As a traditionalist, who am I to forgo my induction into this pop culture Hall of Shame? So when presented with the opportunity to participate in my first wet t-shirt contest, I was just drunk enough and young enough not to turn it down. Never mind it was the opposite of springtime, and I was in some Star Wars bar in the Bay Area filled with action figures, instead of a beach polluted with half-naked, tan dudes. Fuck it, nothing a few more shots couldn't take care of.
|My wet t-shirt contest looked eerily similar to this, but this pic is courtesy of tourwa.com.au|
So there I was, onstage in front of a crowd of men that left a lot to be desired and a handful of my brother's friends (the ones who stayed behind after my brother left in disgust when I took the stage), sizing up my competition and feeling pretty good about myself, until I noticed… HER. The fucking bar had brought in a goddamn ringer - some pro (probably off Broadway in SF) - complete with her own bodyguard (pimp). I mean… C'MON! She had fuck-me-pumps that could spear olives and I had on Converse. Who wears heels like that out on a Wednesday? So, that dumb bitch won.
Fun Fact: like most contests of this nature, the show was video-taped - recorded for posterity - so that in the event I ever become famous or have children, it will be exhumed from the depths of God-knows-where for all to see. Something to look forward to.