From: peakay@ix.netcom.com (peakay)
Subject: assc: the birth of an asscer
Date: Tue, 02 Dec 1997 21:56:29 GMT



hey andy, let me see your i.d. aww shit man, that says you are 26, you

barely look 13. nobody is going to believe that one.



shoot gary, it's the best i could do. i just hope they don't look too

close. what does yours look like paul?



mine? it says i'm 19 man. it's my brothers. lifted it from his wallet

this morning. hope i can get it back before he notices it's missing,

or i'm gonna have to deal with his crap for a while.



there we were, three kids during the summer between our junior and

senior years in highschool trying to predict whether or not we were

going to be able to get into a topless bar. at 17 years old, hormones

raging, and one good drunk under our belts, we were ready for the big

time, tits and alcohol, under the same roof. our destination was the

42nd street show bar. it's exact location to be determined through a

journey through east dearborn michigan by our lusty heroes, intent on

discovery.



we shouldn't have worried too much about our id's. after a half an

hours discussion in the parking lot about whether or not we should

have our id's in hand, ready for the expected scrutiny of some eagle

eyed security team, or to just be cool, and walk in like we owned the

joint, we decided on cool, and daring. as i said, we needn't have

worried. the blind old man at the door, took one look at us, winked,

smiled, and waved us in.



we gaped, and goggled as our eyes adjusted to the dimly lit smoky

interior, for there before us on a stage elevated, and behind the bar,

was the grail for which we had sworn solemn oaths to seek. well

actually there were two of them. and they were attached to a body that

none of us actually saw. by god, there were real tits over there. 



we took a table away from everybody else, for fear that we might be

rcognized by the lowlifes inhabiting this den of thieves, and as we

tittered to ourselves about actually seeing tits, i felt a tap on my

shoulder. i turned to see who could possibly be intruding on our

little good time, to be confronted by the largest breasts i had ever

laid my eyes on, outside of playboy magazine, and they were asking me

what i wanted to drink.



to be sure, they were only the second pair of breasts i had ever seen,

as long as you don't count playboy, and that one time i saw my sister

while we were camping. i was stupefied. i babbled incoherently for a

moment, while i goggled intently at what was before my incredulous

eyes. thank heaven for gary, who had the incredible good sense to

order a round of singapore slings, saving me from having to say

anything intelligible for the time being.



the round was bought and paid for, and our waitress, gave us each a

short wooden stick, about six inches long, with a small wooden ball

firmly attached to one end.



what are these?



knockers.



what are they for?



well, ... you see, ... you ... ummm, well when the, ... uhh, you

figure it out.



ok, thanks.



we soon found out what we were supposed to do with the knockers.

instead of clapping, the other patrons, well at least one other

patron, tapped his table with it, at the end of each song. nobody

clapped to show their appreciation of the artistic interpretation the

woman on stage rendered. they knocked their knockers. well, when in

rome ...



another round of singapore slings, and we were getting into this. our

waitress was now on stage, and the previous dancer was now serving

drinks. all the dancer/waitresses were always topless, and seemed no

more self concious about it, than would a 3 year old at the beach. we

decided it was time for a better view of the entertainment. we moved

to the bar. we each found additional knockers. we each had another

singapore sling. we each thought we were better drummers than keith

moon. we formed a three man (boy) percussion section at the bar. the

dancers smiled. that was all we needed for encouragement. we were

good.



after another round of singapore slings, three broken glasses, and a

broken ashtray (they don't make musical instruments the way they used

too), the bartender was no longer amused with the buddy rich triplets.

our evening was coming to a close. our first trip to a tittie bar was

a smashing success. only one of us got sick, and we managed to get his

head out the car window before any permanent damage was done to gary's

mom's dodge dart. a quick trip to the quarte car wash, and we were

good to go.



it is now over 25 years later. i still like going to tittie bars. at

my 25th highschool reunion, i may just have to see if andy and gary

want to have a singapore sling at the playhouse.



i just wish they gave out knockers