When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong

Three straight nights of drinking. And while there are assorted small stories from this weekend - hanging out at the only strip club in America that had the New Hampshire debates on a projection screen, earning a bottle of Parrot Bay from Defi for using my Jew magic on the Steelers, losing a game of pool to a one-armed kid - I'll focus on last night's events. Er, main event, I guess you could call it.

I'm at my regular spot, chilling in the DJ booth with my man Poppa, the DJ/manager for the night. The club's doing pretty good business.

There are about a half-dozen girls in the house. One, whom I'll call Weave, is a light-skinned, obnoxious loudmouth sista who everyone hates but is tolerated cuz guys spend ridiculous amounts of money when she's around. Don't ask me why; I generally wanna crack her in the head with nearest heavy object. Another, whom I'll call Butterface, has the perfect "skinny white girl with fake boobs" frame, but her face ... well, you get it.

Butter's on stage. A female patron who was arguably hotter than any of the dancers gets up there with her, and they're getting their freak on. Guys are dumping money on'em, Poppa's giving the play by play from the booth and I'm thinking I picked a pretty good night to hang out.

Then Weave heads for the stage, which is a major faux pas; unless the girl on the pole invites you, you don't come up cuz you just get in the way of her money.

Poppa's on the mic like, "Weave. WEAVE. WEAVE!" She just dead ignores him and walks up there, sticks a bill in Butter's garter and then BLAOW! slaps her ass. Butter, to her credit, just rolled with it. Weave gets down, and it was pretty obvious some guy had given her loot to go up there and get her slap on.

And here's where the ringside seats pay off.

Butter's set ends as Weave is strolling back to the bathroom. Butter literally leaps offstage in these high heels - I have no idea how she didn't break an ankle - and bumrushes her, titties out and e'rything. I grab Poppa like, yo, son, you gon' have a situation. So he busts in the ladies bathroom and splits up the argument. Weave heads back to the dressing room and Butter comes up to the DJ booth to get dressed and vent.

Weave, God bless her, is too obnoxious and self-centered for her own good, so she comes back out to the booth to talk to Butter and apologize. Butter's like, hey, if you let people slap you on the ass, great, but I don't get down like that. Weave's trying to justify the whole thing and is like, you don't let people slap your ass? Like the woman's weird for not letting strange men leave handprints on her asspiece.

Butter says, look, just get out of my face. This is when I take my cue and move over to the far side of the booth and tell Poppa he might have to get his game face on again. I see Weave put her beer down like, what did you say to me? Poppa's a step slow and gets there right as Butter lands a wicked right cross on Weave, and then it's motherf***ing ON.

Butter charges Weave, knocking them both out the booth, and since Poppa's got an arm in between them, he gets dragged out too. (Please understand, P's gotta be 6'2, 290. He's not a small gentleman.) Butter is going Tonya Harding on Weave, who's valiantly proving the old adage that loudmouths are generally all bark and no bite. Punch, slap, scream ... and then London bridges falling down.

All three of them tumble to the floor in a heap. Rusty, the manager, tries to run over and help separate them as they all roll around and get tangled up and an entire bar full of people watches in either A) horror or B) solid-gold amusement.

Now, I wouldn't even SIT on that floor if you paid me money to, let alone roll around on it, I don't care if there's four boobs in my face or not. I also wasn't about to help Poppa because A) it's not my job and B) I was looking for a camera.

Finally, the two women are separated, one carted to the dressing room and one to the business office. Weave is fuming cuz she got in trouble - "I am 30 years old, I have two kids ... I am too old for this sh*t" - and Butter's looking at a skinned knee that I was guessing was going to fall off in the next five minutes because she burned it on the club carpet, which is probably where the Ebola virus was first spawned.

Meanwhile, Poppa's back behind the deck going, "I can't believe I just got my ass kicked"; I told him he went down like Kimo van Oelhoffen hit him.

Final tally, Butter 1, Weave 0, with the additional bonus that Weave got kicked out and may get banned from working there.

Best part? IT WAS ONLY 7:30 PM. That's how the night STARTED. I was only on my first or second drink. Consider that I ended up not going to bed til 5:30 am after a night filled with Swiss businessmen, $3,000 credit card cash advances, discussions of the fellatio skills of Eastern European women - with an Eastern European woman, and a frigging Big Gulp of Dr. Pepper and Crown Royal.

Sunday nights be crack-a-lackin', yo.