By Monica Alonzo
By Ray Stern
By New Times Staff
By Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Robrt L. Pela
Chuey the Rock 'n' Roll Midget, a.k.a. "The Satanic Hispanic," scrambles to the middle of the Wheel of Fortune-like board as fast as his little sawed-off legs will carry him and rips down an 8-by-10 pic of tonight's "secret square," missing-and-presumed-dead Alabama hottie Natalee Holloway. The four-foot-three, 180-pound horndog then places Holloway's smiling face over his groin and starts humping it like a bulldog in heat.
"Hey, Cap'n," Chuey calls over to Giligin's proprietor "Cap'n Mike" Field. "Think those Aruban dudes didher like this?"
A chorus of groans and guffaws ensues, then Cap'n Mike announces a "Find Natalee Holloway" contest, with the person who locates a hidden Holloway pic under his or her chair winning "five whole Giligin's dollars" to be spent in-house.
Other secret squares past and present include Terri Schiavo, John Wayne Gacy, Jesus Christ, the recently deceased Don Knotts, and erstwhile Man of Steel Christopher Reeve. Reeve's photo usually draws this joke from Chuey:
"Hey, Cap, know what's the opposite of Christopher Reeve? Christopher Walken."
That's not as bad as some of Chuey's other un-P.C. quips, like when a night starts out slow, and he says, "Jesus, it's like Rosa Parks in here. Dead." When he takes a stab at Field's Jewishness, "Know what made Hitler cry, Cap'n? He finally got the gas bill." Or when he announces to some fellow Latino that, "I love Jesus, I mean Hay-zus. He mows my lawn every Saturday."
No one is spared, no holy heifer goes ungrilled during Giligin's Wheel of Fear Factor Wednesday nights (festivities begin at 10), where a rowdy crowd of knuckle-draggers, college kids and Snottsdale wenches assembles to watch drunks, dillweeds and the occasional dime spin the big wheel and try to solve word puzzles that'd give Pat Sajak a grand mal seizure, like "Finger My Furburger Until I Pee" or "Jizz Up My Smelly Twat U Fuck Bag." This while ingesting everything from whole cans of dog food and bowls of beef bile to plates of giant Thai roaches and mayonnaise cupcakes laced with wig hair. The contestants in this wack-ass Howard Stern Show come to life are vying for the grand prize, a keg of beer. And in the process, Cap'n Mike and Chuey do their demented best to persuade the gals to doff their tops and the dudes to blow chunks into the tall trash can set center stage.
In general, players spin a flat roulette wheel labeled "100 points," "500 points," etc. A few sections are inscribed "Fear Factor," and should you land on one of these, you have the option of noshing something rank for mega-points, or pussying out and losing a turn at picking a consonant or a vowel and possibly figuring out the puzzle after Chuey's finished playing pintsize Vanna White. The Cap'n normally offers squalies the chance to bare their jumblies for up to 10,000 points, unless they're really old, ugly or flat-chested. A point total of 10,000 is enough to net a kegger if you win, and it's a hell of a lot more than the 3,000 points you'll get for sucking back a humongo horseradish milkshake or chowing down on a pile of crickets, all while Cap'n Mike and Chuey make guttural noises that sound like the first stages of the heaves. Sadly for the Jettster and me, no bimbette has ever taken the bait while we've been present, though according to everyone we've talked to, it's been known to happen.
"What's the matter with these dumb bitches?" wonders the Jettster, annoyed as yet another chick refuses to reveal her tits. "Let me play, Kreme. I'll show 'em my funbags!"
"Easy there, kemosabe," I tell the PHX's switch-hittin' Stacy Keibler. "Your job is to snap pics, not unsnap your bra strap. Besides, I'm playing in the next round. That's agreed."
"Whatever," she harrumphs. "As long as I get a chance to check out Chuey's churro. I wanna see if big things come in small packages."
If it ain't exactly Skin Cabaret up in the G-spot here, as we like to call Giligin's, there are plenty of Joe Rogan-esque shenanigans, like the dude who had to drink the juice from a douche fresh out of the package, or the old fart forced to don "sensory deprivation" goggles and attempt the "seven mystery shots," a series that includes crap like Vietnamese fish sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and melted butter, only to end up with a set of verdant choppers when he knocks back what seems to be the easiest one, a highball of pure green food coloring. Then there was this Mexican cat, dubbed "Guns and Nachos" by Chuey, who braved "the ring of fire" (code for a pint glass of jalapeño juice), and some red food coloring, only to spew it all up after getting halfway through a bowl of crickets. Most folks don't win anything, but every participant at least gets a twisted "Ladmo bag" filled with toys and candy, and labeled things like "Pee in Your Butt Bag" and "Knuckles Deep Bag."
Best of all was this gay guy Eric, who just stumbled in blotto from BS West and ended up a big winner, taking home the keg and a cardboard box filled with bottles of booze after munching out on a plate of steamed duck embryos, several cockroaches, black thousand-year-old eggs from China, and edible beef bile -- reputedly the one thing that always makes a contestant spew a rainbow shower. Eric didn't gag, though, maybe because "he's had worse things in his mouth," the Cap'n proclaimed. The high point came when Eric had to don bunny ears and eat dog food out of a bowl on the floor as Chuey made fart noises into the mic.
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