Rosie

I spent last weekend in Palm Springs playing baseball with friends. We checked into Tom Bodett’s finest, which wasn’t so fine after all. It seems he left the light on, but also left out the fact that freight trains rumble by every hour.

I asked the lad at the counter where a group of fine gentlemen like ourselves could find some fine ladies.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I’m not twenty-one yet.”

“Dude, I don’t care if you’re an eighteen-year-old blind Mormon. You need to know where single women hang out. This can’t be the first time a guest has asked you this, can it?”

“No. I get asked all the time. I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, no tip for me means no tip for you.”

I drew a line through that tip space on my credit card slip and my two pals and I hit the road in search of desert damsels. We found a sports bar and tipped (bribed) the bartender, asking where the single ladies might be.

“You guys need to go to Cougars.”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously. It’s up the road in Palm Desert and it’s exactly what you think it is.”

“Well, at fifty we’re certainly not their target demographic, but I’m always up for giggles. Let’s go.”

Cougars Bar & Nightclub was full of mirrors, lasers, fog, and packs of wild animals. The DJ was sixty with long hair and ball-tight jeans. The band was playing KC & The Sunshine Band. This was Phil-Heaven.

I settled next to one of my favorite specimens—a large, loud woman with lots of tattoos and a raspy potty mouth.

“Hi, boys, I’m Rosie. You fuckers obviously ain’t from ‘round here. Where’re ya from?”

“San Diego.”

“What brings ya out to these parts?”

“Baseball and fine ladies, such as yourself.”

“Aw, quit it, dickhead. [Punching me in the shoulder.] I just got done with a hard day’s work and I need a fucking beer.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a heavy equipment operator. You?”

“Ballerino.”

“Ha!”

I told my buddies that I was falling in love with this cuddle bear. I’d estimate her measurements to be 42-39-56—you could say she had it all. (Thank you, AC/DC.) I so wanted to arm-wrestle her and talk football.

“Tell you what. See those bitches across the bar? Those are my daughters. Let’s play a little game with them. Hey girls, it’s time for the ice game.”

We had no idea what she had in mind as the two girls pulled out their shirts, exposing their cleavages.

“OK, now each of you boys gets one ice cube. Whoever can toss it between one of their boobs gets a drink on me. You’re baseball players, so this should be easy.”

I intentionally threw mine five feet over their heads to avoid a lawsuit, but my pal Mark sunk a three-pointer. Actually, with the size of her cans it was about as difficult as hitting the side of a barn with a beach ball.

“Yay! You get a free drink. What’ll it be, partner?”

“How about a cosmopolitan?”

The bar went quiet.

“Just kidding. Rum and diet, please.”

“Mr. Bartender, one rum and diet for my man here. I’m goin’ outside for a smoke.”

She slapped me on the ass as she walked outside.

We continued the playful banter with Rosie. As immature man-beasts, we naturally discussed what it would take to bed such a woman. We agreed that it would be sexual bungee jumping, but none of us had the guts. It turns out Rosie was married after all. Phew! Some rides are too dangerous.