Elvis Has Left the Building. With a Pirate.

Now when you think about a good time, bingo isn’t typically what comes to mind first. However, when you are rockin’ and rollin’ with Traylor, you are definitely in for a kick ass night, no matter where you end up. As I learned last weekend, this is especially true when the evening begins at the local BYOB bingo parlor.

I went with this sexy little trailer park girl that I’ve been wanting to bang for a while now. About as close as I ever got was her pumping the python underneath a picnic table while her 15 year-old son sat across from us. She was throwing a slobbery tennis ball to one of my mutts so she had that shit all over her hands. Not a bad hand job though. I guess the doggy drool made for good lubrication, I don’t know. As I’m certain you can already tell…Crystal is all about class.

So we get to the bingo parlor and it is a sweet set-up. It was so smoky in there that I probably should have been wearing some sort of breathing apparatus. And, actually, a lot of folks were…even those who had a carton of menthol Basics on the table with all of their bingo cards! Needless to say, I could tell right away this was my kind of place. I went straight to the vending machine, bought me two bingo daubers, a pack of Camels and a motherfucking Twix. (The Twix was for my lady friend. I am all about the romance.)

We sit down and get our bingo on. Now, I have an eye for the ladies so I spot this chick that was giving out the old, "Sure I will give you a hand job in the dude’s bathroom" vibe during the Crazy Kite game. I was right. I told Crystal I had to hit the shitter for a minute and made a beeline for this chick. I walk up to her and bust out the Fonzie line, "Meet me in my office." She gets up and follows me to the men’s room and asks what I want. I said it isn't what I want, it is what you want darlin’ (Of course meaning, my throbber in her hand). She commences to giving me a hand job by the urinal. It was fantastic. The only problem was that afterward I looked like I had herpes because the dye from the red dauber she was using was on her hand and rubbed off on my dick.

I get back to the table and Crystal and I ain’t winning shit! Even with her lucky rabbit's foot and my lucky "AA is for Quitters" koozie! I say, “Fuck this! Let’s hit the beer joint and sing some karaoke!” (I only bust out my karaoke skills when I am really trying to get laid so I am sure this will do the trick with Crystal).

We get to the Rig and, to my dismay, they have a fuckin’ house band playing. They weren't bad though. It was an all-girl Lynard Skynard cover band, Lady Skynard. I figured, what the hell! At least we can rock out to a little Free Bird!

We sit down at a table with an old guy dressed like Elvis, his wife who had Down’s Syndrome (and was dressed in a matching Elvis outfit) and a dude wearing an eye patch. (And yes, I do have pictures to prove that shit!) I should probably remind you that this wasn’t Elvis’ birthday, the day he died or any of that shit. Just another Friday night at the Rig.

Anyway, it turns out that eye patches really turn Crystal on! If I’d known this before, I would’ve just headed down to the Halloween Superstore, bought a patch, and saved all the money I spend on bingo cards, Busch light and Twix! Shit!

Sure enough...the next thing I know, Crystal and the gotdamn pirate are missing. I assumed correctly that she was jerking him off in the bathroom. All I can hope is that she was throwing a dirty tennis ball before she did it! I would like to say that it pissed me off, but it actually made way for me to bust a move on the drummer from Lady Skynard. It was worth it. She did this really cool trick with her drumsticks later on that evening. I never knew a lady could take a pair of drumsticks that deep. From the top to the bottom!

All in all, it turned out to be a pretty kick ass night. I got a hand job at the bingo parlor and got laid by the Lady Skynard drummer. Then I got to watch as Elvis, his Pretty Priscilla, Sergio the Pirate, and Crystal as "they left the building."

Night Moves

My old man and I had a coupon for a free room at the Indian casino, so when his shift ended yesterday he asked me if I wanted to go do some gamblin’. I like the Indian casino; nobody bitches about my smoking (not even the older folks with their fancy oxygen tanks) and Tuesday  is crab leg night at the buffet. So Randall didn’t have to ask me twice. I clipped my player’s club card on my Reba Denim Diamond Jacket, grabbed my $10 in free slot play coupon and we were out the door.

I don’t believe in bullshittin' around in a casino. I mean, who wants to fight all the Vietnamese coming from the all-you-can-eat seafood bar? So I head straight for my lucky Village People penny machine, get comfortable and order a glass of their finest pink Chablis. When my drink arrives, I light up my Capri Menthol Light 120, rub my lucky rabbit’s foot, and it’s time to play!

Let me tell you….Lady Luck was smilin’ on me last night! I played my free slots for an hour before having to dip into my disability money. I probably had 12 glasses of that pink greatness, too. By the time we got back to our room, I was too tipsy and wore out for my usual game of hide the sausage with Randall and, to tell you the truth, I think he was, too. We got butt naked and passed out.

Well, that would’ve been that, if that god damn hotel room hadn’t been designed by a bunch of fucking Indians. I mean, Jesus Christ. What sane person puts the bathroom door right beside the room door? It’s like a damn game of Let’s Make a Deal. Needless to say, when I woke up for my usual 3am urination, I picked the door with a Mexican sitting on a donkey.  

As I stepped out of the door I tripped over a room service tray and sprawled into the floor naked as the day I was born. I was drunk as hell so I couldn't pick my ass up off the floor. So here I am, a 50-something-year-old woman laying there naked as a jaybird, locked out of my room while my old man is passed clean the hell out inside the room. It’s not like I could crawl down to the lobby and ask for another key, and I knew there was no way Randall was waking his drunk ass up. So I did the only thing I could think of – I starting banging on the door like the devil himself was after me. I was all excited when I finally heard the click of a lock and the turn of a knob. But I immediately realized it wasn't Randall. I hear Bob Seger's "Night Moves" blaring in the background and see a hot piece of ass from the room across the hall. Shit!

So this dude comes out, with a Camel hangin’ from his handsome lips. He has a pair of cutoffs on and no t-shirt.  I believe that his nut sack was hangin out on the left. He didn't seem to care about this. In fact, he acted as if it was completely natural  and says, "Hey darlin'...Why don't you quit bangin that door and come on over and bang me." Ha! I know I look good, but this boy was young enough to be my grandkid. I told him so, too. I did take a drag off his cig, though, and properly introduced myself. He told me his name was Traylor. I let out a whoop when I realized he lives in the same park where me and Randall stay. Glad I didn’t end up bangin’ him….that would’ve made for some awkward moments in the community laundry room.

So Traylor helps me bust into my room, I thanked him, then went back to sleep. I told Randall the next mornin’ that he’s lucky I didn’t kick his ass for not wakin’ up when I was hittin’ on that god damn door!

And wouldn’t you know it…I ended up running into Traylor today when we got home. He told me about this blog where he writes about all the shit he gets himself into. Jesus! After reading about what he did with Twila…I’m real glad I didn’t give in to his sweet ass. That Jezebel has been with most of the guys in this place…and their daddies! But anyway, Traylor asked if I’d like to write on his blog from time to time and share some of the wisdom that comes with living in a place like this for 30 years. So here I am. And here’s my first piece of advice and it’s for Traylor (and any of the rest of you who are so inclined.): If you do decide your #1 Titty Inspector mug is worth more butt sex with Twila, double bag next time. One studded condom ain’t enough of a barrier against the shit she’s been rumored to have goin’ on down there.

Pinot Grigio With a Spritz of Anal Eaze

Last weekend’s shenanigans involved box wine, strawberry wine coolers, anti-depressants, baby oil, Anal Eaze™, whiskey, cheap beer and, of course, unintentional butt sex with a trailer park lady. The sheer excitement of this story will course through your veins not unlike the Vicodin you injected before your shift at the truck stop began. So, let’s get to it.

She drove up in a 1985 Iroc Z-28. I noticed the car before I noticed her. I imagined myself tooling around town in that sweet ride looking like a fuckin’ bad ass while blaring Round and Round by Ratt. All the ladies would be checking out my fine ass. Who knew? I might even finally talk the chick at the gas station into giving me some head in the tire change area of the garage!

Then she stepped out. A 50-something trailer park bird clutching a box of Pinot Grigio with one hand and 3 packs of Parliament soft packs with the other. Her cackle snapped me out of my fantasy world, "Hey big boy! You wanna get fucked up?"  

She was attractive, at least as attractive as someone who spent the last 35 years of her life in this shithole raising a trailer full of kids could be. You could tell she did the best she could to take care of herself.  But the honest truth is that there’s only so much you can do with White Rain shampoo and a gift basket of soaps that you won playing bingo.  

But my experience is that anybody can look good after drinking a box of wine, so it goes without saying that I was game. I holler back, "Hell yeah lady! I hope that ain't the only box you’re offering at this party!" Now most women would be appalled by such a statement. She, however, laughed and seemed even more eager to get on the porch and park her ass in one of my Super Bowl XLV chairs that I stole from Texaco. It took me a couple of weeks, but I finally stole the whole set from the Bud Light display. (This was not an easy task by any means and required feats of white trash daring never before seen. But I digress...that’s another story for another time.) So thus begins my night with the lady who introduced herself to me as Twila.

Twila was ready to party. Not only did she bring an entire box of wine, she also had her own wine glass. Well, I say wine glass. I think it was more of a commemorative champagne glass. She said she bought the whole set at a garage sale. I assumed that meant she had no idea who "Steven and Tammy 1999" were. It seemed like it made her feel classy, so I let her have her moment. I, on the other hand, possessed no such glasses. I was out of Dixie cups and the Yahtzee dice cup that I used to drink whiskey out of the night before was dirty. My only option was to drink out of my prized possession, my #1 Titty Inspector coffee mug. But I knew if I got real shit-faced it would be lost forever. I went through a lot of bullshit to get that mug through Mexican Customs…I sure as hell didn’t want to lose it! (That, too, is another story for another time.) But I said "Fuck it!" and threw what little caution I have to the wind. Also, I had no doubt that the simple act of me having such a coffee mug would be enough to get the juices flowing for ol’ Twila. She never noticed. The fact that her husband was on a long haul and she was getting drunk with one of the hottest dudes in the trailer park was more than she could process. If I had known at the time what she had in store for this piece of white trash, I would have never broke out that gotdamn mug!

HOUR 1: Twila professes her love for Pinot Grigio. "Ya know hun, I love a good Walmart Box of wine. There’s nothin’ like sippin’ a glass of wine on the porch. It's just so fuckin’ classy! Dontcha think?" I said, "Well darlin’, my experience is, if anything is referred to as fuckin’ classy, it probably isn't."

HOUR 2: Twila says it's gettin’ hot. At this point, I was actually thinking about putting on my Pink Monkey Strip Club windbreaker. She runs over to her place and comes back wearing a fuckin’ bikini! Of course if I hadn’t been drinking box wine (with a Vicodin chaser), I probably would have been physically ill by the cigar burn over her left tit and her three separate C-Section scars that made her stomach look like a truck stop road map. But considering the state the box wine had me in, I was turned on like a pit bull when a poodle-daschund mix comes struttin’ her fine ass across the yard.

HOUR 2.5: Twila runs out of box wine. The story might have ended here, if it weren’t for a couple of bottles of Bartles & Jaymes and a 6-pack of Lonestar Light I had left over from my New Years’ Eve shindig. So I get the booze, fill up my mug and we head over to Twila’s place because she has “something she’s gotta show me.”

HOUR 2.75: Now don’t get me wrong, Twila’s got a nice place. I just don’t know how she got that velvet sectional with the recliner seats into her single-wide. But what she had to show me wasn’t in the living room, it was in the bedroom. I step over a broken sit-and-spin and a box of tools on my way to her wood-paneled love nest, which was pretty clean, except for the treasure trove of items sitting atop her red satin comforter: fuzzy pink handcuffs, Anal Eaze™, baby oil and what appeared to be forceps for delivering a baby. Glad I bought that ribbed glow-in-the-dark condom at the truck stop! This was going to get wild!

HOUR 3.0: The next thing I know I am feeling like Jody Foster on a fuckin’ pinball machine! She starts ripping off my sweet ass jorts and is spraying baby oil and Anal Eaze™ all over the damn trailer! The smell of baby oil is in the air and it is intoxicating. I succumb to her advances. She has me restrain her to the wrought iron headboard that depicts a Cowboy riding a bull. The next thing out of her mouth was "IT’S SHOWTIME COWBOY!! STICK IT IN FUNKY TOWN!" I probably wouldn’t have needed her prompting had I not been distracted by the giant 11x14 80s wedding photo of her dressed like Madonna and her trucker hubby looking like a mullet-ed Billy Idol that was staring at me from her nightstand. 

HOUR 3.09: I am jumping out of the trailer window! I flew through it, screen and all, minus my treasured #1 Titty Inspector coffee mug. The words, "Baby! I am home!" will light a fire under a white trasher's ass like nobody’s business!

So here I sit with a hell of a dilemma on my hands. As much as I enjoyed our anal adventure, I’m not really up for another go ‘round with Twila. But she has my fucking favorite mug and you can’t just run down to the Dollar General and pick up a replacement. I have a pretty good idea of how I can get it back…but that’s another story for another day.