Sweet ‘N Low

I don't think it would be a leap of faith for you to assume that I frequent tit joints. I love those gotdamn dens of sin…they cock my fuckin’ trigger! There’s something about a woman who will strut her stuff with a missing limb and C-section scars that just gets me going! But I am always on the lookout for something special…you know, the “pièce de résistance” if you will (with emphasis on the “piece”). Well, my friends, I’m happy to report that I think I finally found it.

I took a trip out to Tuscon a while back for the bi-annual National Conference for Washateria Assistant Managers. They typically unveil the newest washers and dryers with a lot of extra bullshit that my clientele would have no use for or, at the very least, appreciate. I only need three settings on my washers:

1. Dirty

2. Fuckin’ Filthy

3. Clothes with Blood & Shit on Them

Anyway, I am cruising the strip around 3am and I spot this little place off on a side street. It's called The Small Box and it has a neon sign shaped like a gift box, with two tiny stilettos sticking out and a giant bow on top. Obviously this was some kinda tit joint and, from the looks of it, a really classy one at that. Just my style!

So I whip the PT Cruiser rental into the parking lot and proceed to check this motherfucker out. But, being 3am and all, it was already closed for the night. Unfuckinreal! I was hoping to get a middle-of-the-night blow or hand job before I headed back to the Desert Sands Motel.

Just as I was about to hit up 7-11 for some baby oil and a Plumpers fuck mag, a group of at least 7 female midgets rounds the corner from the back. I thought I crashed that sweet PT Cruiser, died, and went to Heaven! From the looks of things, they were dancers in this club that the Gods had led me to!  Before I could strike up a conversation, the ladies were all hustled into a handicap van and whisked away to the magical land from which they came. I ran up to the door to check the hours of operation, jotted them down on my official Speed Queen notepad (I earned it by watching some twat give a demonstration on different spin cycles) and I sped away.

The place was set to open at 10am on the dot the next day. All I needed to do now was juggle my seminar on clothes folding tables and my trip to the exhibit hall to pick up my “Washaterias Make Change Happen” t-shirt. Needless to say, I woke up super early that morning. I couldn't contain my excitement. I was like a white trash kid who was about to take his first fuckin’ trip to Six Flags! I was geeked up baby!!!

At 9:30, I enter the seminar and I immediately fake a seizure. I tell the guys that I just have to lie down for a bit and that I’ll definitely be back for the afternoon session, "Blood Spills and You."

I sneak out the back of the motel and am on my way. I pull in right at 10am and I hustle straight to the front entrance. It was "Legs & Eggs" Thursday at this precious little midget tit bar. I was so excited that I thought I might bust a nut right there just walking through the door.

I was the first dude in, which landed me a prime time seat right up front. I pulled my moist one dollar bills out of my pocket and piled them up high on the table in front of me. The first dancer came out to Unskinny Bop. Hell yeah!!! The DJ said her name was "Itty Bitty" and good God was she ever! She had a fake foot but, fuckin A, she could work that pole like nobody’s business! This vertically-challenged little sweetheart was such a pro that, when her prosthetic fell off and flopped onto my pile of dollar bills, she didn’t even skip a beat. She crawled on all fours and picked that little foot up with her mouth and kept right on rockin’!

There were a couple more dancers. They were okay, nothing spectacular. Same old shit in a smaller package for the most part. But the fourth one was what I had come for. When I heard "SHOT THROUGH THE HEART!! AND YOU’RE TO BLAME!" start blaring over the loud speaker, I knew right then I was going to go through my dollar bills faster than my ex-old lady through a bottle of Vicodin!

"Sweet ‘N Low" came struttin' out and I fell in love! (Well, if only for the rest of the afternoon). She looked like a short version of Demi Moore and her titties were just as big. She had a big ole 80's bush happening and, to cap it all off, taped to the side of her hip was an insulin pump! If I’ve ever encountered a more pure vision of beauty, I don’t recall.

As I suspected, my pile of dollar bills disappeared in no time flat, then I made my move on this tiny dancer. I had to have her! I motioned for her to come out and see me after she got off stage. She walked over to me as fast as those little stubs could carry her. I introduced myself and asked her if she wanted a drink. She said that her sugar was low, so I ordered her an orange juice and a cookie.

I talked her up for a while and I finally decided to bust a move and invite her to our Washateria Assistant Managers' Mixer later that night at the motel. Can you believe that little munchkin had the nerve to turn ME down!?! Apparently she was about to start her period and had a diabetic pump adjustment scheduled for that afternoon. I was disappointed because I wanted the chance to become even more of legend by strolling off in that motherfuckin mixer with a midget stripper on my arm (or leg, more than likely) .

She felt really bad, though, and invited me to the V.I.P. Room for a free "dance." To this day, it's the only time I've gotten head from somebody who wasn't sitting, kneeling or laying down. Not to mention, taking an insulin shot while she did it.

She told me the next time I was in town to stop by and see her. You can bet your ass I'll be there! I'm looking forward to dipping my stick into that hot little packet of Sweet 'N Low.

I Wish I had Jesse’s Girl…At Least Until He Gets Out of Jail.

It was a long day at the Washateria. A riot almost broke out when the change machine ran out of quarters and the Mexicans still had a shit-ton of children's dresses and an assortment of tank tops to dry. Luckily, Buck at the truck stop saved the day and brought me a sack full of quarters before I had a full-scale Mexican revolution on my hands. Jesus knows you don’t want to stand in the way of a Mexican and the tight ass tank tops she wears to show off her flabulous belly rolls and premium FUPA!

Anyway, I am driving back into the park and I see Jesse arguing with Sylvia outside their trailer. He is in front of the bad ass Camaro that he has been rebuilding and she is standing alongside her half-dead fern planters.

Jesse is yelling at Sylvia about taking his carburetor out of the kitchen sink, where it was soaking in diesel or some shit. She tells him that he is a fuckin’ pussy and he comes ALIVE! Jesse pulls a fan belt off the front seat and proceeds to whippin’ her ass with it. Now, normally, I might get involved in a fiasco like this, but I know Syliva. She is a bad ass bitch who can handle herself. And, to be honest, I wanted to see Jesse get his ass kicked!

Sylvia manages to get away from him long enough to pick up one the porcelain fern planters and chunk it at his ass. She misses, and it hits the fender that he just got done Bondo-ing. Oh shit! As Jesse turns around to inspect the damage to his baby, Sylvia busts him upside the head with a Swifter Sweeper that just happened to be laying in the yard.

At this point, all the kids are pouring out of the trailer and have entered the fray. They start chunking rocks at Jesse’s dumb ass! (He is not their real daddy, so what do they care?) Pure bedlam I tell you!!! 

Right when this shit is starting to get good, the damn cops show up. They start going after Jesse’s ass, too, because now HE’S is throwing rocks and still wielding that fan belt trying to hit Sylvia and all of her trailer babies!  

I’m just sittin’ on the porch, drinking my 32 oz. Busch waiting for the finale. The finales to these things never disappoint. Years of living in this place have taught me to be patient and repeat the mantra, "Wait for it... wait for it!" because just when you think these situations can’t get any better…something even more absurd usually happens to cap it all off.

Then it came.

Jesse refused to stop running around chasing Sylvia and the kids with his fan belt. He’s swinging that shit around like a fuckin’ wild man! The cops pull out their Tasers and – just when Jesse is screaming something about “Fucking kids!” – they juice that sumbitch! They hit him right as he was rounding the front of the trailer and he collapses face-first into the hitch and it knocks him out cold! God Almighty! That was a finale better than I could’ve even made up! The cops proceed to handcuff his unconscious ass, throw him in the back of the squad car and drive away like nothing happened.

Now I have to tell you, at this point I felt the urge to go and love on Sylvia. I mean, fuck, she just got her ass whipped with a fan belt, the trailer babies were all stirred up and her man was taken to jail.

So I do my sexy stroll over to her place with a fresh 32 oz. and start lovin’ all over her whelped up ass. Long story short, I loved her ass all the way down to Funky Town. I wish I felt bad that I was bangin’ Jesse's girl while he was in the jail house. But I didn't. He should have thought about who was living across the street when he decided to start the Camaro fan belt fiasco! And like I said before, Sylvia held her own and that shit turned me on like nobody’s business. Fuck…Where can I find a woman like that?!?

The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Trailer 1B

Saturday evening at the Rig is a sight to behold. I like to call it “goin’ Riggin’.” That place is packed with the finest assortment of trailer park honeys that food stamps can buy. Unless you have some type of facial disfigurement, you are pretty much guaranteed to get laid. Wait, I take that back. Even Jordy, who has a tumor on his cheek that resembles two dogs fuckin’, got laid last week. So needless to say, this place is fuckin’ awesome!

I scope out the place and find my target for the evening. She’s drinking chablis (pronounced shab' less) through a straw straight from a plastic cup. Pure class! I make some small talk and learn her name is Jolene. I work up to telling her I want to drive my sausage truck straight to Tuna Town. She agrees she’d like to ride the Traylor Express, so we jump into my Dodge Neon and head to her place. 

When we get to her trailer, there are at least six kids running fuckin’ rampant outside! She proudly announces that they’re all hers! It was 2 a.m. by the way…I told you she was classy! She gets all her fuck trophies rounded up and tells them to go inside so we can have some alone time on her faux wood deck. After breaking out the boxed wine – which I’ve come to know and love in situations such as these – we start to get romanitcal. 

I unbutton her shorty shorts and, just as I’m about to start fingerbanging her, one of her whore babies walks out wearing these threadbare pajamas with Yodas, C-3P0s and shit all over them. In his nasty little hand he has a gotdamn trumpet! Jesus! Before I know it, he brings the horn up to his pursed love child lips and begins to play that shit like we are Lady and the Tramp eating spaghetti in a back alley. What the fuck!? So here I am fingerbanging his momma under the table to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb in the key of G Minor! She keeps saying, “That’s so awesome sweetie!” I know she must be talking to me, because that kid couldn’t play for shit!

This is too much to take – even for me. So before he can start his rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, I look down at my pager and tell her it’s my buddy paging me code 6969, which means “your trailer is on fire” and that I have to go. She seems pretty disappointed – I think she was hoping I’d be lucky baby daddy #7. FUCK THAT!!!!

So I go back to my place and break out my Mexican midget porn and commence to lovin’ on myself. I’m sure it was more pleasurable than the abyss that was certainly Jolene.

Here’s hopin’ I have better luck riggin’ next weekend!

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."

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.