Live from...an undisclosed location on the East Coast...

Like Cheney's bunker, y'all'll have to guess. I mean two and two can be put together, but I still ain't saying. Because I forgot to bring my phone charger, I've had to come down to the car to recharge. Luckily, I have my laptop. The following is the world's gain, pre-gaming at 8PM and tipsy-inspired.

Spending a weekend in a beach town, the overarching theme is that, god...dayam, there are a lot of fat people in America. What balls on these people to waddle around looking like that, as if it's all right! I mean, Bokolis is not soccer-player skinny (despite being a soccer player, I look more like a rugger), but I look fucking good...not important though.

Well, it is semi-important because I'm about to relate some bullshit. I'm at the spot last night, working the place (I should mention that I hunt lone-wolf). I've been coming down here for years. The difference is that, this year, my trusty bartender is nowhere to be found. This is terrible, as she would keep me out of trouble.

I've previously (in the tipping post, one of my first) went though why it's important to have the bartender on your side. I hunt lone-wolf, because, quite frankly, a bartender is as good a wingman anyone could hope to have. I've had 4 good (non-bartender) wingmen (I'll call them my running partners) in my life. 4 is probably 3 more than most people...I know how to pick out quality and I'm a good guy to have around because nobody fucks around while I'm around. I've also had the need for 4 because they inevitably fall by the wayside to marriage, drugs, etc., etc.

Roping in the tangents, without my trusty bartender, I am exposed. I'm working the place, only to get accosted by a fat chic. It's a hazard of the game; Bokolis is put together and the fat broads consider me a great prize. In the ultra-long shot that I could rope in her two hot friends and under the theory that, when life throws you a lemon, you make lemonade (she wouldn't leave), I decide to engage her.

She's not quite the water buffalo in the ">Jerry Ball category (and, that's Jerry Ball from his SMU days, not the fat tub of shit that lined up for the Vikings), but she was plenty fat...but not ugly; justl like there's Irish girl cute, there's fat girl pretty.

Almost needless to say, Bokolis was not entertaining the thought of throwing her over the shoulder. But, I figured that she'd be good for warming up my game. Of course, she had different designs, but I've dealt with this before. Some breeze and a few pecks on the cheek later, she starts telling me how I'm the first white guy to whom she's ever been attracted. I immediately thought of the Nik Richie post on Amanda Bynes, where he commented that he loved how, as soon as white chics start getting fat, they automatically think they are attracted to black guys. My only reponse was that her womanly intution must have sensed that the purple crayons have nothing on Bokolis...I didn't use the term "purple crayon," but Bokolis is, at least in my head, a porn star. This bird treated herself to a feel and another peck.

Anyway, I eventually got rid of her. A quarter hour later, she was in the arms of a purple crayon. Some, somewhere along the line, some suitable talent starts working me. 21 and petite in a little black dress. Surely looking to get steamrollered. At some point, she instructs me to buy her a drink.

Many girls- girls that haven't yet graduated to bottle rat status- will chat up guys to work a free drink out of them. Of course, the money means nothing to Bokolis. I'd throw 2, 3 hundred, even a nickel on the table and proposition them, if only to remind them that they are just whoring themselves and to cut to the chase. I'm a little more chill than that and I don't think of it as paying for a drink. I'm paying for information, like calling a better hand just so you can see what the guy played.

Nonetheless, because guys should never give any woman what she wants when she asks for it, I string her along. She's a bartender (whythefuck isn't she working on Friday night?!?) in a little black dress. While I never pursue a bartender when she's working, under the theory that a salesman is the easiest person to sell because they will sell themselves, I've got this all worked out. Further boosting my cause, people actually knew her...and I engaged two of them (guy and his GF) to where they gave their implicit blessing.

This is all in the space of maybe 10 minutes...I got felt up yet again. I have the seal of approval, I'm in...it's just a matter of closing.

But, in the end, as Joe Pesci explained in Casino, I fucked it all up. I waited too long to get her a drink, so she took it upon herself to order. She gets carded by my unfamiliar bartender because of a particular bracelet she was wearing. After an awkward moment, she asks me to order her drink. Too fucking late now, I'm thinking. She pulls out her ID to show me that she's 21 ("look! 1989!"). I looked, but, as I was about 12 drinks in, I couldn't settle my eyeballs to see shit. A bouncer quickly showed up and escorted her out. I went out there to try to work some magic, but it was only half-hearted. She was borderline hysterical and, even though the friends appreciated it even more, I knew I was sunk. It was abut 3AM, and she was too hysterical to even suggest the room party with her friends (and work the full swap), so I cut bait and headed back to port.

And, no, I didn't go looking for the fat chic. I sure hope my homegirl is working tonight...that NEVER would have happened if she was there.