A couple of NFL cheerleaders got caught having lesbian sex
in the restroom of a Tampa bar on Sunday morning.
According to the report, they were arrested after patrons waiting to use the facilities called the Police after it was discovered that the two were having a clam bake.
The idea of two lesbians going for it, in an intoxicated state on a filthy bar bathroom really doesn't do much for me.
As one who used to have to clean the female toilets in bars in the morning, I can tell you this much. Women have a completely new level of nasty going on in there.
You think everytime that door swings open and that fresh breeze of perfume and make-up that floats out is a sign that it's a feminine paradise in there? It's not.
Firstly, from my experience, women can't vomit straight. At least in the male toilet you only know from the odd stain on the side of the toilet, or a hint of smell. Women just let it all hang out when they're loaded, and that means they spray it everywhere.
Honestly, excluding the odd bush pig who us blokes enjoy drinking with because she is a challenge in an arm wrestle, most women can't vomit. It's all stumbling, trembling and tears as the gag reflex loses control.
At least men can stay on target all the way through it. There are even some of us amongst us who'll just stand up at the table and say, "Well boys- Gotta have a quick spew. Be right back."
For most women, it's a drama. I remember one time behind one particular bar, two young women came in, already half sloshed and full of beans.
"Give us a couple of pints and a couple of tequilas," says the one wearing a tight black skirt and a black top which defined "cleavage."
"Got any ID on you girls?" I ask after sizing them up and figuring that these two were most probably too young.
"ID?" the other questions incredulously. "ID? Where am I supposed to keep ID on this outfit?"
Looking her over I tended to agree with her. She was dressed much like the other one, except there was less and it was white. It's one of life's mysteries that a woman can walk down the street wearing close to nothing at all, but yet still be embarrassed if she answers the door to a stranger wearing nothing but a towel.
"Sorry girls. No card. No drinks. It's that simple," I said in a serious tone.
"You're not very nice," says the one with in black, as the other shoots me a look like I've just murdered her only baby.
"I'm not here to be nice. I'm here to serve drinks and not lose the license on this place. So you either get some ID, or you turn around and get out."
"You're so mean," says the other.
"There must be an echo in this place. I'm sure we've established that."
"Meanie," they both add as they delve into their purses.
Out it all comes. Mobile phones, tampons, tissues, keys, a pamphlet from a demonstration, a hundred photographs, a large giraffe and a grand piano.
It bothers me that astronomers spends so much time searching the universe for black holes, when right here on Earth, there is one attached to the inside of every handbag, on the shoulder of every woman on Earth.
Should I also mention that the male wallet, is proof alone that men really have got it going on? Everytime someone asks me for ID, I simply reach into my back pocket, pull out my wallet and flip it open.
"There," they say in unison, slamming their IDs down on the bar.
About that time I wondered whether during the Nazi period in Europe if many women were shot, purely because they got uppity with the SS guy with the sub-machine gun who asked simply for some identification.
"Your papers please," says the tall SS guard, with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
"You're so mean," says the German fraulein. "It'll take me forever to find them in this basket of mine."
"Your papers please Miss," the SS guard repeats.
"Don't 'Miss' me! I'm not going through this basket. There's so much in here."
Bang. Shot dead. If this world has taught me anything- It is this. When someone has a gun, it's a good idea to give him whatever he wants, and be very polite about it.
But I'll save that story for later. Back to the bar.
I examined their identifications and found that they were just over 18.
"No worries ladies. I'll get right on it," I say as they start shovelling their shit back into their handbags.
The night passed slowly. It was a quiet evening, so I had time to talk to some of the other customers. Leaning on the bar talking to one, he says to me, "Those two can't be of age. Did you see their ID?"
"Yep," I said.
"We might get to eighteen and be allowed to drink, but it doesn't mean we should. Take a look at the one in the black."
I looked down the bar to see the one in the black swaying gently in her chair, while her friend in white had her arm around her and was talking softly to her.
"How much they had Peemil?" the customer asks.
"About three pints and a few shots of tequila each," I reply.
"She's going to spew. I give her two minutes," the customer dares.
"Righto. You're on. Five pounds says she'll chuck in four," I say putting five pounds down on the bar.
From the end of the bar, I see the girl in white waving me over. I duly went.
"She's going to spew," she says.
"As long as she does it in the toilet, that won't be a problem," I reply.
"Can't you do anything?" the girl yells at me.
"What do you want me to do? I'm just the barkeeper. I'm not Chief of Holding Stupid Drunk Heads."
The one in the black raised her head, looked at me and through a cloud of tears and said.
"You're so mean."
These were her final words as she and her friend headed to the toilet in a stumbling, tearful mess.
From the bar, we could hear the heaving diaphragm of this girl, expelling the pints that she had just drunk.
I returned to the customer at the top of the bar.
"How long was that?" I asked.
"Just under two minutes."
"Fuck it!" I replied. "Stupid girls who can't hold their grog."
"Wouldn't want to be the one cleaning that up in the morning," the customer said.
Now back to that discussion about female bathrooms.
Secondly, what the fuck are they putting in the bin? Some of that stuff is just wrong. I'm not talking about the average sanitary pad here, I'm talking about stuff that just isn't of this world.
Thirdly, they can't aim when throwing toilet tissue in a bin. Even if they're sitting right next to it. At least men have the common sense to flush it, even when there is a sign saying not to.
I once had this discussion with a woman about flushing when the sign says not to. What I know about the practice is this. Flushing isn't going to back the toilet it up. The reason they ask you not to is so the City's sewers don't get crammed with paper.
But that isn't my problem. That is the City's problem.
The woman I was discussing this with, decided to play high and mighty and say, "It's just not good for the enviroment."
I don't know. Usually I consider my immediate environment, which means I can't see the point in saving one sewer drain, because I'd rather have shitty toilet paper everywhere.
Finally, what the hell is happening around the sink? I've seen some sinks and mirrors that look like a batallion of queer soldiers have paid a visit. Between the used tissue, thrown or lost lipsticks, marks on the mirror, shit in the sink and water and crap over the floor- It's an absolute battle zone.
And they complain about the toilet seat being up? Go figure.Above:
Doesn't the one on the left look like she's had too many punches in the face?