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Hangover Helper

So I roll up on the Jettster's crib to pick her up for another night of pimpin' in tha PHX, and I find her parked on the couch in her raggedy jammies, eating a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and watching The Real World: Austin.

"Hey, Kreme," she mutters, scratching her backside after opening the door for me and resuming her position in front of the tube. "I'm not ready yet."

"Oh, you're ready -- 'bout ready to get fired," I growl. "Didn't we say we'd leave at 10 so we could hit Mickey's Hangover before 10:30?"

"Yeah," she replies, peepers Krazy Glued to the idiot box. "But I've gotta finish watching The Real World. My roommate TiVo'd it for me."

"Listen, beeahtch," I tell her. "Be ready in 10 minutes, or you'll be watching The Real World with my foot in your ass. Anyway, there's just as much drama over at Mickey's as there is with those seven dorks in Austin."

Reluctantly, the J-unit rises to comply. But as she switches from PJs to her hoochie-mama ho-stroll uniform, I wonder if the producers of MTV's hit series have ever visited Scottsdale, and especially Mickey's at 4312 North Brown Avenue, near Fifth Avenue and Drinkwater Boulevard. Every night at that place, with its That '70s Show decor, its sea of mismatched, thrift-store couches and chairs, and its cast of characters -- skeezers, hotties, male sluts, bikers, rockers, millionaire wanna-bes and assorted dipsomaniacs -- could easily match all the pseudo-action on that Gen Y General Hospital. For nearly five years, Mickey's has been Snottsdale's grungy standby, the place you can go when your cleanest shirt sports a mustard stain. The spot where you can suck face with that cheezy bit of tail you met over at Martini Ranch, and no one will pay any attention to you. The bar where every dude's Johnny Knoxville in a Schlitz tee shirt and every chica's Jessica Simpson in Daisy Dukes, at least in their minds' eyes.

It's Mickey's Wednesday night special that the J-girl and I are locked on like a laser beam: $2 you-call-its, save for the primo hooch. See, the bi-Taryn Manning and I are all about stretching that per diem out like Mr. Fantastic, ya feel me? Of course, we'd hit the Mickey Way before, but for whatever reason, never wrote it up. So tonight's the night to finally take a bite out of that funky candy bar, and with Jett dressed and the Impala revved, it's a matter of minutes before we're parking the whip in Mickey's lot, strollin' through the front patio crowded with picnic tables and couches, and into the bar to snag a pint of Stella Artois pour moi, and a vodka-cranberry for the Jettster.

Almost immediately, we strike up a confabulation with these three studs, named Boot, Andy and Randy. Boot's a chubby cat with a beard. Andy's tall with shaggy hair. Randy's a bit shorter, thin, wearing a pro-lezbo tee of two chicks holding hands. Apparently, the boys are out celebrating the fact that randy Randy engaged in some ménage à trois action the night before.

"I had a threesome with these two hot girls," brags The Randy One. "I saw this tee shirt in the mall today and I had to buy it in honor of the occasion."

"Tell us how you swung the three-way, Ran-day," purrs Jett.

"It was easy. I was drunk. They were drunk, and they invited me to go swimming with them."

"Sweet," says the Jettster, suitably impressed. "Game recognizes game. But for the sake of El Gordo here, tell us what a man must do to satisfy two women at one go."

"The key is you have to get really drunk so you can fuck all night," relates Raunchy Randy. "Because it does take a long time."

"Don't bathe," I tell him. "The scent will attract other chicks."

"I haven't," Randy confides. We smell what he means.

Seems like Randy and Jett are about to leave in search of another ho, when the bearded Boot changes the subject, and informs us that both Andy and Randy are in almost-famous bands. Andy's the guitarist for My Darling Murder (www.mydarlingmurder.com), and Randy's the lead singer for a band called Rosebud.

We decide to leave these playas be and roam about the place, eventually ending back on the patio, where we meet three hella-fine ladies enjoying libations at one of the picnic tables: Cheryl, Nicole and Sarah. Nicole's a cute brunette, but she's with boyfriend and disappears quickly. Cheryl and Sarah, on the other hand, are up to no good, and ready to take full advantage of the $2 you-call-its, Cheryl with buckets of sex on the beach and Sarah with her amaretto sours. Jett and Sarah know each other from somewhere and are soon yammering away, while Cheryl and I conversate. Cheryl's probably the hottest lady in Mickey's tonight, a tall, statuesque blonde with a pretty face. She's incredibly down-to-earth and friendly.

 

"Are you a model?" I have to ask. "You certainly have the looks for it."

"No, I'm a bartender/server at the Hilton, but thanks, though," she says, smiling. "I've got to be up at six o'clock to do the server part of my job, for breakfast. I guess I'll just have to be hung over tomorrow."

"Are you from Scottsdale?" I inquire.

"Chicago originally, but I've been out here since I was 9."

"With your looks, guys must approach you all the time," I comment. "You must have to beat 'em off with a stick."

"No, not really," she responds. "Maybe they're intimidated by my height. I'm like 5'10". Taller with heels."

"You probably want a tall guy, right? Someone who can at least look you eye-to-eye."

"Well, I would like to wear heels when I go out . . . ," she trails off, as if considering her potential Mr. Right. Then starts back in, "I don't want to have someone telling me not to wear heels."

Although I don't meet the height requirements, I could talk with Cheryl all night, she's so pleasant, but of course, there's a hole in the J-unit's glass, so we have to hop back inside for refills. At the bar, we bump into these motorcycle dudes wearing do-rags named Ron and Joey. We ask them what kind of bikes they ride.

"Mine's a custom, made out in California by this company named Ultra," says Ron, who's sportin' a clean-cut Vandyke-like beard.

"It's a piece of shit, and breaks down all the time," chimes in Joey, he with longer ZZ Top-style facial hair.

"It's fast, though," answers Ron.

"Good luck if it starts," snarks Joey. "Mine doesn't break down, and doesn't leak!"

"What do you ride, Joey?" queries the Jettster.

"I ride a '96 all-tail custom Springer front end, Dyna Glide horse, chromed all the way down." Joey continues in cycle-speak for another minute or two, and since we're both dumb-asses when it comes to bikes, we figure the polite thing to say is "Cool," when he's finished.

"You guys in a bike club?" I ask.

"Nah, we ride solo," says Joey. "I'm in a band, though. Autumn's End. Check us out at www.autumnsend.com."

"What kind of music?" questions the J-unit.

"Metal," Joey answers. "Arizona metal. None of this Poison/Bon Jovi/Mötley Crüe bullshit. All original. No covers. I play drums. We've got a full-length, self-titled CD, and we're starting to record our next album this Friday, probably for a 2006 release."

We wish Joey luck with the new album, and scoot over to this nearby couch where we rub up next to the attractive trio of Catherine, Matt and Carol. Catherine just moved down to the Zona after graduating from Colorado State University, and Matt recently wrapped up a degree at ASU. But most interesting is Carol, not for what she does (she's a server part time at Bloom while pursuing an ASU sheepskin), but for what she is, an identical twin. Carol's a blonde, who's easy on the eyes, so of course this sparks the imagination of my wanton cohort.

"My twin's name is Karen; she works for Bebe in the [Scottsdale Fashion Square] mall, and she's also going to school," Carol explains. "Her hair's a little longer than mine, but some people who don't know us very well say they can't tell us apart."

"You guys ever date the same person?" asks Jett, panting audibly.

"No, that's where we have different tastes," confides Carol. "For instance, my boyfriend right now is tall and thin and blond. And hers is, like, shorter, with dark hair, and older."

"Well, you know, twins are a big sexual fantasy for lots of people," remarks Jett, leering.

"Tell me about it! She's not here tonight, but whenever we go out together, we get the whole three-way thing raised," snorts Carol. "I'm like, 'Just because we're twins doesn't mean we like incest, thank you very much!' Sex with your sister? That's disgusting."

"You'll have to forgive Jett here," I say. "You know, they've just named a tequila after her: Sauza Hornitos."

Jett rises in a huff and vanishes into the chicks' toilet, and I'm left outside, near this oil painting of Elvis, where I engage aspiring entrepreneur Trent Larson, owner of the newly conceived Phat Racks Barbecue. Larson's biz will be housed in a big pink truck that will move around to clubs and events. At each stop, girls with "phat racks" (you know, top-heavy, in tight tees) will serve up sauce-slathered swine.

 

"I'm 24, and I used to be a chef for a local barbecue restaurant," he tells me. "Now I want to put Hooters out of business. My logo's gonna be a big-tittied girl pig in an apron jumpin' out of a grill. I'm gonna have all-girl servers. It's gonna be great!"

"Admittedly, it sounds terrific," I remark, glancing at the door to the women's room as Jett emerges. "But believe me, buddy, supervising chicks is no joke. 'Cause no matter who's supposed to be in charge, they're always running the show."


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