THE SMOKE PIT

Before there was a Hooters there was The Smoke Pit with it's bikini-topped waitresses taking your orders as you sitting there not being able to help but eye their lovely features --- bulging cleavage and tight behinds --- as you ask for a chopped bbq sandwich and an ice cold beer.

And because the bar-be-que was as good as the waitresses looked you fully enjoyed your meal at this famous Fort Worth landmark, which has been in the same location since 1953.

At lunch time you see so many pickups in the parking lot and along the streets around The Smoke Pit you'd think it was a car lot too.

Inside it's like being at home, everyone's friendly, everyone's talking. A long bar runs along the place's east side so you can come in and drink beer if that's all you intend on doing. This fantastic, beat up old joint is simply a great place to have some good redneck food and look at beautiful women work their butts off.

So, please, go to The Smoke Pit and pass on the blah, blah, blah mainstream corporate franchise nonsense known as Hooters.

(Please click on the photo so you can see all the writing on the front of the building.)

MAY BE CRIP PUSSY

On a nondescript early Saturday morning a friend of mine, who comes over to get drunk with me each Friday night, left at 2:45 a.m. to go to a "massage" parlor on Cherry Lane near Mr. Jim's Pizza. He had called some girls from the back page ads in the FW WEEKLY before blowing them off --- the only one available was at a motel at Highway 360 and Lamar Street in Arlington and she wanted $175 bucks, with him saying, "I'm not driving all the way to Arlington." --- and decided to go to the massage parlor instead.

He told me earlier that a couple of weeks ago he went over to Fort Worth's east side, near Riverside Drive, and picked up a crack whore off the street and got a blow job from her and that after she was finished providing that service she insisted that he eat her out. He said he did it willingly.

"Black box," he called it.

He's a poet and I told him he should write a poem about his experience. He did so in his notebook full of angst and misery. After he finished writing it I threw it into my clothes that need washing basket and took this photograph because, as they say, it was dirty laundry.

Click on the photo of the poem to read it.

All night long, as he drank one Keystone Light after another, he kept saying, "I'm horny, man. I'm horny."

We were watching Skinamax.

After sobering up he left for the massage parlor, a place he said he'd been to a few times before, and that he would be back in an hour or so. When he returned he said the massage parlor was closed, which surprised him, and he instead drove across town to get head. He found another crack whore on the east side. Her location was on East Lancaster near the Presbyterian Night Shelter.

He said he paid her $40. "I coulda just paid her $20 but she could suck the chrome off a tail pipe." He said their encounter lasted a mere five minutes. I asked him if he'd seen any cops. "No. With this economic downturn they're not around much."