R.I.P., PAP

I went to my first Parties at the Plaza of the year last week. For those not familiar with St. Louis, PAP is held every 3rd Thursday of the month between April and September. It’s always been a great place to have a few pops outdoors and listen to live music.

This month’s entertainment was a hip-hop group, and I still can’t name a single song they played. And by played, I mean screamed into a microphone over music - mostly spun by a DJ.

I asked one of the chamber of commerce ladies if they ever listen to the acts before they book them. Because if they don’t - jot me down for next April. Crowe Dog can sing show tunes, and I’ll occasionally jump on stage and yell, “How you doing out there St. Louis!”

She finally admitted that she hadn’t seen them perform before, but knew they were a hip-hop group. Hip-hop? I’ve been going to PAP for years, and it’s more of a 3 Doors Down crowd than Three 6 Mafia.

Whatever.

Our Silver and Gold Party on Sunday was a good time. I vaguely remember a couple of stripper-looking chicks walking in with bleach blonde hair, big fake boobs and high heels. Someone asked if they lived at Melrose Place. I responded by telling them to mind their own business because chicks that look like that are welcome at the pool anytime.

Have you ever been asked by a neighbor to close your curtains if you’re going to walk around naked?

Me neither.

Check out the Photos page after Dani-girl uploaded a couple of new albums. I’m still waiting for pictures from Abby’s night out last Friday. I heard a few of them feature lipstick imprints on her left cheek - and I’m not talking about her face.

But I knew I was out of luck. The day the music died.

Happy Birthday, Abby.

Abby is 25 today, and Cathy G. turns 50, so we’re having a Silver and Gold Party at the pool.

A few weeks ago when we were discussing the idea for a party, I told the birthday ladies that one of my goals was to sleep with a 25-year old and a 50-year old in the same year.

“Why don’t you wait until July 20th, and you can hit us both the same day,” Abby sarcastically responded.

Done and done.

Here’s a typical conversation with Crowe Dog:

Crowe Dog: Benny, what’s your favorite television show of all-time?

Benny: Seinfeld.

Crowe Dog: Mine would have to be Saved By the Bell.

Benny: Good talk.

You say it’s your birthday. It’s my birthday too – yeah.

Happy Birthday, Tom. 

I received a call around 10:30 on the night of December 18, 2004. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t answered it because drunk Tom was on the other end.

“Benny Boy, meet me at my place in five minutes,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“We’re going to the Bottleneck Blues Bar at Ameristar.”

“Giggety, giggety, giggety. I’ll see you in five.”

His call couldn’t have come at a better time. I was trapped in some whacko chick’s apartment at Melrose Place. She was spinning vinyl records, and trying to convince me to play backgammon. Nut job. I pretended the call was an emergency, and got out of there faster than Jesse Jackson leaving the set of Fox News.

When I got to Tom’s, I met his girlfriend, but there seemed to be some tension in the air. They had spent the evening at his company Christmas Party. She hadn’t had a drop to drink, and agreed to drive our drunk asses across the river.

As we got on the road, Tom turned to her from the passenger side and said, “I just don’t understand why you’re so mad.”

“I’m not having this conversation in front of your friend,” she replied as she gave me a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

Five minutes of silence passed when Tom went at her again. ”Why don’t you just tell me what I did?”

“Fine,” she responded. “If you want to have this conversation now, let’s do it. I don’t appreciate being invited to your company party, and then watch you hit on the bartender.”

“I handed her a 20-dollar bill for a tip.” 

“You wrote your phone number on it!”

Akward.

I bolted from the car once we got to the casino. I turned around to find Tom still arguing his case. He looked like he was going to be there for a while, so I ducked into a bar.

Almost an hour passed, and no sign of Tom. No phone call. Nothing. Suddenly, I heard my name being paged over the loud speaker to meet my party in the poker room. “Tom doesn’t play poker,” I said to myself.

“Where’s your poker room?” I asked an employee.

“Take the elevator to the second floor, and it’s down the hallway on the left.”

I walked off the elevator, turned left, and saw Tom sitting in a wheelchair with two security guards standing behind him. I would later learn that he found the abandoned wheelchair next to a slot machine, and started pushing himself around the casino. He eventually got tired, passed out, and accepted the security guards’ offer of assistance.

They were at the far end of the hallway, but close enough that I could see the smirk on Tom’s face. I decided that I didn’t want any part of whatever he was up to, so I turned around and started walking back to the elevator.

“Sir, don’t you want to help your friend?” one of the guards yelled.

I just gave them a half-hearted wave good-bye, and went downstairs.

I decided to give Tom five minutes to get his act together, and waited in an open area on the main floor between the gaming tables and the elevator. A few minutes later, the doors opened, and here came Tom - still being pushed in the wheelchair by security - and still smirking.

The guards gave me a look like I was the worst person in the world. “Do you think you can take care of your friend from here, or is that asking too much?” one of them inquired.

“Leave him here.”

An argument ensued when Tom tried to convince me to push him to the bar. After I refused, he hurled himself out of the wheelchair and started yelling, “Benny, Benny, help me up!”

I stood there stunned as he began pulling his body towards the chair using only his arms to propel himself across the floor. Now the casino patrons were looking at me like I was the worst person in the world. I left the scene, but saw a few people helping him back into the wheelchair when I turned around.

I walked outside to the valet, and asked him to hail a cab. It took a few minutes, but I noticed the red and white colors of a County Cab on the horizon coming towards me. As it got closer, I heard a couple of loud crashing noises. I knew I shouldn’t look, but couldn’t help myself. Tom had straightened out the right leg of the wheelchair, and was trying to push himself through the revolving doors.

When I got into the cab, he left the chair stuck inside, and jumped into the back seat of the cab next to me.

“The cab ride’s on me tonight” he said.

“Ya think?”

Won’t you fill up the tank, let’s go for a ride.

Google is no longer providing advertisements to the SOB website. Their decision is explained below:

As stated in our program policies, AdSense publishers are not permitted to place Google ads on pages with adult or mature content.

As a result, we have disabled ad serving to the site.

WTF?

SOBs don’t click on their links anyway. What we need are actual sponsors - like Chico’s Bail Bonds in Bad News Bears.

But their email reminded me of a funny story from college.

I had only known my roommate a few hours when he took me to my first fraternity party. He was a sophomore, and was catching a lot of grief from his buddies because it had been a while since he got stinky on his pinky.

I left the party with a voluptuous Gamma Phi whose name escapes me. And by escapes, I mean I probably didn’t know it that night either.

We got Funky Cold Medina behind the bushes outside her sorority house. When the deal was done, I hopped up, and ran back to the dorm because I couldn’t wait to tell my new roomie about it.

He was asleep when I got there, so I strategically placed my fingers in a closed peace sign position underneath his nose and said, “You recognize that smell little fellar?”

“WTF are you doing?” he asked as he raised his head off the pillow.

“Just letting you know that everything’s going to be alright.”

My baby she like to rock. My baby she like to roll.

My coffee cartel was exposed this morning. You see, I’ve been using the hotel down the street as my own personal Starbucks for years. A few times a week I would enter the property through a guest entrance, take the elevator to the lobby, and grab a complimentary cup of coffee and a USA Today.

And three times a week I will require a cannoli.

But this morning the manager noticed a golf shirt I was wearing from a course in Las Vegas, and started a conversation about how he once played there. Unless I somehow convince him that I’m Howard Hughes, I’m going to keep it on the DL for a while.

I devised a similar plan to get a free continental breakfast last Sunday. I set out on foot and stopped at the same hotel since I was familiar with the surroundings. They offered a pretty nice spread, but charged for the buffet. I walked a half-mile or so to the next one - same story. I tried yet another, but the only food they offered came in a vending machine.

I had walked over two miles in search of a free meal, without success, and finally decided to get breakfast the old-fashioned way - I went to McDonalds. But I had forgotten that I don’t carry my wallet during these excursions. If I’m ever asked to identify myself by the po po, I will be known only as “Crowe Dog.”

When I got home, I jumped into the car, drove to the store, and bought a 12-pack. My breakfast ended up being a few potato chips and an InBev Light.

- Janers shot this video of a guy sitting next to her in a coffee shop in NYC.

I’m a loser, what a joker. I’m playing my jokes upon you.

Slap Bet

I found another way to make women mad - blackmail them. On my hard drive (drink, he said hard), I have photos of three chicks flashing their boobies. Two of them have threatened me with litigation if I post them. The other shows her tits more than Obama says the word, “change.”

I have three plans for the naughty pics:

1. Post them
2. Hold them for ransom - I’m thinking a 30-pack of Natty Light and a month-long window in which I can touch their boobies upon request.
3. Burn them to CD, and address the situation after one of them comes into a large sum of money.

What do they plan on getting by suing me anyway? My assets include a 20-inch TV that doesn’t turn off, a 15-year old bedroom set, and a sofa that’s been pissed on so many times, I couldn’t give it away.

Here is my response to the Titty Twins - Take Option #2. Buy me beer, let me feel you up for a month, and it’s over. If you agree to these conditions, I will destroy the pictures after the month of nipple rubbing is over.

It should be noted that the two women in question are not SOB cast members. So don’t send emails requesting topless pictures of Dani-girl, Abby, Maribeth or Sheila E.

As for Gina Party, I’ve started a photo album, and plan to release it as a slideshow during the holidays.

- WTF is this? 

- Mr. Nice Hands will always make me laugh. 

- A guy builds a roller coaster in his backyard.

- As of July 1, 2008, California is requiring hands free use of cell phones while driving.

Every time I see your face, it reminds me of the places we used to go.

Man, how brutal are Mondays after a 3-day weekend? I was barely able to make it back to the pool this afternoon. On the flipside, my base tan is really coming along nicely.

I spent the 4th of July with a girlfriend of Sheila E.’s who was in town with her boyfriend for the weekend. Here are a few of the lowlights…

We were reprimanded by a bar owner for using vulgar language in front of children. I’m still trying to figure out what they were doing there in the first place. It’s not like we were in Arnold.

We stopped to get beer on the way home, and got kicked out of 7-11 because a guy in the group stole a promotional sign for The Incredible Hulk. Incredibly, we were still allowed to leave with the beer.

Back at the pool, the chick’s boyfriend dropped his shorts, and jumped into the water. After realizing he didn’t like wet underwear, he chucked his drawers onto the roof at Melrose Place. We started a betting pool on when they would fall off, but the maintenance crew brought them down this morning with a skimmer pole. All wagers were refunded.

And yes, you perverts, there were girls there.

I saw quite possibly the worst Wingman ever while at the bar. A guy standing next to us saw his buddy kissing a girl and yelled, “Hey, it looks like the drought is over!” Ouch…

On Saturday morning, a few of us walked over to Westport to watch Dani-girl finish her half-marathon race. She obviously spent her holiday differently than I had.

A few hours later, I was back at the pool again.

I knew it was going to be a rough one when Tom predicted a hard day of drinking like Babe Ruth calling a home run. He ended his day by eating four bratwursts, several of which had fallen on the concrete. I still get sick thinking about it. I heard he tried to make a go of it at Trainwreck, but had to leave when he couldn’t stand up anymore. Word on the street is he passed out on the sidewalk during the walk home, and was rescued when someone driving by recognized him.

My Saturday night was spent at Gina Party’s where a group of girls not known for showing their boobs suddenly lost their inhibitions and posed for the camera. Isn’t alcohol great? I’m still negotiating the release of the photos.

I would write about Sunday, but the Xanax just kicked in.

Do my best to waste another day.