CONGRATULATIONS CANADA!

Congratulations to the Canadian Women for winning GOLD at the 2006 Torino Olympics!

OMG! 2 posts in one day?
Yeah, well, a friend of mine posted his story at the Cinescape Message Boards and I just HAD to repost it here for everyone to see...thank you SLAMMY!

The One Word Which, When Appearing On A Strip Club Marquee, Requires Full
Attention

Right. So.

This happened back about five months ago, late October.

Friend of mine, let's call him Joe (because, after all, that's his name),
calls me up and asks if I want to come hang out for the weekend. Joe's an old
buddy of mine, lives in Richmond, VA (for those just familiarizing themselves
with the SlamShut Universe, I live with SlamWife in the outskirts of Washington,
DC, in a lovely little burg called Occoquan). Now, on this particular weekend,
or on the Friday preceding it, I'd just finished having some rather painful
dental work done, so I was sporting a rather prodigious
Everything-From-The-Neck-Up-Ache, and more importantly, a Plentiful Prescription
Of Potent Painkillers (Do Not Take With Alcohol Unless You Want Them To Work
Really, Really Well).

So I tell friend Joe that I'm in no shape to drive, and Joe, being a friend
indeed, tells me he'll drive up, pick my ass up, and drive back down. Well ain't
he a peach.So Saturday afternoon rolls around, and I've got me bags packed, and
Joe picks me up toot-smart at about 3:00 PM. We drive down to Richmond.

Now, about a mile or so up the road from Joe's house is a place called The
Paper Moon. The Paper Moon is the largest strip club in Richmond, and by virtue
of that, arguably the largest and fanciest one in all of Virginia (which is not
known for having great titty bars-- the rules are rather Southern and stringent,
but we'll get to that later). So we're ambling past the Paper Moon in Joe's
truck, and as we pass by, I read the marquee posted on the front of the building
through a Vicodin-induced haze. And after reading all of the promises of carnal
delight offered therein, I urgently asked Joe to pull over. (Actually, what I
did was scream "HOLYFUCKINSHITDUDEPULLOVERPULLOVERNOW!!!" And he did, asking
"What'sa matter? You have to puke?")

As we pulled to the side of the road, I opened the door and jumped out, and
ran back to read the sign again, rubbing my eyes like a sleepy kid staring at a
room full of Christmas presents. Joe followed quickly behind, and stood next to
me, scanning the sign and saying "Man, what the hell is wrong with you-- it's
just the Paper OOOOOOOOOOH." The "OOOOOOOOOOOH" part was when he got to the last
word on the strip club marquee, and full understanding set in. He'd seen what
I'd seen-- The One Word Which, When Appearing On A Strip Club Marquee, Requires
Full And Immediate Attention. There on the sign, after the fifteen or twenty
other words promising the same nudie thrills as always ("Over 4O Different
Girls! Private Dances! Richmond's Finest Adult Entertainment! Open 7 Days A
Week!"), it said this:

"October 26-30: MIDGETS."

Well.So.We stood there, scratching our heads, and formulated a plan: first
Joe's house, settle in, eat a nice meal, then hit the Alehouse, have a few nice
beers, then hit up the English pub for a few more, then slide over to the Paper
Moon and enjoy the finest in vertically-challenged burlesque entertainment. The
sky was purple and orange and filled with promises of trouble, or at least it
seemed to me, because I was on painkillers....Okay, that's enough for tonight.
It's 2AM. I've got a DVD to watch and a few beers to quaff before bedtime
(again, for those new to the SlamShut Universe, I work a schedule that would
drive most folks insane, but I have tomorrow off). Rest of the story tomorrow.

Right, so, okay.

So friend Joe and I fade back to his house, have a drink, and decide that
cooking at home is outside of our nightly job description. So we take care of a
few things 'round the house, then hop in the truck, head out to the Alehouse,
and order up some chow (burger for him, nice pile of chili for me), and a raft
of little beer samples from the cute little bartendress there. The Alehouse, by
the way, is one of those "Nine Thousand Beers On Tap" joints that has bizarre
concoctions like chocolate stout (which actually tastes like chocolate) and some
weird South American beer that the Cute Bartendress swears involves natives
chewing something up and spitting it into vats as part of the beer-making
process (Nice, huh? Gimme three). As we're chatting up the Cute Bartendress, she
starts asking us about our evening's plans, as it's only about six or seven PM
at this point. I'm already feeling enough buzz from painkillers, nine kinds of
beer, and South American Indian spit that I chuckle and say "we're heading out
to an Adult Entertainment establishment. We've been made aware of an attraction
that cannot be ignored."

To which the Cute Bartendress replies, "Oh! You're going to see the
midgets!"

Now, the Alehouse is clear on the other side of the city from The Paper
Moon, so her even being aware of The Paper Moon's midgety goodness comes as no
small surprise. We chuckle, and I ask "So you know about that?" To which the
Cute Bartendress replies, "Yeah, I went to see them last night. There's two of
them. One of them smells like apples."

I don't know about you guys, but when a Cute Bartendress tells me that not
only has she seen midget strippers, but knows that one of them smells like
apples, well, that's fucking sexy. And I was unable to restrain myself from
telling the Cute Bartendress this fact. "You know what," I said, "the fact that
you know what a midget stripper smells like, that's fucking sexy." So friend Joe
and I finish our meal, order up a glass each of the beer we liked best, and
settle back for a bit. A few minutes later, Cute Bartendress materializes with a
friend of hers-- Cute Barback (if you don't know what a barback is look it up...
okay, it's like 'assistant bartender'). Turns out that Cute Bartendress and Cute
Barback are both nursing students, and want to know what time we're going to the
Moon. Now, I'll take a moment here to offer some explanation-- some loyal
SlamFans are reading this and thinking "Holy shit-- is SlamShut using the
midgety goodness to score some strange? Will SlamShut cheat on SlamWife, who has
stood by him for over twelve years and endured his endless bullshit, tolerating
repeated entreaties for sex involving motorcycle helmets and Chewbacca sound
effects? COULD IT BE SO?"

The answer is a resounding 'no.'

Taking quick stock of the situation, I decided that going to see midget
strippers would be fully SlamWife Endorsed, but that taking Cute Nursing
Students too see midget strippers would probably end at some point with me
coming home to find all of my shit in boxes in the front yard. So, after a quick
convo with friend Joe, we politely declined the offer, with Joe filing the Cute
Bartendress' digits for later use.

Quick fast-forward here-- we finished at the Alehouse, hit the English pub,
then, at about ten o'clock, set our sights on the Paper Moon. Between the pub
and the titty bar, there was a cell-phone call to SlamWife, in which I joyously
announced that we were headed to see midget strippers. The announcement was met
with the usual SlamWife response, which is a sigh, a shake of the head, and a
"tell me all about it later."

Now, strip clubs in the state of Virginia are a curious proposition--
technically, they don't exist, because full or even topless nudity in a bar is
against the law in this state. But like all things concerning outdated
legislation, the good citizens of Virginia have Figured A Way Around The Law.
And that way is... wait for it... it's a dirty word to any red-blooded,
titty-bar-loving American male... pasties. Being a citizen of the Northern
Virginia area, my friends and I usually go to DC for our titty bar action--
there's practically no laws restricting what goes on in DC titty bars, and it's
a lot more relaxed and fun. But in Virginia, most titty bars you go to have the
girls all wearing these ridiculous colorful little silver-dollar-sized beanies
over there nipples. But at the Paper Moon, it was a different story.

At first glance, when we entered the Moon, it appeared as though the Girls
Of The Paper Moon had just decided to ignore the law-- there were two stages,
one big and one small, with three or four girls strutting their stuff
(normal-sized girls, mind you), with chests proudly bare, and apparently
unencumbered by any pasties. It was only after purchasing a couple of beers and
setting into a couple of chairs pulled up to the main stage that we noticed that
all of the girls appeared to be showing nipples... but they all had the same
nipples. All the same pink-brown crinkly oval-shaped nipples. Nice-looking, to
be sure, but the fact that they all had the same nipples gave the experience a
slight "Village Of The Damned" vibe. The explanation was simple: the Girls Of
The Paper Moon were all wearing fake nipples, over their real nipples.
Incredibly real-looking fake nipples. Like movie-special-effects-real-looking
fake nipples. I'm talking fake nipples so real-looking that if I wore one on my
forehead, you'd say "Dude, you have a fucking nipple growing out of your
forehead." Which I don't, really, which is why it would be notable and amazing.
The other thing about Virginia titty bars that is important to now and germaine
to the story is that there is ABSOLUTELY NO CONTACT WITH THE GIRLS WHATSOEVER.
There's even signs all over the place reminding you. And if you even get too
close, a burly bouncer will drag you right out of the joint. In other titty bars
I've been too in other states, the custom for tipping is that the girl will wear
a garter or a g-string, and you tip them by sliding the currency under the
elastic, next to her skin. Hoo-ha, good stuff. But not so at the Moon-- the
custom there is that you 'tent' your dollar (fold it in half lengthwise), and
place it on the perimeter of the stage. The girl will then reward your
philanthropy with about thirty seconds of booty-shaking just for you. Big fun,
huh? But the important thing to notice about this is that it is completely
possible to tell exactly how much skrilla these girls were making per dance,
multiply that by how many appearances they made onstage per night, and come up
with a pretty accurate number for what they were walking away with at the end of
the shift.

So we sat by the stage, tossing down the dollars, enjoyed the
contorting flesh, and counted dollars. Here's the sad part-- each girl was
making six, maybe eight bucks per turn onstage. That's it. Only the guys right
up on the stage (in what the club DJ referred to as "the prime real estate,"
where you MUST TIP or relocate) are putting down the dough, and each girl was
walking away with lunch money. Six or eight bucks. Now, let's multiply that by
the four or five turns onstage that each gets per night, and it becomes clear
that these chicks are walking with maybe fifty bucks for the night. I made more
than that waiting tables on a lunch shift at Red Lobster. That's some sad shit
right there. And keep in mind, this is, as explained before, arguably the
largest strip joint in the state.So two hours or so goes by, and Joe and myself
are getting testy-- where's the fucking dwarves? We paid a fucking cover, and we
wanted to see some fucking nude hobbits, for pete's sake. I decided to visit the
bar and make an inquiry. I left my seat, and by this time, the painkillers and
multiple beers had left me in a state where walking across the floor had begun
to feel like walking on a mattress. I purchased another couple of oat sodas, and
politely inquired about the main attraction.

Actually, what I did was hold up my empty bottle, make the universal sign
for "two more," and when paying for them, hollered/slurred out
"AY-WAIRZA-MIDJITZALREADY" over the booming music. The bartender checked his
watch, then yelled back "TEN MINUTES." I returned to our spot in Prime Real
Estate, and related the news to Joe, and we went to go split up some more
twenties. It was show time.

Ten minutes went by.

Then......the stage was cleared of normal women, and the lights went dark.
There was a moment of hushed silence, and then the opening chords of Rammstein's
"Du Hast" thundered out of the darkness (I must tell you-- as a Jew, nothing
gets me hornier than frightening German techno music with angry teutonic singers
shouting like nazis). A pair of blinding klieg-like spotlights burst open
onstage, and the DJ announced the main attraction, which came sauntering out of
the backstage area: Little Tina, and Luscious Lady.

I couldn't tell you who was Little Tina and who was Luscious Lady, but
there were two of them, just like Cute Bartendress had said-- one was dressed
like a nurse (odd bit of serendipity there), and one was dressed like a
dominatrix. Neither was more than three feet tall. The dominatrix-looking one
was actually kind of cute, in that "aw, look at her" kind of way. Remember that
one episode of Seinfeld with Kramer and Mickey working on the soap opera, with
the "heightening" jokes? Remember the one blonde little lady that Mickey wanted
to get with? She looked a bit like that. But the other one, the one dressed like
a nurse... Jesus Christ. She looked like a fucking orc. They reached the stage,
and immediately tore off their tops, revealing their little midgety boobs. They
were both squat and chubby, but the dominatrix was kind of cute, in a
I've-had-nine-or-ten-beers-and-a-handful-of-painkillers kind of way. But the
other one sent chills down your spine. Her breasts were gnarled and misshapen,
and she had this evil grin which still haunts my dreams. But when those tops
came off those dwarf bodies, the Paper Moon fucking exploded. What had
previously been a rather sullen and sedate crowd seated in the tables out in the
darkness became a shouting mob, louder even than Rammstein. They rushed the
stage, and it fucking rained money. Joe and myself were tossing dollars like
they were confetti, and cackling like hyenas the whole time. I was laughing so
hard I thought I was going to give myself a hernia. Joe and I managed to keep
the dominatrix in front of our spot for a good while, by supplying a steady
stream of dollars. "Du Hast" faded into some other song which was
indistinguishable over the din of the crowd. Dominatrix chick moved to another
spot on the stage, and we were treated to a close-up of Nurse Horror. And it
should be noted at this point that neither of the little ladies had bothered
with with Realistic Nipples that every other girl in the house sported-- these
two appeared to have covered their mommyspigots with ripped pieces of wet toilet
paper. It just added to the ick factor.

So three or four songs went by, and at this point, the dollars on the stage
had come to resemble a pile of autumn leaves, a fact which had to have made the
Moon's regular working girls feel about an inch tall (who's the midget NOW,
bitch?). The little ladies started to wind up their act. The music dropped back
a notch or two, the ladies started to gather their tops, and a Paper Moon
employee appeared with a push-broom to gather their haul. At this point, the
promise that I'd silently made to myself at some point in the evening rushed to
the fore of my mind: I wanted a midget lapdance. I took my remaining
somethingteen dollars and raised them over my head in a crumpled fan, and looked
straight into the dominatrix's eyes, and screamed "LAPDANCE!" She shook her head
in a surprisingly shy manner, and turned away. I shook my dollars defiantly,
took a step towards her, and screamed loud and long:
"LAPDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE!!!"

At this point, I was grabbed by my shirtcoller and yanked back. Why hello
there, bouncer. We were both quickly escorted/carried from the club like
schoolchildren who've been caught reading porno behind our textbooks, with me
hollering "LAPDANCE! SMELLS LIKE APPLES!!!! LAPDAAAANCE!!! " the whole way,
still waving my fistful of cash.

Outside, we smoked a cigarette leaning up against the truck, shaking our
heads, laughing and just saying "Midgets, dude" over and over. After a few
minutes, we hopped in the truck, went home, and drank a bottle of rum. And now,
when friend Joe and I hang out, whenever there's a moment of silence, one of us
will just shake his head and say "Midgets, dude." And friend Joe has still yet
to get a proper date with Cute Bartendress, so to this day we still don't know
how she knew that one of them smelled like apples, when we couldn't get within
three feet of one of them without being tossed like softballs out of the club.
We just chalk it up to the fact that when women go to titty bars, they get away
with murder.

THE END.

NEWS FLASH!

FOR ALL MEDIA OUTLETS!

Please read the following (link to MSNBC) and get your dumb-ass reporters to stop pestering Wayne Gretzky and Janet Jones-Gretzky:

JANET JONES-GRETZKY IS NOT BEING CHARGED WITH ANYTHING!

That's right, folks, this WHOLE media kerfuffle over Janet being "involved" in the gambling ring is horseshit!

At most, she can be called as a witness in the event of a trial, but as she HAS NOT committed a crime in New Jersey, she CANNOT be charged.

Similarly for Wayne (whose name was NEVER released by the New Jersey Department of Justice) who has NOT committed a crime in New Jersey in connection with the betting ring and therefore cannot be charged. The most that can happen for Wayne is to be called as a witness.

GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK MEDIA HEADS!

THERE IS NO SCANDAL!

If I'm wrong I'll eat my words...with gravy and cheese curds...

Rumours of my molestation this past weekend in Edmonton by Guido the Prison Pimp were greatly exaggerated.

I survived the road trip with the team to Edmonton, and let me tell you, I have a new found respect for the professional athletes that play in the National Lacrosse League. I can no longer, in all honest, call it a semi-pro league. These guys are professional through and through. Granted the rookies did get a little out of hand, but they paid for it the next day. Here are guys that go out, play one of the orughtest, toughest, fastest sports known to man, party with the fans, crash out for a few hours, hop on a plane with little to no rest, touch down in a new city, de-plane, eat, nap, practice, play another game, party with the fans and the are up again at the crack of dawn the next day to fly home and go to their day jobs the next day. 2 time zones in 2 days, 2 games in two days...I know I get tired as a fan following these guys around, but to actually have played 2 games in 2 days, man, I have a new level of respect for these guys, and anyone bitching that the players don't show up at post gamers anymore is gonna get a pop in the mouth.

I would like to add some more personal commetns if I could about the guys who play for the Rock. I have never felt such a sense of cameraderie before with the exception of my old Midget AA hockey team. I played on a team with a bunch of guys that had been together as a team for almost 6 years, and we were darned good at what we did. The cameraderie that the Rock shows is exactly like that, and while there are no overt mega-stars on the team, they are indeeed much greater than the sum of their parts and carry the mantle of Champions well.

Now onto the low-lights of the trip:
The Edmonton fans.
I'm a little ashamed of them.
For a few reasons.
1st: When Bob Watson took that shot to the head and went down like a ton of bricks, their first reaction was laughter. When the shot was replayed (and they did this about 5 or six times) on the jumbo-tron, fans kept laughing.
2nd: Comments made about the injury. I heard some calling Watson "Faggot!" and "Pussy!" and I heard one fan yell, "Get up you pansy!" Obviously fans who have never experienced the sweet pain of a lacrosse ball...
3rd: Thrown foreign objects. Not only were things thrown at me (yes, I was wearing a Rock jersey) including a paper airplane and popcorn, but also one of the lacrosse balls that are given away with the toss stick set. And not only were these objects thrown at me, but also at Debbie. She had the misfortune of sitting next to me, and as a result was caught by enemy fire.
4th: Personal insults directed at individuals. Now, I'm one for insulting the other team, but when the fans call you out based on the number that appears on your jersey in the stands and then adds an insult, that's even worse.

My night was made, however, by the annonucer at Rexall Place (hereafter referred to as "The Pill" because that's what it looks like from the outside) when he said: "Anyone with a drunken Rock fan sitting next to them, Arena Security will be blind for the next 30 seconds" after the Rock finally took the lead. Overall , the game was a great experience, and I came out of it with a few souvenirs that I didn't have to buy.

So...I entered a contest and I actually WON!

Yup, that's right!
The original Mr. No-Luck has WON something!
OK, sure, I'm exaggerating, I mean I ahve won things before, but not as BIG as this.

The Toronto Sun and the Toronto Rock were running a contest, see, and I entered MANY MANY times and I sorta won.

Here's what I won:
2 tickets to Toronto Rock vs Rochester Knighthawks on Feb 10.
1 night at the Westin Harbour Castle.
1 round trip flight for 2 to Edmonton leaving 9:15 AM Feb 11, returning Feb 12.
1 night at an unspecified hotel in Edmonton.
2 tickets to the Edmonton Rush vs Toronto Rock on Feb 11.
$150 per diem for Saturday, Feb 11, 2006.

Yes, I'm kinda happy..