A Night in the Life of Yours TrulyLeft: I had the misfortune of running into “Suzette” here at the Arlington Heights Playboy Club. What made it unfortunate was that I was quite inebriated and am now apparently engaged to the chipper fellow pictured. It could be worse, of course. He DOES shave his legs.
by Cheese
It’s Saturday night. A time when a young man’s fancy turns to his pants, or more pointedly, what’s in his pants. Now, I am no longer “young” by most definitions, but I am not quite knocking on death’s door either. I can hear the calling of the frothy mug. I feel the desirable tug of a night spent painting the town. I can taste the freedom of neon lights, gorgeous women, beer nuts, and endless testosterone. So I call my closest friend Mike, grab my fedora, and start driving towards the Arlington Heights Playboy Club.
It’s been years since I’ve set foot in the club. I figured by now there were new employees and I resemble the picture of myself on the wall less than ever, so the lifetime ban imposed on me will be much harder to enforce. Plus, of course, there’s the fedora. No one recognizes you when you’re wearing a fedora, right?
Mike is waiting for me at the entrance. He’s a large man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and ballhugger jeans that would make Steve Perry blush. His heavy brow gives him a look of authority that his comical pompadour all but erases. He’s an excellent drinking buddy because no matter how many beers you put away, he never starts looking like an attractive woman. Or an attractive man for that matter.
Without a word needing to be spoken between us, we pay the cover charge and enter. It takes seconds for all the old familiar sights and smells to overwhelm me. The red brick interior. The plush velvet carpet. The odor of beer, sweat, crisp dollars, and loneliness. I felt right at home. Until........
“Umm, dude,” Mike whispers, his unibrow furrowed in consternation. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
Walking towards us is a pair of “bunnies”, or scantily clad club employees. The one on the left is 300 lbs bone dry, 350 soaking wet I’m sure. The one on the right has a mustache and talks like my uncle Ed. Both of them have Mike and I stopped in our tracks, hands still on wallets, the phantom taste of that first beer still flirting with our tongues.
“Hi fellows,” the buffalo says. “Care to buy a lady a drink?”
“Where do we get the lady?” Mike asks, always as smooth as good bourbon.
“Look no further,” the mustache says, and actually wiggles his hairy ass at me.
I hear Mike make a wretching sound beside me, and move to take action. “Um, we haven’t been here in years. Since when did they start hiring guys as bunnies?” I ask.
“Title IX buddy,” the mustache replies. “It’s not just for women’s athletics, you know?”
“Err, OK,” Mike says. “What’s with the blob here?”
“I prefer metabollicly challenged,” the brontosaurus says. “The American’s with disabilities act covers morbid obesity and ensures that I have the right to work here. Get enlightened gentlemen! Look around!” And with that the “bunnies” moved off.
Sure enough, Mike and I looked around and really took in the employee pool for the first time. There were midgets, crossdressers, siamese twins, amputees, malformed faces, and people in wheelchairs. The only person not represented among the “bunnies” was hot women. We started to back up towards the door.
“I wouldn’t do it fellas,” said a whispering voice. We turned to find an old man huddled over an oak table in the corner. “I tried leaving once like you all. The freaks all came to my house the next morning and screamed about enlightenment in my front yard until every neighbor on my street was sure I hated all the handicapped, crossdressers, and retards on the planet. To this day no one talks to me. My advice would be to go get a beer or three. Pretend to enjoy yourself. Then leave at closing time.”
So we drank. And drank. Then drank a little more. With each one, we were SURE the bunnies would begin to look appealing. Short of that, we hoped for an alcohol induced coma to allow us the opportunity to escape.
Neither occurred of course. We got blitheringly drunk, pretended to have the time of our lives, puked our heads off in the surprisingly clean white porcelain of the club’s restroom then blacked out. Sunday morning we awoke, heads throbbing, in a king sized bed. Mike was spooning with the mustache, and I was tightly holding my Suzette. (see above)
This Saturday, Mike and I are going to watch M*A*S*H* reruns in my living room and drink water. If we feel really crazy, we’re going to go the library and check out books on Title IX and the Americans with Disabilities act. It’s time to write our Congressmen.
by Cheese
It’s Saturday night. A time when a young man’s fancy turns to his pants, or more pointedly, what’s in his pants. Now, I am no longer “young” by most definitions, but I am not quite knocking on death’s door either. I can hear the calling of the frothy mug. I feel the desirable tug of a night spent painting the town. I can taste the freedom of neon lights, gorgeous women, beer nuts, and endless testosterone. So I call my closest friend Mike, grab my fedora, and start driving towards the Arlington Heights Playboy Club.
It’s been years since I’ve set foot in the club. I figured by now there were new employees and I resemble the picture of myself on the wall less than ever, so the lifetime ban imposed on me will be much harder to enforce. Plus, of course, there’s the fedora. No one recognizes you when you’re wearing a fedora, right?
Mike is waiting for me at the entrance. He’s a large man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and ballhugger jeans that would make Steve Perry blush. His heavy brow gives him a look of authority that his comical pompadour all but erases. He’s an excellent drinking buddy because no matter how many beers you put away, he never starts looking like an attractive woman. Or an attractive man for that matter.
Without a word needing to be spoken between us, we pay the cover charge and enter. It takes seconds for all the old familiar sights and smells to overwhelm me. The red brick interior. The plush velvet carpet. The odor of beer, sweat, crisp dollars, and loneliness. I felt right at home. Until........
“Umm, dude,” Mike whispers, his unibrow furrowed in consternation. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
Walking towards us is a pair of “bunnies”, or scantily clad club employees. The one on the left is 300 lbs bone dry, 350 soaking wet I’m sure. The one on the right has a mustache and talks like my uncle Ed. Both of them have Mike and I stopped in our tracks, hands still on wallets, the phantom taste of that first beer still flirting with our tongues.
“Hi fellows,” the buffalo says. “Care to buy a lady a drink?”
“Where do we get the lady?” Mike asks, always as smooth as good bourbon.
“Look no further,” the mustache says, and actually wiggles his hairy ass at me.
I hear Mike make a wretching sound beside me, and move to take action. “Um, we haven’t been here in years. Since when did they start hiring guys as bunnies?” I ask.
“Title IX buddy,” the mustache replies. “It’s not just for women’s athletics, you know?”
“Err, OK,” Mike says. “What’s with the blob here?”
“I prefer metabollicly challenged,” the brontosaurus says. “The American’s with disabilities act covers morbid obesity and ensures that I have the right to work here. Get enlightened gentlemen! Look around!” And with that the “bunnies” moved off.
Sure enough, Mike and I looked around and really took in the employee pool for the first time. There were midgets, crossdressers, siamese twins, amputees, malformed faces, and people in wheelchairs. The only person not represented among the “bunnies” was hot women. We started to back up towards the door.
“I wouldn’t do it fellas,” said a whispering voice. We turned to find an old man huddled over an oak table in the corner. “I tried leaving once like you all. The freaks all came to my house the next morning and screamed about enlightenment in my front yard until every neighbor on my street was sure I hated all the handicapped, crossdressers, and retards on the planet. To this day no one talks to me. My advice would be to go get a beer or three. Pretend to enjoy yourself. Then leave at closing time.”
So we drank. And drank. Then drank a little more. With each one, we were SURE the bunnies would begin to look appealing. Short of that, we hoped for an alcohol induced coma to allow us the opportunity to escape.
Neither occurred of course. We got blitheringly drunk, pretended to have the time of our lives, puked our heads off in the surprisingly clean white porcelain of the club’s restroom then blacked out. Sunday morning we awoke, heads throbbing, in a king sized bed. Mike was spooning with the mustache, and I was tightly holding my Suzette. (see above)
This Saturday, Mike and I are going to watch M*A*S*H* reruns in my living room and drink water. If we feel really crazy, we’re going to go the library and check out books on Title IX and the Americans with Disabilities act. It’s time to write our Congressmen.
