When Kyle and I set out to do this little project it was simply a place to see how stupid we sounded after nine or ten drinks. Never in a million or so jaded minutes would we ever think Jen, creator of the infamous Barfly, would ever invite us, the creators of such terms as "tripint ", "peenor", and "pooning of the moth " to a special bus tour aptly titled, Strip-o-rama IV. To refuse such an invite would be asshole and go against everything we believe in.

We knew this wouldn't be a tripint nor would it be a quint . This was going to be special. A group of 50 or so drunk-gazing eyes riding the yellow steely dan to witness the gyrating spectacle. Some would bounce, others would fall, but one thing was certain: the eyes would be hungry for the fleshy beasts.

Kyle and I have never done this sort of thing before. What was going to happen? A pre-planed fuck it ? Is it possible? How do you tame the logistical nightmare? Would three or four australian stippers circle us and herd us all domestically to the accordian bus door?

We arrived at Magic Gardens with two Rum and Cokes as well as a full flask of straight rum storming violently in the belly. Perhaps we were taming the nervous energies, but only a slight buzz had occured for us. We arrived to witness a Garden standard B cup trying desperatly to attract the attention of 50 or so men and women grouped in various cliques. Amazingly a couple of stools emptied before our eyes and we sat promptly to order our first Makey Make. We'd never met Jen before and knew she would be pretty consumed with her duties so we just checked out the scene. We had no idea who or what the fuck was getting on the bus, but we quickly realized everyone in the place was going.

The pungent smell of lime and bleach water began creeping into the olfactory so we decided to leave our post and see if we could find Jen. We made our way to the stripper to tip her psuedo sexual attention and then danced through the crowd toward the pool table. Before we could speak or even announce "ahhhhhh..." in a false falsetto, Jen announced her arrival and asked us all to sign in and get on the bus. "Nice," we said and made our way to the pen and paper.

After proper introductions and signage of the pappy we went outside to meet the yellow beast for the first time. There she was. Glistening in the low light of the neon sign parked the solid yellow, black striped Laidlaw. I remember her well. I've puked in her, I've had little crushes in her, I've sat in the back of her, climbed over her seats, shat in her, even farted in her. She was as beautiful as I remembered her except I could actually see over the seats. We sat in the middle as men and women found their comfort zones. The noise was a boom operator's nightmare. Multi-tonal conversation variables operating at the same time. Here we sat. Ready for an adventure. Little did we know what we were about to embark on. The great fuck it debacle. Or, how I learned to stop worrying about the boobs and order more makey make. Thank you, Jen.

To Be Continued...