Ranting by Dolomite
Hello loyal readers. Dolomite has just gotten back from a wonderful trip to our neighbors to the north. For those of you who have not had any geography in a while, I am talking aboot Canada, ay. Okay, so I have no canuck blood in me and have as much right to write their quirky accent as I do to speak it to the border guards (which, by the way, is not a great idea to do). My brother, the drunken wonder, and myself went to Canada a few weekends ago for some gambling, strippers and a lot of booze. We took a couple pals from our poker gang with us. Together, our happy foursome packed ourselves into my brothers compact sedan and drove off onto an adventure.
Well, the whole adventure idea wore off in about fifteen minutes when my legs cramped in the backseat. After a brief stretch and some rearrangement of seating, we were off again. We had a Mapquest printout guiding us to the promised land (Niagra Falls). While we had been there a few times before, it had been a while and we did not feel like getting lost. The printout estimated about two hours to our hotel. We might have made it if not for the hour wait at customs and the horrible directions once past the border.
Before leaving the search station, my brother asked the security officer for directions to the street we needed to get to. She waved a few hands this way and that and told us landmarks that we were half-sure didn’t exist the last time we were up here. The directions from Mapquest were much more understandable at that point in time. All we had to do was get to Falls Ave. Take it for .7 miles and veer left when it turns into Murray Street. We get onto Falls Ave. Thirty minutes later we have passed the Falls, every car on the street, and civilization. I swear, we managed to find ourselves on an actual dirt road and stopped in at a diner to ask for directions to the hotel. The local laughed in my brother’s face (which we would have done in his position too actually) and told us what street to go on and how far to go. Ten minutes later, we were back in Niagra Falls and trying to find the parking lot of our hotel.
It was now nearly eight at night and we had yet to have any alcohol. We decided to gamble now, before our judgment goes on us. Hey, considering some of the girls I thought were cute after twelve beers, I do not want to play poker while plastered out of my gourd and focusing on staying on the chair. This part of the story is a little boring. Suffice it to say, old Dolomite ended up forty dollars ahead while everyone else lost their gambling money.
Trading my winnings in for the monopoly money these canucks call dollars, we headed off for the bars. From one dirt bar to another (really, there were only two) we went, soaking up a few cheap beers and local color. Destitute and horny, we decided to try our hand and finding the strip club we ventured to last time. After an hour of searching, we decided to just grab a case and a few bottles and travel back to the motel for a sad end to the evening. Unfortunately, the state store (or whatever they call them there) had just closed. Ouch. But an oasis glowed over the hill. Strangely, it was labeled The Backstage. It had a live band that evening and looked every bit for a jazz club.
Now, we were a little hesitant here. We had already had two strikes so far in the evening as far as bars were concerned (or four if you decide to count the strip club and state store). The idea of paying an entrance fee for a jazz band was not an idea that we were very willing to attempt. However, between the offering of alcohol, the biting cold wind, and a transvestite hooker waving us over from across the street, the bar did have a certain appeal to it.
The band was not to start until midnight. We were early enough to not have to pay a fee. That was the good news. The bad news was there was next to no tail in the bar and there was no tap. My brother, the genius at work, decided to buy a couple 12-packs and head back for the hotel. However, the drummer of the band came over to get a few cokes for the band. Now, normally the drummer of a band does not matter. I hate to admit it, because I know drummers, but the band does not depend upon the identity of the drummer, merely the existence of one somewhere (except cases like Rush). But one of Dolomite’s huge turn-ons is a hot female drummer. And this was definitely one of those. She was about five-eleven and had sort brown hair with a spot of white right above the left eye. She had a smoking body and a very nice voice. Plus the bonus: she looked my way. Eye contact was established and I was not about to leave because my brother is too stubborn to let go of an idea.
Just before my brother can order, I jump in front of him and ask for four bottles of Blue and four shots of Jack. My brother gives me a look, I give him a nod back. He looks over to see the drummer’s ass fitting snuggly in her leather pants. Then he looks back to see her wink in one of our directions. He turns back, gives the thumbs up, and sits down to his drinks. We give a toast to my winnings and my decision to stay. Within minutes, I order another round. This one was Long Island Ice Teas. So were the next three that I bought.
We kept up the pace, the three of them drinking beers (except for the rounds I bought) and me drinking Long Islands. The band began playing and the drummer was good. The band played covers of the Doors, ZZ Top, eighties metal, KISS, and a bunch of other great rock bands. After about forty minutes of playing, the band decided to take a break. The drummer began to make her way over. I quickly downed my fifth shot of Jack and washed it down with my seventh Long Island. I do not need to describe the shape I was in. The drummer came sat over at the bar right next to me (I was the second stool from the end where the bartenders and waitress could get out of). She smiled at me. I may have tried to smile back at her. I was about to say something stupid (cause what else do you say after four beers, five shots of Jack, seven Long Islands, and a few White Russians?) when the waitress came over, gave the drummer a glass of juice and a kiss on the lips. Ouch. More so than closing of the state store.
We stayed a few more rounds. My brother was threatened to be thrown out by the bouncer simply because he threw up on the bathroom wall. We called a cab. As we left the bar, the band was playing again. We exited to “I Want to Rock ‘N Roll All Nite” and saw a hot dog vendor outside the doors. Hey, after all we had, a grilled hot dog sounded good. Didn’t taste good, both on the way down and on the taxi van as it left our hotel. We eventually made it to morning and back to the good old U.S.A., but that is a different story.
Dolomite
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Subject: Dolomite
Name: Unknown at present
E-mail: BKDolo10@aol.com
Age: CXXVI in dog years
Turn-Ons: Porn, Humor and good food
Turn-Offs: Bad Taste, Religious fanatics that go door-to-door, Idiots, Jerks, Prejudice (except against Catholics and the French)
Plans for Future: Become President, breed either flying cat or walking bat (bat + cat somehow), play golf drunk, masturbation |
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