Scandalous Whores, Name That Tune and NYC

I just got back from a day or two in New York, where I was doing some last-minute research for this awesome mobile phone app I’m developing with my friend J.R. I came up with the idea for the app years ago, but it took me this long to find someone interested in helping me bring it to market. JR is just the kind of eccentric nut for the project, so he helped me form an LLC and get the ball rolling on the R&D – part of which involved us going to New York City and stumbling around Manhattan like a couple of half-baked idiot tourists. Country comes to town! We spent all day yesterday going from one tourist hotspot to another, boozing and taking notes, and I sprinkled a few Wonderhussy stickers around town for good measure. And, just to make sure those East-Coasters knew what hit them, I made sure to shake things up a little with a good-old-fashioned earthquake. OK, I didn’t cause the quake…but I definitely enjoyed hearing the locals freak out; I’m from California, and have been through a real quake or two. That was nothing!

But anyway, J.R. is lucky I’m even talking to him, after what he did to me last week back in Vegas! Let me tell you about it.

I spent most of the week attending to business with JR – we had to open a business account for our LLC (I’m the President, he’s the Secretary, LOL), and then we went out to celebrate our partnership and the one-year anniversary of our meeting each other (I met him at a Bob Dylan concert, where I was attempting to take souvenir photos of a roomful of grouchy old hippies). As mentioned, JR has an eye for the ladies…and when we first met, he was interested in becoming my sugar daddy. But I prefer to remain just good friends with him – I’m not into having a sugar daddy these days, and it’s a real bummer, because J.R. would be a great one!

But our friendship was sorely tested when he revealed to me the truth of what happened when we went to dinner with those skanks last Monday night. To recap: J.R., who is constitutionally unable to pass by a slutty bimbo without chatting her up and tipping her $100, had befriended a pretty blonde bartender down at the NASCAR race in Daytona named Bobbi Jo. He brought Bobbi Jo to Vegas so she could visit her ex-Hooters-coworker, a well-known local Playboy Playmate/party girl/hot mess named Skanki Sue, and all four of us ended up going out to dinner at an extremely pretentious restaurant at the Cosmopolitan.

After dinner, drinks and gambling, the plan was to go over to some doucher nightclub where Skanki Sue’s famous friend Lulu Hefbanger was hosting some party. Lulu Hefbanger is a former Playmate and reality TV star – in fact, she currently has her own show on E!, and none other than Skanki Sue herself has a supporting role on the show.

 

I thought it would be fun to go over and party with Lulu, but as the hour grew later and the vibes I got from Skanki and Bobbi Jo got chillier and finally became downright hostile, I decided to bail early and just go home to bed. And it’s a good thing I did! JR later told me that while we were all sitting at the blackjack table, Skanki and Bobbi went to the bathroom together…and then when Bobbi Jo came back, she whispered in his ear that they wanted him to come party with them, but that first he would have to get rid of me – because “[Skanki] hates the bitch!”

Well, that was no real surprise – all through dinner I had been trying to make polite conversation, but after I brought up Skanki’s hair extensions (not on purpose, I swear) you could tell she didn’t like me, and did her damnedest to exclude me from the conversation. All through dinner, Bobbi Jo and her sat giggling and whispering and flirting with JR, while I just sat there getting sloshed and depressed as JR catered to their every whim (he spent $1100 on champagne alone trying to impress these brainless whores).

Well, JR was really in a bind – he’s always going on about how I’m his best friend in the whole wide world, and I know him better than anyone (many’s the time I’ve sat and listened to his litany of problems for hours on end, and remember, I tied off the skin tag on his asscrack…so I guess I’ve earned that title) – but on the other hand, an incorrigible flirt and ladies’ man like him could hardly turn down the opportunity to party with the legendary Lulu Hefbanger! Luckily for him, I didn’t test his mettle by trying to come along – I bowed out on my own, without even knowing I wasn’t welcome. It would have been interesting to see JR handle the situation if I had wanted to come along!

As it happened, he shoved a bunch of casino chips at me out of guilt and put me in a cab home…then turned around and booked a hot pink stretch Hummer limo to take his bitchy new friends out on the town. First they headed over to one of the big strip clubs in town, where Skanki Sue got (more) sloshed and started yelling “I WANT DRUGS! I WANT DRUGS!” until she got tired of the dancers hogging all the attention away from her and her fish-lipped, wall-eyed antics. Then they piled back in the Hummer and went over to a certain super-mega-ultra-douchebag-filled nightclub where Lulu Hefbanger and her retinue of sycophants and douchebags were partying onstage in a sort of royal VIP area, and thanks to Skanki’s influence they were able to get in and drink and party with the in crowd (these girls remind me of the movie Heathers…or Mean Girls. Or Jizz-Faced Bukkake Whores VII, for that matter). JR had a fine time partying late into the night with those idiots, and all he had to show for it were some bruises on his arms and chest where they bit him in the taxi on the ride home. Those girls were animals! 

Then all the next day – and the rest of the week, in fact – they kept texting and sexting him with obscene photos and videos of them partying naked in their suite at the Cosmopolitan. Skanki had on a strap-on, and stuck something up her ass in one of the videos (he showed me, but I couldn’t quite make it out), and then when the poor room service attendant came to bring them more alcohol, she threatened to throw a vase off the balcony unless he shotgunned a beer…which he did, with a sort of defeated air of humiliation (and that’s why it sucks to work in the service industry). I’m here to tell you, that woman is a hot mess. I guarantee she’ll be dead by 40…she even confided to J.R. that she can’t stop “shitting and puking” due to an unfortunate laxative addiction. Wow!

Anyway, the next morning JR felt terrible about what had happened, and confessed everything to me later that night – in addition to “hating” me, Skanki also apparently kept making fun of my poufy hair behind my back. (Side note: what is it with people and my hair?! I swear, I’ll be walking down the street and random strangers will yell at me: “The ‘80s called! They want their hair back!!” Why so angry, assholes? If I want to wear my hair big and puffy, I don’t see the harm in it…you don’t see me walking down the street yelling at strangers “The trailer park called and they want their cellulite back!” Get a life, assholes!!) Anyway, J.R. didn’t defend me…he just kept his mouth shut and went along with those crazy bitches. It’s a sad day when even my “good friend” sells me down the river just for the chance to swill overpriced vodka in the company of a fat-assed bleached-blonde whose only claim to fame is sucking off an 80-year-old pornographer. Oh, well!

To make up for his Judas turn, J.R. took me down to the Imperial Palace to see “Name That Tune” a couple days later. A tranny friend of mine had tipped me off to the fact that they had just started hosting a live version of the old game show in the showroom over there, and for the price of a ticket you get the chance to play…and potentially win $10,000! J.R. and I are karaoke FIENDS, so I figured between the two of us, someone would win some cash. To that end, J.R. got us tickets right down front, and I wore an extra-obnoxious outfit to make sure the producers spotted me and picked me to play.  I also made sure to swig a Mai Tai or two, just to get the old cerebrospinal fluids flowing freely.

Sure enough, my plan worked like a charm! The way the show works is, they pick 5 groups of ten people out of the audience, and the two winners from each group go on to play each other in Round 2. The hard part is getting them to call your name up in the first place, which thankfully they did for me in the second group. I won my heat easily, and then faced off in Round Two against a bunch of hardcore nerdy music fanboys, who were desperate to win the cash. But I showed them how it’s really done, and smoked them all in about 2 seconds. Then it was on to Round Three — the final five contestants. Whoever won this round was going to the final, and have the chance to win the $10,000 grand prize…so the competition was intense.

Well, I smoked everyone in that round, too (I do have extensive gameshow experience, having been on Jeopardy!, Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and American Idol). By now, J.R. was dying laughing, hooting and hollering in the audience. He had played in one of the earlier heats, but had lost out to some loser fanboy, and the gameshow host (who was totally amused by us) asked him “Don’t you ever beat her?” to which J.R., in his inimitable Southern style, drawled “Hell yeah, I beat ‘er all the time… at home!” At that, the mic was taken away from him and he was quickly ushered to his seat.

So now it was just me onstage with the hosts, Zowie Bowie and Marley Taylor, and the pressure was really on. I had 60 seconds to correctly identify 15 songs, and if successful, there was a glass box full of $10,000 cash waiting for me. I knocked out the first two songs in 5 seconds, but the third one threw me for a loop — it had one of those sappy, cheesy ballad-type intros…but I wasn’t quite sure which sappy, cheesy ballad it was. I made the mistake of glancing out into the audience, where I noted that all the fanny-packers were flapping their granny-wings and mouthing “Wind Beneath My Wiiiiiings!!”

Now, I had already gotten a similar question wrong one time at Pub Quiz, so I knew how treacherous these schmaltzy ballad intros can be — they all sound alike. It might just as well have been “From A Distance” or “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before” — they’re virtually identical.

But time was ticking  away on the oversized novelty stopwatch onstage, so I knew I better answer quick. I had one “pass” at my disposal, and also one “Ask the Audience…” so I decided that since the audience were all yelling the same thing, I might as well make it official and ask them.

The host passed the mic to several fanny-packing baby-boomers, and they all swore up and down it was “Wind Beneath My Wings.” So, despite having heavy misgivings (I did toil away taking souvenir photos at the Bette Midler show for 2 years, so I know something from that miserable yenta’s schlock)…I went along with the audience.

WRONG!

I KNEW IT! Lesson learned: never trust a room full of drunken fanny-packing Baby Boomers. D’oh!! Because of their faulty memories, I let an acrylic case full of $10,000 in cold, hard cash slip through my fingers. Waah-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah 🙁

Oh, well — at least I got out my frustration by flipping off the entire showroom: “Thanks for nothing, guys!” I sneered, waving my middle finger at the indignant, be-visored piles of intoxicated, quivering flesh staring up at me in shock and horror. Serves them right!! The song turned out to be some kinda of yee-haw schmaltz-fest by Wynonna Judd — which J.R. definitely should have known, being as he’s from Nashville and obsessed with country music and all. But whatevs!

It took me a good 20 minutes to get over coming that close to winning $10,000…but I did, telling myself that it was more about the fun and spectacle than about the money. Which it really is…in a way. But in another, more realistic way…it would have been sweet to win $10,000 cash. That’s a lot of shoes!

Anyhoo, I still had fun, and I wholeheartedly endorse going to see “Name That Tune,” weekdays at 3pm in the Imperial Palace showroom. If you’re lucky, my tranny friend will be working that day, and she’ll come over and take your souvenir photo! But even if that doesn’t happen…there’s still a lot of fun to be had at the I.P. Aside from their excellent Mai Tais, they also have a fabulous “Dealertainer” pit, where you can play blackjack as dealt by “Marilyn Monroe,” “Elvis” or even my good friend Chris, aka “Alice Cooper.” I love that guy — he’s a hoot!!

Anyway,  that was my week. How was yours?!

About wonderhussy

I am a foul-mouthed, flat-chested bon vivant and adventuress who likes to curse, drink, smoke and run around nude, and I refuse to kow-tow to the bourgeois moral code of the day. I’ve lived in Vegas over ten years, and have a few stories to tell. I roll around town in a truck stocked with a Breathalyzer and a swizzle stick, a spare pair of panties and two stun guns. Don’t fuck with me!
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2 Responses to Scandalous Whores, Name That Tune and NYC

  1. Admiralllll says:

    Were you really on “Jeopardy!?” If so, RESPECT. I’ve been trying to get past the online test for a long time but have never qualified. I even took the test back in the day when you had to go to a soundstage filled with pompous know-it-alls and the test was 50 questions on paper. I used to regularly watch “Jeopardy!” in the 70’s with my mom when I came home for lunch and recently it was kind of a ritual to watch in the half hour before the 7:30 start of events at my Hammer Museum job. My great film school chum Jerome Vered is a “Jeopardy!” superstar who was one of the final two challengers to Ken Jennings in the “Ultimate Tournament of Champions” and recently represented the 80’s in “The Battle of the Decades.” Sometimes I join Jerome at his weekly pub quiz where another player is the guy who actually beat Ken Jennings.

  2. wonderhussy says:

    OMG yeah, that test is REALLY hard! It was the paper version when I took it, too. Keep trying, eventually you’ll get on! Especially if you keep hanging out with those brainiacs at pub quiz…….lol!

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