated to following the travels of five guys on a weekend of debauchery, drinking, angry dolphins, and shitty eggs. Also be warned, I was going to change names to protect the guilty, but you know, it wasn't as funny that way, so screw them all.
First, an introduction. Obviously from the title, it was all about a bachelor party. My bachelor party. Yes, ladies, the PokerShark will be off the market in less than two weeks. I know you're all crushed, so I'll let you all live vicariously through those that crossed our paths on this incredible weekend. First, you have me, the Shark. A reputation as large as my ego, I'm not a fan of strip clubs (at all...hee hee), and I drink when I want to, and then, usually excessively. Then comes the best man, a mountain of a guy named Steve, who just happens to be Mrs. PokerShark's brother, and therefore, my brother-in-law (in 12 days). Stevie goes about 6-foot-3, and weighs about three bills. Stevie can also drink with the best of them. Jonesy is one of my ushers--another huge guy (6'0, 285) who has 3 loves in his life--his girlfriend, his adorable baby, and Yuengling lager. The fourth (and decidedly the smallest and most tiltable) member of the motley crew is Dom. Dom is quite the little LAGgy card shark himself, tiltable easily by the author, his girlfriend, and angry dolphins. Lastly, and absolutely not least, was Pops. Pops is, as the name implies, Steve's grandfather. Best part of that is that he might just have been the nuttiest one of this whole bowl of granola--and that says something.
Steve had told everyone that he had rented a limo-bus for the evening's festivities. Our girls, of course, not knowing the cool nature of the Aces, instantly conjured up images of the kids riding the short bus, lifts, and those styrofoam helmets they had to wear before they left the house. The taunting didn't stop until they left for their own bachelorette party about 2pm on Saturday. Little did they know... Steve-O (no relation to the Jackass jackass, though I think he would eat a goldfish for a dollar) swings by with Jonesy about 2:30pm, saving me from an afternoon of solitude and tilt playing on Stars. We took in some of the ball game, then began our travels in earnest with a trip to Ruby Tuesday's. Steve ordered this bangin'-ass White Chicken Chili, which assured that sometime during our travels, we would be replenishing the natural gas supply of the United States East Coast. But I digress. Jonesy goes for the colassal one-pound aptly named Colassal Burger. Steve-O and myself had the half-pound Bison burgers, and the waiter almost collapsed and died bringing the slabs of meat to the table. When he returned to refill our drinks and noticed that all three of us had cleaned our plates, he was completely tilted, and forgot to charge us for the appetizers.
So back to my house we went. Steve left to get changed for the night's festivities, and Jonesy ("Shit--my shirt has a stain. Could you wash it for me, dude?) decides that my living room should double for a changing room. Cool--I head upstairs to get changed, and wait for the limo-bus and the other clowns. About 8:30ish Steve and Pops come funneling through the door with Dom following close behind. We start off with Vodka shots, beer, more beer, and watch in delight as the limo bus pulls up. Seats 20--on-board cooler, flat screen TV/DVD. Suitable for any party...then out pops Eric. "E" basically told us that anyplace we wanted to go was cool with him. About 9 we all piled on the bus, and since half-pound and full-pound burgers couldn't possibly fill us up, we had to get food. Where else but....
It's a misrepresentation. Around the country, walking into Hooters is the next best thing to walking into a strip club. Model-quality girls in skimpy-ass tops, skimpier-ass-showing shorts, and willing to shake each and every part for your viewing pleasure. It's like Thee Dollhouse, only you can bring your kids there. So, after some more beer and RBV (Red Bull & Vodka) 's, into Hooters we go. Up here, Hooters girls are pretty much whoever will wear the shorts. Not bad, but certainly not the quality at other establishments around this great nation (so I've heard). Wings, pitchers, a song, and an autographed dress (no, they wouldn't let me take it off one of them) later, our waitress (clearly the hottest girl in the building--Dom's on tilt already) brings over the autographed dress and insists I put it on. Of course it fits over me like a wife-beater. Of course one of the waitresses signs it, "You can cum in my Hooters any time." And of course, she has to come to the table and let me know it was her who signed it that way. 20 years old, and you kiss your dad with that mouth? Wanna come for a bus ride? We get turned down by all the Hooters girls on our offer to enjoy the night with us (probably because they all had curfews), and decide that we've had enough, and off to the strip clubs we go.
We get back on the bus, and ask E where the good strip clubs are. He mentions the "Erotic Cafe," a little hole in the wall about a sneeze from the bridge into Northeast Philly. I stand up, clearly enibriated and still clearly on tilt from the 20-year old's invitation, and say the line of the night...
Can anyone say, "tilt?"
BYOB is good, mmm'kay? This place rocked for a hole in the wall. We had quite a bit of attention from the girls, seeing that I was the bachelor and all, so when asked by my amigos who I wanted my (first) couch dance from, I wasn't sure. Then, a girl came on stage, apparently just after starting her shift, and I noticed immediately that she was different. Not the silicone-inflated ditz that we're all used to ogling over and staring at, no. A dancer's body. Muscular, yet hot at the same time...then she decides to wiggle her way over to my side of the stage, looked right at me, and dropped down into a complete split. Good baby Jebus. As soon as she was done on stage, I knew that she was the one I wanted to spend a little time with, and I was firmly on stripper-tilt. This chick rocked my world in the back. Fifteen-plus minute couch dance. That's all I can say. A few more (okay, 3) couch dances later, and after Dom got a taste of the action, then bought Pops a couch dance from this Amazon-blonde 6-foot-tall girl, we decide--okay, Dom decides that he knows the owner of this joint in Philly, Show and Tel (1 L intentionally). Let's go, damnit! We're all in. So here I stroll out, looking desperately for Ivy (Hit me baby one more time!), then giving up and piling into the bus on our way to Philadelphia!
Of course, NOBODY knows that Ivy (who came to be known as "Splits") gave me her schedule as well (every other Thursday, every Friday and Saturday). Well, I guess EVERYBODY knows now. And before you all go jumping to conclusions, nothing happened back there that was that out of line. We'll just say it was pleasant back there for all involved...(and I know Domenic's going to tilt just reading that)
Philly strip clubs are regarded as much better off than their suburban counterparts. E (who was fast becoming E-Dawg for his incredible and uncanny ability to find the fastest way between two strip clubs) drops us off outside, despite our attempts to buy him a couch dance. Not my loss! In we go, just in time to see the Hot Seat in use. This girl (a butterface--everything on her was hot butt-er-face) is up there literally beating the shit out of this dude with a belt, then climbing up on him and damn near biting off his nipples. Not my thing at all. The guys got me a dance from this girl--funny part is the girls at the first place were of a significantly higher quality that at the Philly club. It showed too. Then, they grab this uber-tall girl and tell her that I've never gotten any "brown sugar." This girl proceeds to take me in back and literally do things to me that could get you arrested in a few states. Acrobatic little minx. We decided that it was time to leave there (about 2 AM), and we nearly went back to the Erotic Cafe, but fears of it being closed sent us to Cheerleaders.
This sucked. Last resort. We weren't ready to end the night (even though we only had E-Dawg until 3), so we went to the straight-up skankiest strip club on the Eastern Seaboard--the Fantasy Showbar. All my Jersey and Philly readers know this place all too well. Hey, it's open till 5, and what the hell?
In we go. Dom and I spot this girl who from a distance and in the dark looks very nice, not to mention EXTREMELY nice for Fantasy. We call her over just as she gets called to the stage. We wait her out, a little bummed, because by this point, E-Dawg is squarely in OT. Jonesy decides to take one for the team and go up to the stage and "encourage" (that's what they call it these days) her to swing back. She leans over to him, he reflexes back, tosses the money at her and squeaks back to us, "Her face looks like she got hit with a bag of what the fuck!!!" Luckily for us, she didn't hear him, but we damn near threw up from laughing so hard. On cue, this little blonde named Victoria takes me back for a couch dance. I had thrown a prop bet to Domenic that I would last more than 3 minutes back there (dances were $20 for 3 minutes--what a rip). He of course, knowing the charms of the Shark, pussied out. About 15 minutes later, I emerge from the couch dance area, just in time to see him come out as well. Only thing was, he had to wait a few minutes for a girl AFTER I was already in. By this point, it's closing in on 4 AM so we decide to head back home before they send a search party out for E and the bus.
Nothing like meatball parm at 4AM. We head to Wawa (for non-locals, a convenience store like 7/11) and grub up on some food. Back to the casa where the drinking continues. We all crash about 5:30AM. RBV's, beer, shots, and everything else these guys poured down my gullet had the room spinning like a Tilt-a-Whirl, but sleep was well needed and well-deserved!
Just because the night was over didn't mean the party was!!! Wake up time was somewhere around 11 AM. I was moderately hung over, so I ignored Steve's pleas to make pancakes. He went immediately on breakfast-tilt. We decided it would be cool to drive over to the IHOP (which, incidentally, was about 2 blocks from the Fantasy Showbar--I swear I saw Victoria in there...). We plopped our collective ass down at 1:00, and proceeded to wait. And wait, and wait. And wait. 40 minutes later, we still didn't have our breakfast. We got restless and began to entertain ourselves, with stories of angry dolphins (when you have your lady from behind, you go to wander to the other hole, and she responds by shaking her head, going "eeh-eeh, eeh-eeh, eeh-eeh" like a pissed-off dolphin), Cleveland Steamers (don't ask), dutch ovens (If you love me, honey, you won't hold your breath), and hot boxes (which we all had an intimate knowledge of because Steve's white chicken chili from yesterday had taken full hold of his bowels). All you could hear from the side of the restaurant was the din of Waterboy quotes...
"Water sucks--it really, really sucks." "Gaaaay-tor-aaaaaade."
Then came Caddyshack: "I want you to kill all the (golfers) gophers on the course..." "...Correct me if I'm wrong Sandy, but if I kill all the golfers they'll lock me up and throw away the key"
Almost an hour later, Jonesy gets pissed. He's demanding his food, and he's not the kind of guy you want to piss off. Magically, our food appears. Except for one problem. The pancakes, as could be expected from the International House of Pancakes, were good. Everything else sucked donkey balls. They gave us half off our bill (would have been $65 for 5 people--without tip. For breakfast. Holy. Shit.) and we leave the ISHOP (International Shitty House of Pancakes) and head back home. On the way home, the girls call us--apparently they survived too--and ask us what happened, yadda yadda. We answer with "floor to ceiling." They, of course, went on an immediate perma-tilt, not having a clue of what the hell we're talking about. We get invited over to the Maid of Honor's (Steve's girlfriend) house/pool to continue the party. We drank and partied until 9 or so, then drove off into the sunset.
A hell of a night/day/night. Many thanks to the guys, especially Steve, who made it all possible. Of course, you can't leave out the other guys: Jonesy, Dom, and Pops. Mucho gracias, amigos!! It was an awesome night, from floor to ceiling, that none of us will soon forget, regardless of how bad the eggs are, how shitty the service, or how hot the box gets. Because of you guys, I learned stripper tilt is good, the Shark still hates strip clubs (hee hee), Gatorade > H2O, and that RBV's hit you like a dump truck, but only 3 hours later. I also learned that angry dolphins are not to be taken lightly, and that limo buses rock, especially when your driver knows where every "fuckin' strip club in the area is." I also learned that despite the fact that strippers are decidedly -EV, and that most of them are probably crazy as hell, on some nights, with the right girl (Splits, anyone?) that strippers > poker, even if you can't win back your buy-in.
First, an introduction. Obviously from the title, it was all about a bachelor party. My bachelor party. Yes, ladies, the PokerShark will be off the market in less than two weeks. I know you're all crushed, so I'll let you all live vicariously through those that crossed our paths on this incredible weekend. First, you have me, the Shark. A reputation as large as my ego, I'm not a fan of strip clubs (at all...hee hee), and I drink when I want to, and then, usually excessively. Then comes the best man, a mountain of a guy named Steve, who just happens to be Mrs. PokerShark's brother, and therefore, my brother-in-law (in 12 days). Stevie goes about 6-foot-3, and weighs about three bills. Stevie can also drink with the best of them. Jonesy is one of my ushers--another huge guy (6'0, 285) who has 3 loves in his life--his girlfriend, his adorable baby, and Yuengling lager. The fourth (and decidedly the smallest and most tiltable) member of the motley crew is Dom. Dom is quite the little LAGgy card shark himself, tiltable easily by the author, his girlfriend, and angry dolphins. Lastly, and absolutely not least, was Pops. Pops is, as the name implies, Steve's grandfather. Best part of that is that he might just have been the nuttiest one of this whole bowl of granola--and that says something.
Limo Bus or Tart Cart?
Steve had told everyone that he had rented a limo-bus for the evening's festivities. Our girls, of course, not knowing the cool nature of the Aces, instantly conjured up images of the kids riding the short bus, lifts, and those styrofoam helmets they had to wear before they left the house. The taunting didn't stop until they left for their own bachelorette party about 2pm on Saturday. Little did they know... Steve-O (no relation to the Jackass jackass, though I think he would eat a goldfish for a dollar) swings by with Jonesy about 2:30pm, saving me from an afternoon of solitude and tilt playing on Stars. We took in some of the ball game, then began our travels in earnest with a trip to Ruby Tuesday's. Steve ordered this bangin'-ass White Chicken Chili, which assured that sometime during our travels, we would be replenishing the natural gas supply of the United States East Coast. But I digress. Jonesy goes for the colassal one-pound aptly named Colassal Burger. Steve-O and myself had the half-pound Bison burgers, and the waiter almost collapsed and died bringing the slabs of meat to the table. When he returned to refill our drinks and noticed that all three of us had cleaned our plates, he was completely tilted, and forgot to charge us for the appetizers.
So back to my house we went. Steve left to get changed for the night's festivities, and Jonesy ("Shit--my shirt has a stain. Could you wash it for me, dude?) decides that my living room should double for a changing room. Cool--I head upstairs to get changed, and wait for the limo-bus and the other clowns. About 8:30ish Steve and Pops come funneling through the door with Dom following close behind. We start off with Vodka shots, beer, more beer, and watch in delight as the limo bus pulls up. Seats 20--on-board cooler, flat screen TV/DVD. Suitable for any party...then out pops Eric. "E" basically told us that anyplace we wanted to go was cool with him. About 9 we all piled on the bus, and since half-pound and full-pound burgers couldn't possibly fill us up, we had to get food. Where else but....
Hooters!!!
It's a misrepresentation. Around the country, walking into Hooters is the next best thing to walking into a strip club. Model-quality girls in skimpy-ass tops, skimpier-ass-showing shorts, and willing to shake each and every part for your viewing pleasure. It's like Thee Dollhouse, only you can bring your kids there. So, after some more beer and RBV (Red Bull & Vodka) 's, into Hooters we go. Up here, Hooters girls are pretty much whoever will wear the shorts. Not bad, but certainly not the quality at other establishments around this great nation (so I've heard). Wings, pitchers, a song, and an autographed dress (no, they wouldn't let me take it off one of them) later, our waitress (clearly the hottest girl in the building--Dom's on tilt already) brings over the autographed dress and insists I put it on. Of course it fits over me like a wife-beater. Of course one of the waitresses signs it, "You can cum in my Hooters any time." And of course, she has to come to the table and let me know it was her who signed it that way. 20 years old, and you kiss your dad with that mouth? Wanna come for a bus ride? We get turned down by all the Hooters girls on our offer to enjoy the night with us (probably because they all had curfews), and decide that we've had enough, and off to the strip clubs we go.
Wheredyawannago?
We get back on the bus, and ask E where the good strip clubs are. He mentions the "Erotic Cafe," a little hole in the wall about a sneeze from the bridge into Northeast Philly. I stand up, clearly enibriated and still clearly on tilt from the 20-year old's invitation, and say the line of the night...
"No matter what...What happens on this bus and on this night stays on this bus! It stays here! From floor (pointing to ceiling) to ceiling (pointing to floor)!"
Can anyone say, "tilt?"
The Erotic Cafe
BYOB is good, mmm'kay? This place rocked for a hole in the wall. We had quite a bit of attention from the girls, seeing that I was the bachelor and all, so when asked by my amigos who I wanted my (first) couch dance from, I wasn't sure. Then, a girl came on stage, apparently just after starting her shift, and I noticed immediately that she was different. Not the silicone-inflated ditz that we're all used to ogling over and staring at, no. A dancer's body. Muscular, yet hot at the same time...then she decides to wiggle her way over to my side of the stage, looked right at me, and dropped down into a complete split. Good baby Jebus. As soon as she was done on stage, I knew that she was the one I wanted to spend a little time with, and I was firmly on stripper-tilt. This chick rocked my world in the back. Fifteen-plus minute couch dance. That's all I can say. A few more (okay, 3) couch dances later, and after Dom got a taste of the action, then bought Pops a couch dance from this Amazon-blonde 6-foot-tall girl, we decide--okay, Dom decides that he knows the owner of this joint in Philly, Show and Tel (1 L intentionally). Let's go, damnit! We're all in. So here I stroll out, looking desperately for Ivy (Hit me baby one more time!), then giving up and piling into the bus on our way to Philadelphia!
Of course, NOBODY knows that Ivy (who came to be known as "Splits") gave me her schedule as well (every other Thursday, every Friday and Saturday). Well, I guess EVERYBODY knows now. And before you all go jumping to conclusions, nothing happened back there that was that out of line. We'll just say it was pleasant back there for all involved...(and I know Domenic's going to tilt just reading that)
Show and Tel
Philly strip clubs are regarded as much better off than their suburban counterparts. E (who was fast becoming E-Dawg for his incredible and uncanny ability to find the fastest way between two strip clubs) drops us off outside, despite our attempts to buy him a couch dance. Not my loss! In we go, just in time to see the Hot Seat in use. This girl (a butterface--everything on her was hot butt-er-face) is up there literally beating the shit out of this dude with a belt, then climbing up on him and damn near biting off his nipples. Not my thing at all. The guys got me a dance from this girl--funny part is the girls at the first place were of a significantly higher quality that at the Philly club. It showed too. Then, they grab this uber-tall girl and tell her that I've never gotten any "brown sugar." This girl proceeds to take me in back and literally do things to me that could get you arrested in a few states. Acrobatic little minx. We decided that it was time to leave there (about 2 AM), and we nearly went back to the Erotic Cafe, but fears of it being closed sent us to Cheerleaders.
Closed? Closed? What Strip Club Closes at...uh, 2:30 AM??
This sucked. Last resort. We weren't ready to end the night (even though we only had E-Dawg until 3), so we went to the straight-up skankiest strip club on the Eastern Seaboard--the Fantasy Showbar. All my Jersey and Philly readers know this place all too well. Hey, it's open till 5, and what the hell?
In we go. Dom and I spot this girl who from a distance and in the dark looks very nice, not to mention EXTREMELY nice for Fantasy. We call her over just as she gets called to the stage. We wait her out, a little bummed, because by this point, E-Dawg is squarely in OT. Jonesy decides to take one for the team and go up to the stage and "encourage" (that's what they call it these days) her to swing back. She leans over to him, he reflexes back, tosses the money at her and squeaks back to us, "Her face looks like she got hit with a bag of what the fuck!!!" Luckily for us, she didn't hear him, but we damn near threw up from laughing so hard. On cue, this little blonde named Victoria takes me back for a couch dance. I had thrown a prop bet to Domenic that I would last more than 3 minutes back there (dances were $20 for 3 minutes--what a rip). He of course, knowing the charms of the Shark, pussied out. About 15 minutes later, I emerge from the couch dance area, just in time to see him come out as well. Only thing was, he had to wait a few minutes for a girl AFTER I was already in. By this point, it's closing in on 4 AM so we decide to head back home before they send a search party out for E and the bus.
Who's Hungry??
Nothing like meatball parm at 4AM. We head to Wawa (for non-locals, a convenience store like 7/11) and grub up on some food. Back to the casa where the drinking continues. We all crash about 5:30AM. RBV's, beer, shots, and everything else these guys poured down my gullet had the room spinning like a Tilt-a-Whirl, but sleep was well needed and well-deserved!
The Day After
Just because the night was over didn't mean the party was!!! Wake up time was somewhere around 11 AM. I was moderately hung over, so I ignored Steve's pleas to make pancakes. He went immediately on breakfast-tilt. We decided it would be cool to drive over to the IHOP (which, incidentally, was about 2 blocks from the Fantasy Showbar--I swear I saw Victoria in there...). We plopped our collective ass down at 1:00, and proceeded to wait. And wait, and wait. And wait. 40 minutes later, we still didn't have our breakfast. We got restless and began to entertain ourselves, with stories of angry dolphins (when you have your lady from behind, you go to wander to the other hole, and she responds by shaking her head, going "eeh-eeh, eeh-eeh, eeh-eeh" like a pissed-off dolphin), Cleveland Steamers (don't ask), dutch ovens (If you love me, honey, you won't hold your breath), and hot boxes (which we all had an intimate knowledge of because Steve's white chicken chili from yesterday had taken full hold of his bowels). All you could hear from the side of the restaurant was the din of Waterboy quotes...
"Water sucks--it really, really sucks." "Gaaaay-tor-aaaaaade."
Then came Caddyshack: "I want you to kill all the (golfers) gophers on the course..." "...Correct me if I'm wrong Sandy, but if I kill all the golfers they'll lock me up and throw away the key"
Almost an hour later, Jonesy gets pissed. He's demanding his food, and he's not the kind of guy you want to piss off. Magically, our food appears. Except for one problem. The pancakes, as could be expected from the International House of Pancakes, were good. Everything else sucked donkey balls. They gave us half off our bill (would have been $65 for 5 people--without tip. For breakfast. Holy. Shit.) and we leave the ISHOP (International Shitty House of Pancakes) and head back home. On the way home, the girls call us--apparently they survived too--and ask us what happened, yadda yadda. We answer with "floor to ceiling." They, of course, went on an immediate perma-tilt, not having a clue of what the hell we're talking about. We get invited over to the Maid of Honor's (Steve's girlfriend) house/pool to continue the party. We drank and partied until 9 or so, then drove off into the sunset.
Summary
A hell of a night/day/night. Many thanks to the guys, especially Steve, who made it all possible. Of course, you can't leave out the other guys: Jonesy, Dom, and Pops. Mucho gracias, amigos!! It was an awesome night, from floor to ceiling, that none of us will soon forget, regardless of how bad the eggs are, how shitty the service, or how hot the box gets. Because of you guys, I learned stripper tilt is good, the Shark still hates strip clubs (hee hee), Gatorade > H2O, and that RBV's hit you like a dump truck, but only 3 hours later. I also learned that angry dolphins are not to be taken lightly, and that limo buses rock, especially when your driver knows where every "fuckin' strip club in the area is." I also learned that despite the fact that strippers are decidedly -EV, and that most of them are probably crazy as hell, on some nights, with the right girl (Splits, anyone?) that strippers > poker, even if you can't win back your buy-in.
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