I believe in unity. I belive in the great coming together of minds and sbo bodies. So let’s tell the one story that brought my humble community together, the one time everyone I know was of like mind and spirit. The one time we almost fell apart over a stripper who almost died.


I was having a Diet Coke at a pleasant sidwalk bistro when this typewritten story blew past. All of the names herein are pure fiction. Otis is ignorant. He also doesn’t know anything about this story. Neither do I. It is, however, reproduced with permission.

The night was moist

Probably saturated from too much beer. We’d worked with Francois (now c’mon that name is CLEARLY made up!) for years and we’d known his bride-to-be for just as long. He was one of the best photographers in the business and his lady had the gift of gab. We were all invited to the wedding, a mega-gala type bash. But first, we wanted to show our imaginary-Francophile a very good time.

Most of us met at his house. There was plenty of booze on hand. We sent two of our number to do the dirtiest work. ICEBOX found her in a magazine, like a coochie catelogue of the skankiest sort. The picture showed a busty brunette dressed like a boxer, with gloves and shiny shorts and not much else. We all wanted to go the distance. Let the judges decide.

OLLIE, a reporter on staff, and his friend, a producer, picked the girl up at home. She did not have the fighting spirit. Instead, she had second thoughts. Somehow between the photo shoot and the C.O.D. she grew very nervous. But these men were on a mission. This is, we hope, the only wedding for Francois, so they goaded and begged until she slid into the car. She needed a drink to go foreward and that was easy to find.

Ollie and friend were big fans of the Crankshaft. It’s the only bar in town that has any decent live music. They took our stripper there for booze. Apparantly, she’s a big fan of booze and, worse still, as Ollie discovered, the people at the Crankshaft were big fans of hers. Like Oillie, she was a regular and our friends were seen with her in public.

From the bar to the bachelor our two escorts flew with the escort herself in tow. They parked on a street right next to the house when, again, she lost her nerve. Producer came inside while Ollie talked her down. P-Slob interrupted once to knock on the car window and ask for rolling papers. The stripper thought that was very sad. At least, that what her reaction said. Call it a read.

Finally, she made it inside and sprinted up the stairs. She was changing into the “boxer” wardrobe. Within minutes, the music played and our bachelor friend took a seat in the middle of the room with all the others seated around him. It was like a campfire sing-a-long with a welterweight whore.

She danced into the room looking less like a boxer than a scavenger of locker room robes. Her white socks were filthy, her shorts were only shiny with dirt. She slithered over and slipped out of her top and straddled poor Francois. Then…

She fell asleep.

Out cold.

I have to admit that does seem odd.

Francois shook her awake and she did with a jump. She slithered around the room until the shorts, mercifully, slid off. She took a seat on the lap of P-Slob and, again, blacked out. When she came to, she started whispering in her victim’s very handsome ear, “I hate this. Why don’t you just leave me alone… PERVERT!”

Ahem. You’re paid by the hour.

She again slithered off. She took a spanking from the most respected TV FACE in all the land. She gyrated and thrust for every well-know on air person within 100 miles and then finally set her sights on Francois.

Again she straddled him and this time she actually moved. It wasn’t sexy. It actually made Francois HAPPY about the marriage. But at least he played along.

Then it happened.

She tried, give her credit, to execute an actual stripper move. She wrapped her legs tight around her man. She arched her back. She leaned back until her not-totally-repulsive breasts actually came to life. Then she fell backwards onto her head. It actually rolled up beneath her. I believe there may have been a “pop”. And she didn’t move. Neither did anyone else. She was apparantly paralyzed and the ntire room of well-known faces froze.

From what I hear P-Slob is a very compassionate person. I also hear he was out of the house before anyone else exhaled. There was panic and hysteria as feet shuffled and stomped in a frenzied blaze. The stripper didn’t move.

Within minutes almost everyone there was not. The front yard was full of extremely drunk men trying to decide whether a DUI would be better or worse for the ol’ career that the reality of this. Then we heard a scream…

“Fuck you men. You’re all filthy disgusting PIGS”

And then a door slammed.

Upstairs our putrid pugilist was getting dressed and having second thoughts about her career. She offered Ollie a humming hum hum to compensate for the broken dance. He politely declined.

Moments later she and ICEBOX were headed back home. She made it there OK. So did most of ICEBOX’S credit cards. And the party got very very drunk.

After that night, THE WORST. BACHELOR. PARTY. EVER, we swore to never speak of it again. We all had a lot to lose.

But I offer it here, on UFP, as a signal of unity. We all have better stories to tell. And my C*** is THIS BIG!

Gone, daddy, gone

Well, I’m headed back out across the pond. My posts will be few and far between for the next couple of weeks.

In the meantime, the WPBT is hosting one more blogger/reader WSOP Event #2 Satellite on PokerStars. Late notice this time. It’s Sunday. Get there and make it happen, cap’n. Bobby Bracelet is playing in Event #2. Russell is playing. Wes (we hope) is playing. I’m playing. Make it five.

Chances are, I will not be able to be on the rail for this satellite, so good luck to all.

Lastly, although I don’t have the power to do so, I hereby declare the end to all ill-will, silliness, and snarkiness. Just three weeks to Vegas (sorry, Gene). Get rowdy. If you need help, remember this:

South Cackalacky representin’

I met The Big Pirate a few weeks back and was not surprised to find he’s a player. As such, I was not surprised to find him winning the third (and final?) WPBT WSOP Satellite.

Frankly, when it got down to me and five other players at the final table, I didn’t really care who won and who lost. I knew I wasn’t going to win and I would’ve been happy with anyone else winning. When it got down to three, two South Carolina boys and a Texan, I felt even better. Sure, I have a closer association with BadBlood, but The Fat Guy is one of my personal heroes, and the Pirate is a new member of the burgeoning Palmetto Posse wing of the WPBT.

Now, the Big Pirate is our next entry. And he asks…whatta I do now?