Jerks of the Week - Jan. 2, 2012

Jerks of the Week for Jan. 2, 2012


JERK OF THE WEEK: Jerks of Parx Casino

I spent most of my New Year's Eve two years ago at Parx Casino, a new place that opened up around the corner from my house.

I was excited to gamble all of my money away that night, but I never had the chance. All Parx had were slot machines. Even worse, it had only one bar, so I had to wait 30 minutes in line just for one stinking drink. My friends and I left Parx right after midnight, and I vowed never to set foot in that wretched place ever again.

OK, so I lied.

It's not my fault though. My friend Adrienne's birthday was four weeks ago. About a dozen people were set to go out for it, and Adrienne initially chose to go to Brady's, a hotel bar that also happens to be around the corner from me. I had never heard of it, but since I was on my fourth beer, I suggested, "Hmm... Tom Brady is a great quarterback, so Brady's must great bar. It's going to be awesome!"

Tom Brady? More like Ian Brady. The place was dead. There were maybe five people in there, all of whom were 45 or older. Well, not counting the weirdos outside. There were about four dudes in their mid-20s who arrived just as we did. The leader of that group tried to strike a conversation with the girls in our group, but failed epically.

Weirdo Leader: Why are you leaving!?

Random Girl: It's dead in there.

Weirdo Leader: So... uhh... where you guys from?

Random Girl: Philly!

Weirdo Leader: So... uhh... where you guys going?

Random Girl: Another bar!

Weirdo Leader completely struck out and was about to get demoted until Adrienne told him to meet us at Parx Casino. And just like that, my anti-Parx promise was broken.

I'd like to apologize to all of you for going back on my word. But the birthday girl wanted to go there, so I had no choice but to oblige. And besides, I'd surely find a number of jerks there, right?


1. Jerks of the Actual Casino

Parx has improved in the past two years. There are some tables now. There's a racebook. They even have a section reserved for high-rollers. I peered inside, and saw nothing but shady-looking Asian dudes wearing sun glasses sitting around a poker table.

Poker's fun, but there's no way I was getting involved in that. Everyone knows that Asians are renowned for three things: scoring high on math tests, producing chicks with great bodies, and using their crazy mind-control superpowers to win at card games and video games. So, thanks, but no thanks, strange Asians - I will not surrender my hard-earned money to you.

There were only a few high-rolling Asians at Parx though. There were also some hot chicks in skimpy outfits, which was nice. But most of the people there were zombies.

It's pretty depressing actually. There are thousands of slot machines in Parx, and about 80 percent of them were occupied by people who brainlessly kept pushing buttons and pulling levers over and over again. I looked into their eyes, and they just appeared soulless. These people were just sitting there, wasting their life away, oblivious to everything that was going on around them. Excluding themselves, only one thing existed in life - their precious slot machine.

I have the urge to set up an experiment one day. I want to collect as much dog poop as possible, and start dumping it on the people who play the slot machines all evening at Parx. What percentage of them would even flinch? I guarantee at least half of them would just continue to stare at the bright lights, pushing buttons and pulling levers when needed.

So, if dog poop wouldn't work, what would? How about unleashing ferocious beasts like lions, grizzly bears or Rosie O'Donnell in Parx? How would these mindless lost souls react if a grizzly bear or Rosie were biting off their arm?

Rosie O'Donnell: ME LIKE TO EAT ARM NOM NOM NOM NOM!!!

Mindless Slot Player: Must... use... other... arm... to... push... button...

Rosie O'Donnell: ME WILL EAT OTHER ARM NOM NOM NOM NOM!!!

Mindless Slot Player: Must... use... legs... to... pull... lever...

I guarantee that at least a third of the Parx patrons would react this way. I'd try this, but I wouldn't Rosie to devour an arm of my own in the process. Someone more daring will have to attempt this experiment.

2. Jersey Shore Waiter

There's a restaurant chain called Chickie & Pete's here in Philadelphia. They're famous for their awesome crab fries. There's a Chickie & Pete's at Parx, and Adrienne wanted to go there first. I had no objection to that. A fat man like myself needs his weekly dosage of crab fries NOM NOM NOM NOM. Sorry, I was just pulling a Rosie and taking a bite out of my own arm. With all this talk about crab fries, I got too excited.

There were attractive waitresses and hot hostesses at Chickie & Pete's, but of course, we had to get the table with the one dude waiter. And this wasn't some ordinary guy - he was straight out of the Jersey Shore. No lie, five minutes after he took our orders, he came back and started being obnoxious...

Jersey Shore Waiter: Who gonna get this party started y'aaaalllll!?!?!?

Group: Ehh...

Jersey Shore Waiter: Eh yo, who wanna do shots!? Who wanna do shots!?!?!?

Adrienne: I'll do a shot since it's my birthday.

Jersey Shore Waiter: Eh yo, birthday girl up in hereeee wooooo!!!!

Val: I'll do a shot too.

Polina: Yeah me too.

Jersey Shore Waiter: She's doin' shots, she's doin' shots, everyone doin' shots!!!!

Jersey Shore Waiter suddenly noticed that I hadn't declared that I wanted to do a shot. I hate doing shots because it makes me sick. I used to drink rum straight while pre-gaming at Penn State because it was an efficient and cheap way to get drunk. One spring day during my sixth year, I took my first shot of rum for the night, and I had to puke instantly. It's like my body was saying, "Walt, stop f***ing me up. No more of this!"

I've wanted to gag every time I've had a shot of any sort since, so I definitely was not doing one. Jersey Shore Waiter was not pleased about this.

Jersey Shore Waiter: Eh yo, you doin' a shot, eh yo?

Me: Nah, it's cool.

Jersey Shore Waiter: All the ladies doin' shots but why you not doin' a shot, eh yo!?

Me: I don't want a damn shot!

Jersey Shore Waiter gave up and stopped harassing me. Thank God. I was scared I was about to catch an STD by just speaking to him.


3. Bra Sizes

I don't know how we started talking about bra sizes. I think Jess, my friend who volunteered to find me a wife because she wants to see "Little Walters" running around, asked me what bra size I'd like my future wife to have.

This was an important question - much more significant than intelligence level and personality type. I thought carefully and answered...

Me: They don't have to be too big, but not small either.

Jess: So, like a B?

Me: Yeah, B or B-minus.

Jess: B-minus? What is B-minus?

I barely have any clue how the bra size system works, but the one thing I do know is that the bigger the breasts are, the worse letter grade. This makes sense, since the chicks who got D's in high school were the ones with the D's on their chest. Am I right?

What gets me is the number associated with the letter. Like, I'll hear 36-DD, or 32-C. I've never understood what the numbers meant. Is it better if it's a higher number, or is it like golf and the lower figure is the more desired one? It's so confusing; I don't know how people understand this system. I expressed my frustration to Jess...

Me: B-minus is the letter worse than B. The worse the letter grade, the larger the breasts. So, like C-plus would be a bit bigger than B-minus, and then C is larger than C-plus.

Jess: I don't get it.

Me: It's like school. If there's a smart girl, she gets an A on her test, but her A boobs don't get her anywhere in life. If a chick fails all her classes, that's a good thing because her F jugs will get her a star role on many pornos. Wait, are there F bra sizes?

Jess: Yeah...

Me: Whoa. F is too big though. The B-minus sounded fine. I want a wife with an 80 B-minus bra size.

Jess: Eighty!?

Me: Yeah. If I asked for a C-plus, then the number would be 78 or 79, right? So, an 80 is a B-minus. Unless there's a curve of some kind I don't know about.

Jess: That's not how it works. The numbers are usually in the 30s.

Me: Why? It doesn't make sense to have arbitrary numbers in the 30s. If you get a 30 on a test, you don't get an A.

Jess: An A? What are you talking about? The number has to do with the length around the body.

Me: Oh... well, I still feel like it's wrong. They probably forgot to multiply by Pi or something to get the circumference. Yeah, that makes sense. So like, if someone's a 32-A in real life, you have to multiply 32 by 3.14 to get the real number.

Jess: Pi? What?

Me: Yeah, because you find the circumference by multiplying 2PiR. They have the 2R, but not the Pi. They forgot the Pi!

Jess: Wow, you're really drunk, aren't you?

Me: What? How'd you know?

I definitely was pretty drunk at the moment, but I did remember the entire conversation, and now that I'm sober, it makes more sense than ever.

If someone working for Victoria's Secret is reading this, please feel free to multiply your sizes by Pi. I won't ask for any royalties. I just want to make the world a better and more sensible place.

4. Three-Sixty

There's a dance club at Parx called Three-Sixty. Adrienne wanted to go there after I was done devouring all the crab fries at Chickie & Pete's.

We all walked over to Three-Sixty - there were about eight of us remaining at this point - and while everyone was paying the $10 cover charge, I noticed a blatantly racist sign:



No colors? What is this, 1950? What would Martin Luther King Jr. say if he saw this? No hats is understandable. No beach attire? Damn it. But no colors? Someone alert the NAACP, quickly!

I quickly brought this to everyone's attention, and Jess snapped a picture of it. My sister then approached the woman at the front desk. I wasn't there for it, but here's how it went down:

Sister: What does that sign mean, "no colors?"

Woman: It means no gang colors. What did you think, that we don't let colored people in?

Yeah. I did. Never mind, everyone! Don't alert the NCAAP! Don't dig up MLK's corpse! False alarm!

There were actually plenty of black people in Three-Sixty, so they weren't bothered by the sign like I was. There was this creepy black dude leering at all the chicks (I wanted to high-five him) and they even started doing the "Dougie." I didn't know what the hell this was at the time, so when the DJ announced, "Everyone do the Dougie!" I asked, "Who the hell is Dougie?"

I'm still not really sure what that is, or whom that dance is named after, by the way. I'm going to assume Doug Collins, the head coach of the Philadelphia 76ers. He's the most famous Doug I know.

Anyway, the leering black dude wasn't the biggest creeper at Three-Sixty. It was this big white dude with a shaved head and a giant gold cross around his neck. He was standing in the middle of the dance floor talking to someone who looked like Jersey Shore Waiter.

They spoke to each other for what seemed like 20 minutes. They looked like the dumbest people alive, so I can only imagine how their conversation went...

Gold Cross Man: Eh yo... eh yo?

Jersey Shore Club Guy: Haha, eh yo... eh yo...

Gold Cross Man: Eh yo! Haha, eh yo... eh yo... huh?

Jersey Shore Club Guy: Eh yo... haha, eh yo... huh? Eh yo?

Fortunately, the club closed down before they and the creepy black dude could stab random people.


5. Wawa Penis Man

We left Three-Sixty, but a couple of girls went to the bathroom, so I was waiting with a few other people right outside the club.

I was pretty drunk at that point, but I remember some dude yelling crazy things into his phone next to us. I forgot to text myself what he was saying, so I later asked Jess if she remembered what he was shouting because she happened to be standing next to me at the time.

Me: Hey, do you remember what the weirdo on the phone was saying after we left Three-Sixty?

Jess: I remember no weirdo on the phone outside of Three-Sixty. Are you talking about Wawa Penis Man?

Me: Wawa Penis Man? Who's that?

Jess: I thought I told you. The following night, we all went out, and afterward, I overheard this guy in the Wawa parking lot.

Me: What'd he say?

Jess: When I came out from Wawa, there was a guy sitting in his truck, and all I heard from him was, "I don't understand the problem. You knew my penis was only four inches erect."

I forgot to ask Jess if she got a good look at him, but I already have a pretty good idea. If it wasn't one of the shady, high-rolling Asians from Parx, then I know absolutely nothing.