On August 18th, 24-year-old Tommy Salter decided to celebrate his college graduation at the Fort Walton Beach, FL strip club, Club 10. From all appearaces it was quite the party.

Tommy was in good spirits.

$53,000 worth of spirits (and club cash) to be exact.

As irresponsible children do, Tommy called American Express to cancel the charges. AmEx sided with the club.

Tommy then asked his father, Joe Salter, for help. However, instead of chastising young Tommy for irresponsibly spending $53,000 in a tawdry topless bar, the senior Salter assists in suing the strip club, and having them investigated for fraud and forgery, in addition to larceny.

Investigation showed that $39,000 in charges came after the 4AM last call, however, each of those receipts were signed, and itemized bills were initialed, by the younger Salter. His father, of course, says that those signatures and initials are just “scribbles,” and that since they were signed after last call, it proves that Club 10 was illegally selling alcohol after last call.

Any rational, thinking person would be skeptical of that. The club’s policy is that any bottle of champagne (priced between $150 and $2000) requires a separate receipt, and most people do pay at last call. However, even with that, the club has gone out of its way, even offering to refund those $39,000 in charges which came after 4AM.

I suppose it just hasn’t sunk in with dear ol’ dad that Tommy Boy was smashed and is trying his damndest to get out of paying his bills.

Can you say “Buyer’s Remorse,” boys and girls?

I knew you could.

Of course, by Fuzzy Little Foreigner, I am referring to me and the fact that I went on a 10 day trip in Germany.  I went on strike and didn’t shave my legs (I know TMI) until the night before I came home.  Can you say Woooolie-Boooooger?

I never realized eating in a forgein country would be so damn difficult.

First, I am the second pickiest eater you will ever meet in your life, behind my step-son… he’d have starved to death.

Ok, being the typical American tourist type, not to mention a closed minded, livin in the box kinda girl, I never realized that Chinese people that run a chinese restaurant in Germany wouldn’t speak English.  It was odd to me that they spoke Chinese and German. But, the place was across the street from our hotel, and smelled really, really good.

Won-Ton Soup: #3 on the menu.
Mini-Spring Roll:  #2 on the menu.
Cashew Chicken:  #42 on the menu.

Best Won-Ton Soup I ever have consumed… EVER.

Since I am afraid of anything ending in -wurst or-snitzel, I steered clear of tradtional German food.  God forbid I pork-peniswurst or something like that.  It’s not like I can translate German to English very well.

We were in Pforzheim the first several days, so, we ate Chinese food at the same place on Sunday and Monday nights.

The Tuesday night, we switched off for some Itatlian. The spinich manacotti was yum and the wine was a-flowin.

The Wednesday night, we were gonna give the Brazilian place a crack, but I wussed out, paid for my beer and ran away.  The couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t figure out anything but shrimp from the Brazilian/German menu and I don’t do shrimp.  So, we ended up back at the Chinese place again, where we were greeted with..”Hello. You wanta Coka Light and Hotta Tea, yes?”

With a sweet smile I tell her, “Of course and can we have the same table by the window?”

I know she had to be thinking… Crazy American bitch won’t eat anything.

Then we went to Hannover…

Thursday night we ate food from the hotel bar, which is always tasty with beer.

Friday night, we had another awesome Italian dinner with the owner of my company.

Then to Munich…

Saturday night, I finally broke down.  Mom took me to a Beer Garten (pub) in Munich.  Oktoberfest was over, but you couldn’t tell it by the guy on the table who had a bucket on his head and was leading the whole place in a sing-along.
After several pints of some delicious brew, I was starting to pack a nice buzz.
So, I broke down and ate stewed steak smothered in roasted onions (DAYUM!!) and potatoes. 

The beer was the best ever though. It didn’t have that watery as piss taste to it.

Sunday night, we found us another Chinese place. It was pretty tasty too.

So, I guess I totally blew the opportunity to expand my culinary palate… NOT!

I do know one thing for shizzly: Germany  has the corner on the ice cream market.  It was grub, and I had my fair share.

Mark already did the big announcement about the deed. And I’ve been so unfortunately busy in the last month and a half that I’ve barely had time to think. Anyhoo. Here would be some of the photographic evidence that girls do go wild indeed. Just don’t go telling anybody. For the record, I was extremely well behaved and used the sexy little bouncer for all of my stunts.

Ahh, ya gotta love a bunch of Pirate Chicks along with those who come along for the Pirate Chick ride. Ya just do. They never let a special event go by without celebrating with cake and alcohol.

Becky and Natalie decided that come hell or high water there should be a bachelorette party the week before the wedding.

It was a beautiful evening, not too hot, not too cold. We all met up at Hooters for dinner and a drink. It was nice. Our little waitresses were super sweet, although I must say, I honestly thought I’d see more tits and ass. Not that they weren’t precious in their little Hooters gear, they were. But my 14 year old neice has more boobie and butt than these poor girls had.

Meet Ashley and Felicia:

The Hot boneless chicken tenders were tasty as all hell, my lips were nice and tingly for a while though. The girls decided to get me a cute little shirt to commemorate the joyous occassion.

In general, Hooters doesn’t see many bachelorette parties, but they do get hoards of bachelor parties… So, they improvised and got the Bachelor Party Shirt and turned into a Bachelorette Party shirt that all the little girls in tight Hooter’s shirts signed with loves n kisses.

We decided that it was time to continue on and move the festivities to Coyote Joe where Natalie and Holly had decorated and made it look like a scene from a slasher flick with the “Wild Girls- Caution” tape.

They adorned Diva with a princess tiara which boldly stated that I am indeed the Bride to Be… and if there was any question left due to the tiara being hiddeny by my hair which was erect like a hard penis, then the big Bride to Be button aptly placed between my breasts certainly gave it away.

So, we go in and invade the corner lot of CJ, nothing different there.

Olga made a real honest to God rum cake. It was a Jolly Roger, cuz she knows how we pirates roll.

We love the booty, especially rum laced booty.

Precious came and gave me congratulations lovins when she brought the multitude of drinks over.

It was time to have a little fun. We had games on tap, and honestly, watching them set up the Pin the Bow-Tie on the Bachelor was more fun than playing it.

Amanda gave the poster a hard on when she licked it from thigh to belly-button.

And Steph gave our bachelor a nice sized penis to look at…

Onward and upward we go. We had Do the Dare Cards. I mean the name alone implies that there will be some mischief going on. Let the photographic evidence be known!!

I need to state that, I, as the bride to be, didn’t do anything extreme. On the contrary, I was very well behaved. Four of the six cards I drew from the deck were completed by our sweetheart of a bouncer. God bless you, sugar!

Diva’s cards dared her to:

• get the bouncer to laugh for 100 points. Done!
• get a hunk to give her a neck massage. Done!
• get the phone number of a hot guy. Done!
• get a man to show you a hidden tattoo. Done! (It was on his upper thigh)
• get the bartender to give you a free drink. Done!
• find a guy, grab his ass, and tell him he has a nice ass. Done! (Twice!)

(Steph was witness. Two guys, two butts, double points!)

Here are some photos of the festivities! Enjoy!

Shawna found a baldguy & kissed him on top of his head:

Natalie and Amanda took the cake when they talked one of the big biker boys out of his drawers.

     Back at the end of 80’s, when my hair was halfway down my back and I was playing in a Thrash Metal band (we said it was Power Metal — but let’s be honest), I was having a great time.  All 5’9, around 170 pounds of me could walk up on stage and play any instrument that needed to be played — of course, that was limited to guitar, bass and drums at the time.  My voice was a solid octave and a half deeper than what it is now.  I could sing bass and baritone like nobody’s business, with booming volume that would rattle our drummers cymbals even before the mic was turned on.

     Off-stage was a different story.  Nobody could understand a damn thing I said back then, as my voice was so deep that it simply faded off into the background, only to be heard by animals, those odd people who get sick before an impending earthquake, and people who were so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal.

     We traveled around quite a bit, and just had a good time with it.  We made enough money to keep ourselves in cigarettes, food, alcohol, hotel rooms and gas for the truck and van, and pretty much the only thing we had to worry about was how we were going to be treated when we got to our next stop.  In most places, people were pretty cool, but there were certainly a few towns where there might’ve been six whole teeth in the lynch mob walking towards us at the gas station or restaurant we’d stopped at.
     One night in particular, we’d driven out of Jacksonville, North Carolina driving towards Virginia Beach.  Instead of taking the interstate like a normal human being, Michael led us through every curve of US17, through rural North Carolina at 2AM.  “It’ll be easier!” he assured us on the walkie-talkie.
     Of course, if you’ve ever seen the movie This is Spinal Tap, you know it never is.

     Around 3AM, in heavy fog in the middle of nowhere, the van had flat tire.  We all pulled to the side of the road, and all five of our long-haired, dumb-punk asses got out to watch, assist, smoke cigarettes and generally complain.  Dave and Jeremy, instead of holding the flashlights where Michael could see what he was doing, began having a lightsaber duel with the flashlights in the fog.  I had one of my typical “bad feelings” that I used to get, and started urging everyone to get serious so we could get back on the road.
     “Man, chill out!” Dave urged.  “It’ll be fine!”
     Shortly after he said it, we heard a noise that sounded like a pack of wild indians.
     “What the Hell was that?” Michael asked, just before banging his knuckles on the concrete due to a slightly stripped lug nut.
     “Probably some birds or something,” Chris said, completely uninterested as he held the third flashlight where Michael could see.
     Then we heard it again, along with a mechanical noise that sounded exactly like a clutch-slipping on a big, red truck with a gun rack in the back window.  From behind us, down the road, the lights kept getting closer, and the whooping and hollering got louder and louder.
     “Oh, shit, Michael!” I exclaimed.  “Hurry the f$&* up, man!”
     Without a word, Michael furiously pulled off the damaged tire and handed it to Chris, who quickly replaced it with another from the back of the van.
     The whooping got louder and louder, the lights closer.
     We all stood silent, watching, waiting.  We were all nervous.

     As Michael was tightening the first lug nut, they were on us.  It was, in fact, a big, old, beat up, red-and-primer truck, three people in the front and three standing in the bed holding on to the top of the cab screaming like a bunch of wild indians.  They passed us silently, all of them peering at us like they’d never seen human beings before.
     We all breathed a sigh of relief until we looked ahead, and saw the truck put on its break lights — and started backing up.
     “Michael, hurry up, dude!” Dave exclaimed.
     In a fever, he quickly finger-tightened the remaining nuts and began spinning the speed wrench as fast as he could.
     We all stood around Michael as they pulled up, still silent, still looking straight at us with looks of disbelief on their faces.  The three in the back of the truck jumped out, shirtless with overalls, and the passenger door of their truck swung wide with a loud creak.
     “Ya’ll ain’ frum ‘roun’ heeyah, ah ya?” said the biggest one, who looked like he could’ve picked the van up without the jack.
     “Uhhh, no sir,” I stammered.  “We’re driving through on the way to Virginia Beach.”
     He looked back at his five friends, quietly at first, then turned back around shaking his head as they all began to snicker.  “Ya’ll shu’ got lawng hayur!” he said.  They all began to laugh.
     We blinked back at them, holding our implements of destruction close.  My knife was ready to flip from my pocket and Michael held the speed wrench as Dave, Chris and Jeremy clutched their Maglights.
     “Ya’ll in a bayund?” he asked.
     “Yes, sir, we are,” I told him.
     “Wail,” he started, turning around to look at his friends, grinning and snickering a bit.  “Why dincha jus’ say so?  Sheeyit!”
     They all laughed.
     “Yawnt any help with’at tar?” another asked.
     Relief!

     We stood around and talked for a few minutes with them.  They were cool people, out drinking a bit and “raisin’ some hail!”  They offered some assistance getting everything back in the van, asked if we liked Metallica or Megadeth better, and even tossed us all a beer right there on the side of the road.
     Eventually, after having a beer with ’em and acting like idiots for a while, we offered our thanks, said our goodbyes, got our mini-caravan back togther and continued on to Virginia Beach.

     It was funny… There we were, with our long hair, worrying about people judging us for it all the time.  When six people in a beat-up truck drove by in the middle of rural North Carolina, we were doing the same damn thing.

     Good people are getting harder and harder to come by these days. 

     I mean, hey, they didn’t even have a problem hearing my deep voice.

     Just goes to show, you really can’t judge a book by its cover… 

     Even the ones who are so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal.  😉

We had just sat down to have our mid-day bread breaking when a good-old boy, who apparently either can’t read or just doesn’t give a shit about the no-soliciting sign on the door cruised in.  I figure it’s the latter, as it is posted on our door in plain sight where one would grab the handle and pull the door.

So, there we are.  I wish my delicious Chicken Caesar Salad and  OG with her ethinic beet soup.  We are about to give thanks and partake, when this asshole walks in.

“Did you miss me?”  He asks as he swaggers our way, booty in hand.

“Uh, no.  It’s been about a year though,”  OG says.

He sets his goods, dozens of long stem roses (which were mighty pretty to be sure) on our lunch table.

“Remember how much they are?”  He winks at OG as she was the one who actually paid notice to his punk ass interupting our bread breaking.

“No,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter.  We don’t want any anyway.”

Then I chime in, “You can donate some for my bachelorette party tonight.”

Of which he offers congrats, but ignores the donation request… dick.

“Well, you could buy some to toss at your stripper,” he says, trying to appeal to my wild side.

“I ain’t got no stripper lined up, dude!”  I reply, aghast that he would even dream up that sales pitch.

“Mother or mother-in-law you could get some for?” he’s getting desparate.

So I decide to go in for the kill.

“Look guy, I’ll be completely honest. I’m not buying any because I am saving every penny to get balls out drunk tonight and if I buy your roses… that, my friend, will cut into my drinking budget.”

Have a great desert day, pal.