Stripper Bocce

My buddy Manscape introduced me to this game and I owe him mightily for it.  It is perhaps the greatest bar game ever invented.  We call it Stripper Bocce!

Those of you who aren’t familiar with regular bocce ball or lawn bowling (I know, I know, the two aren’t exactly the same, but for simple Midwestern drunkards like myself they’re close enough), the most simple way to explain the rules is this: You have a target and everyone tries to get their ball closest to the target.  This can be done either by throwing your own ball closest or by knocking your opponent’s ball away from the target.

Stripper Bocce takes this game out of the field and into everyone’s favorite place, the strip club!  Instead of balls, you throw wadded up one-dollar bills.  Your target is the stripper pole.  And the stripper?  Well, she’s part of the field of play.  If she kicks your perfectly thrown dollar bill across the stage, well, them’s the breaks.

The best way to play this game is with a lot of friends and a lot of alcohol.  Typically, each person gets one throw per performance (typically two songs, or 5-6 minutes), and then you pay the winner another dollar bill after each round.  So it costs you $2 for each round, but with the potential of winning a chunk of your money back when you win.

Now, you might think strippers would take offense at this game, but just remember, they’re getting paid!  All those bills you throw at them go into their pocket, and they aren’t even subjected to the typical sleazo strip club patron who insists on slipping the dollar into their thong while lewdly feeling them up.  So really, it’s a win-win for everyone.

A few tips I’ve learned in my short time playing this game:

-Wait til the back end of the stripper’s performance to make your throw.  The longer your bill is laying on the ground, the greater the chance the stripper will kick it out of play.

-Control your emotions.  We’re all competitive, we all like to win, and we all like to drink and hoot and holler with the guys.  But be careful.  When your perfectly placed dollar bill is inadvertently kicked away by a stripper doing the splits, it’s best not to gasp or scream or jump out of your chair like you’ve just seen a horror movie.  Strippers tend to think you’re reacting to them and might just freak out thinking there’s something wrong with their hoo-ha.

-Women are more than welcome to play Stripper Bocce, but I would highly recommend making special rules that they cannot befriend the strippers.  I’ve seen plenty of collusion, where the girls make friends with the strippers and encourage them to not-so-subtly kick the guys’ bills out of play and give an unfair advantage to the girls.

-While everybody loves a great strip bar, Stripper Bocce makes even shitty strip clubs worthwhile.  Let’s be honest, there are few things worse than a bad strip club (see my story Palm Springs- Where Strippers Go To Die), when you find yourself staring at girls that just shouldn’t be taking their clothes off for money (or taking their clothes off at all, ever).  But with the added excitement of gambling, even ugly strippers can become a source of entertainment!

-And lastly, if a stripper should happen to slip and fall on your dollar bill, run for the hills and never look back.

Enjoy!

Palm Springs– Where Strippers Go To Die

I have some family in the Palm Springs area so I used to go out there pretty often when I lived in San Diego.  My relatives there are cool as shit but they’re older (in their 70’s) and they aren’t exactly party people, so it’s usually just a quiet, relaxing couple of days in the desert; swimming with their dogs in the 110+ degree heat was about my only activity besides sitting around watching TV and catching up with family.  But one time when I was headed that way, good ol’ Tripod just happened to be out in the desert too.  He had all kinds of drama going on in his life and just wanted to get away from everything, so he got himself a motel room and drove out (yes, he can drive) by himself to spend a couple days in solitary.

Well, that shit went out the window once we both figured out our stays would overlap by one night.  We immediately decided to meet up and get royally fucked up in a strange town.

We started at a place called The Yard House to catch happy hour and Monday Night Football.  If you’ve never heard of The Yard House, it’s a chain of restaurants with an outrageous selection of beers on tap (usually well over 200).  They’re mostly located in Southern California but they’re slowly expanding nationwide.

The reason it’s called The Yard House is they used to sell yards of beer.  Well, as we discovered when we bellied up to the bar, they were discontinuing sales of the yard of beer.  Seems the giant glasses were just too cumbersome and they were getting so many broken it was turning into a money loser for them.  We had arrived during their last week of selling them, and they were even selling the glasses themselves to anyone that wanted to take one home.  But the cute bartender made sure to tell me they would still be selling half-yards of beer.

But I was offended by the whole thing.  “So,” I said condescendingly, “are you changing your name to The Half-Yard House?”

The cute bartender sneered at me.  “Yeah, I haven’t heard that one a million times.”

“I wasn’t saying it to be funny.”

So Tripod and I started drinking.  We actually stayed away from even the half-yards just because we wanted to sample a wide variety of their beers, so we just stuck with pints.  Lots and lots of pints.  I am not a beer connoisseur –I’m a hard alcohol guy all the way, vodka and gin are my staples of life— so the majority of my decisions were based on how cool the tap handles looked.  Tripod is a little more knowledgeable, but he’s hardly a beer snob either, so his choices weren’t a whole lot more educated.  So we basically turned it into a form of gambling; pick a tap handle that looked cool and order a pint without any other knowledge of the beer.  If we made a good pick we’d savor our choice, pretending like we knew what the fuck we were talking about –“Oh, this one has a really good hoppy flavor.”— and if we made a bad choice we’d chug it so we could roll the dice again.

But as the preseason football game got more and more boring, and as we chugged more and more drinks, we started harassing the snotty bartender.  I came up with the brilliant idea that, in honor of the death of the yard glasses, I should have a yard of Long Island Iced Tea.  Tripod thought this was a splendid idea.  For me, not for him.

I asked the bartender for one and she looked at me dumbfounded.  “No… I can’t… I can’t do that… No.  No!”

“Why not?”

“I just… No.  No.  I can’t do that.”

“What kind of bartender are you?  Ok, how about a half yard then?”

“You want a half yard of Long Island?  Do you know how strong those are?  No, I can’t… I just… No.”

Clearly it was time to find our way to another bar.

I had previously talked to my relative’s younger kids (by younger I mean in their late 40’s) and I thought I had a line on a decent spot.  The bar scene in Palm Springs is sketchy at best because of its huge concentration of retirees and gays, but they had assured me this would be a decent spot.

 

The place was called ROC’s Firehouse Grille.  And it did not disappoint.  No, it wasn’t hoppin’ like the hot spots in San Diego, but it was chill and relaxed with a good atmosphere, strong drinks, and attractive staff.  Our waitress in particular was a stunner.  I was in my mid- to late-20’s at that time, and this was my first legitimate encounter with a real life MILF.  She said she was 37; she didn’t look a day over 30.  She said she had a teenage kid, but her body showed zero signs of it.  She was tanned and blonde and had an amazing rack.

We started really pounding drinks at Firehouse.  The MILF waitress was flirting with us, upselling us to doubles, and we didn’t mind one little bit.  She somehow even talked us both into buying t-shirts, which I don’t think we actually put on right there at the bar to look like drunken retarded twins, but I can’t remember for certain.

Somewhere along the way, Tripod and I decided a strip club was in order.  So we asked our waitress, and she knew a spot.  Needed a little help from the bartender for exact directions, but she still knew it, which I found oddly arousing.  We invited her to come with us when she got off but she said she had to get home to her kid.  Too bad.  So Tripod and I stumbled out of the bar and drove off to find this strip club.

It took us about five tries to find the place, and not just because I was driving drunk.  The strip club was right off a major street, but at a point where the main road angled and became another street, so we couldn’t find the turn to save our lives.  Finally, after about five U-turns that could and should have landed me in jail, we finally found the place.

I wish we hadn’t.

It was the worst strip club I’ve ever seen in my life.  And I’ve seen a few.  First off, it should have been a sign that the place was almost deserted.  The only guys in the joint were bellied up to the bar chatting with the bartender; they were either friends with the bartender or dating the dancers, either way they were not what you would call paying customers.  But, not deterred, Tripod and I pulled up chairs right in front of the stage and readied our one dollar bills.

I’m not going to say all the strippers were ugly.  Some of them were almost tolerable.  But there were none that really should have been taking their clothes off for money.  I guess if you’re an average stripper and you work with hideous strippers it makes you appear better than you really are.  Tripod and I threw a couple dollars on the stage every once in awhile, more out of boredom and to amuse ourselves than to actually applaud a job well done.

And we kept drinking.

Finally, after I thought we’d seen the entire circuit of seven or eight girls working that night, one more girl came up on stage.  I won’t say she was hideous; hell, she probably wasn’t even the worst girl dancing that night.  But she sure wasn’t anything special.  She was the kind of girl that if you saw at the beach wearing the bikini she had on, you wouldn’t exactly be disgusted but you also wouldn’t give her a second glance.

It was boring.

So Tripod and I were barely even paying attention to her, just drinking our drinks and shootin’ the shit about whatever.  But remember, we were the only customers in the bar.  So we were not only this poor girl’s only potential source of revenue, but she was fully aware that we were utterly bored by her performance.

She took off her top and we still barely took notice.  We hadn’t thrown even a single dollar up on stage for her through the first song.  Finally, frustrated, she laid back on the stage, spread her legs, and slapped her thigh loud enough to get our attention.  Then, when she had our undivided attention, she rubbed her crotch over top of her bikini bottom and announced, “Seven dollar minimum if you wanna see my pussy.”

I looked at Tripod.

Tripod looked at me.

And I honestly don’t remember who said it first, but one of us said to the other, “I’m good.  You?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

I have never seen a stripper so angry.  She cursed and fumed and gathered her top and stormed off the stage, stomping her ridiculous stripper shoes as loudly as she could to make a scene.  Of course, there was nobody else there so it wasn’t much of a scene.

That made it all worth it.  The missed turns, the ugly strippers, the overpriced and watered down drinks, all of it.  One chubby stripper’s temper tantrum was all it took.

To this day, Tripod and I still resurrect that famous line most every time we’re drunk: “Seven dollars if you wanna see my pussy!”