When you're on the road doing stand-up comedy, there usually aren't many things for you to do. Typically, you get into a city on a Friday morning, and the first thing you do is three or four radio interviews with morning DJs named after animals (Dr. Camel, The Bear) or crazy muppets (Gonzo). Then you do your two shows at 8pm and 10pm that night, you're done by midnight, and you crash. You sleep for 12 hours, do three shows Saturday at 7pm, 9pm, and midnight; done by 2am, crash, and sleep for 12 hours again.

On Sunday, any ambition to do anything constructive (work on screenplays, pitches, or jokes) has gone to shit, and you go see a movie. Finally, you do the Sunday 8pm show, and you're done. Usually you fly home or to your next destination the following morning. Usually, it's just sleep and work and fly. Sometimes, though, you finish your weekend with a drink, or an encounter.

A couple of weekends ago, I finished nine months of touring. I was doing stand-up, doing publicity for Kickin' It Old Skool, and shooting a pilot for FOX all at the same time. When I was done, I wanted a lil reprieve. I decided that the set of shows I had booked at the Palm Beach Improv would be my last for a while.

Keep in mind, the Palm Beach Improv is NOT in Palm Beach, where there are mansions the size of Aaron Spelling's. It is in West Palm Beach, where there are flying cockroaches called Palmettos. The valet at the Marriott swore to me that one of them flew off with his mother and took her to Cuba. I decided that a small town like West Palm was the best place for me to sit and vegetate for a few days while I contemplated my existence.

I convinced Bill Dawes, my opener, to stay with me. He said okay because he didn't have anything to do until that following Wednesday. For three days, we either sat around or took in all the sights West Palm Beach had to offer. We went to the Cheesecake Factory, the movies, the arcade, Starbucks, Tommy Bahamas, Starbucks again, Borders, Linens 'n Things, and Nine West. Basically, we went to a strip mall.

At Pizza City, our last fine dining spot of the week, I gorged myself on chicken Parmesan until I felt like Big Pussy times two. Bill just had a HOUSE salad, hold the dressing (gay?). I was mainlining cappuccino and channeling Quentin Tarantino as I discussed how there was no difference between a male breakdancer in a coma and a male figure skater looking for respect, and how I just couldn't understand why my movie had made 110 million dollars less than Blades of Glory.

During my rant I mentioned that I might finally be seriously looking for a girlfriend, and he told me that a little "upfucking" might be a good career move--meaning that if I get with a high wattage star, my star might burn a lil brighter. That might sound a little superficial and gross, but it's what ALL of Hollywood does, not just KFed--look around.

As I finished my fourth cappuccino and started my second heart attack, a bit of downfucking walked by. Her name was Sheila, and she was one of the cocktail waitresses from the Palm Beach Improv. Bill moved his salad aside, and his little cherubic face suddenly went aglow, like a girl who was just told how good her lowlights look.

Shelia sat down and joined us after giving Bill and me a few cheek swipes of her lips. Bill is perky because this is a girl who he has been flirting with all weekend, and he is convinced now is the time for her to be his. There is only one problem: she has a boyfriend. Being a bit of a cocksman, Bill believes the boyfriend is just a minor deterrent, a mere roadblock on the way to Lake Finechina (vagina). I'm a realist, and I know that this lake is bone dry because A) this girl told Bill she wasn't gonna cheat, B) this girl was in a hurry on her way to buy coke (not cola) for her friend's birthday party, C) this girl lived in her boyfriend's penthouse free of charge and didn't want to piss off "the landlord," and D) this girl used to be one of the top strippers at the Penthouse Executive Club in NYC. She was trying to put her shady past behind her and live on the straight and narrow. I mean seriously, who goes from one of the best pole dancing establishments in the business to hocking honey garlic chicken fingers for bridal showers and drug dealers in West Palm Beach unless she's trying to go square? If it was still about the money and the fame, she'd still be on the pole. And she wasn't going to throw it all away for my opener, who looks like Ellen DeGeneres on steroids no matter how good of an impressionist he is.

She finally tells Bill she feels weird and shoots him down a final time, but admits if she wasn't on a coke run or had a boyfriend she would definitely like to take him behind the dumpster and see his braciole. As she walks away, Bill tells me to "look at her ass." I do. Now I have a boner and order a fifth cappuccino.

Finally, we leave. We walk. We talk. I'm feeling fat but hard. Bill's just hard. We decide, fuck it, let's go to Tommy Bahama and look at Hawaiian shirts again, when out of the blue we see not one but dos pairs of legs. The kind of legs you notice from eight blocks away.

We try to talk about the movie we're writing, but the conversation begins to take a decidedly ADD-ridden tone:

"So I like the idea of the guys working at a telemarketing firm...holy shit look at those two...maybe we have to figure out how they decide to...my god both those girls have really long legs...so they work at a telemarketing firm...jesus christ she has no underpants on...oh my god!"

Despite wanting to focus my energy productively on my career, there are times when my body takes over and does things that my mind can't control. This was one of those times. Before long, my legs were quickly and covertly carrying the rest of me down the street, weaving in and out of parked cars, ducking into storefronts like a Ninja Warrior. Bill was right behind me, giggling like a schoolgirl who'd just glimpsed her first penis.

Like it or not, this is often what it's like for guys. It's a primordial, genetic thing. The challenge to see if you can get this beautiful animal to come back to your cave. It's the excitement of the unknown. The chase. In this case, literally.

After a five block ninja sprint, we stop. Suddenly, we are right behind them. From five feet, the view is even better than I anticipated--beautiful rump roasts, prime rib asses, the kind of asses that made Fat Albert scream, "HEY HEY HEY!" The kind of butts that come with a soundtrack: baum baum baum. So bouncy they looked like they had shit in their shorts.

Without warning, the two girls stopped in their tracks. Fuck, I thought, we're gonna get busted for stalking and being creepy. Bill quickly put his head down and went with the one-knee-drop-pretending-to-tie-his-shoe gimmick, a premise so old not even Mel Brooks would use it. I morphed into Sidekick mode, where you put the Sidekick phone up to your ear right before you make eye contact. It has to be a Sidekick, by the way, because when it's up to your ear you can catch a glimpse from the side and then flip it to double the size right as she catches your glance; covering the entire side of your face so you see her, but she misses your face. (Sidekicked!)

As Bill pantomimed tying the non-existent laces on his shoes, I faked a conversation full of "what" and "no" as I passed by. We'll check their position, I thought, and then we'll regroup and double back for a second sortie. To my utter surprise, as I walk by (Sidekick over my face) I hear, "HEY, where are some good bars around here?" WHOA! She addressed me? We are now in a different game. I pull the phone down and take my first real look at the fronts of these two.

MY GOD....One of them is an absolute specimen: a brown-eyed, caramel-smooth olive-skinned beauty standing 5' 11" in Manolos, 5'8" naked in my hotel room. Her legs went up to her ears, and she wore white booty shorts that would make the girls in a 50 Cent video go "DAYYUM!" She had perfectly straight hair, perfect nails and toes, not a blemish on her. Her friend had some nice qualities too, but she was clearly...THE FRIEND.

The Specimen was like a young Demi Moore: her voice, her face, her attitude were all raspy. She whipped out a cigarette, but not just any cigarette, a Newport Light; an indication that she may have been quite familiar with the SOULPOLE in her day. On top of that, she had the ol' butterfly tattoo "target" above the crack of her rear and a belly ring to boot. From my estimation, we were looking at a real 8.9 - 9.1--points deducted for padded bra. But for a Monday night in ANY city, let alone West Palm Beach, this is like nectar from the gods. (Note to reader: I'm not one to objectify women, but let's face facts; all women are judged first on their appearance. It doesn't mean they live or die by it, but it definitely starts that way. Don't blame me, blame Wella Balsam commercials.)

She and The Friend were "lookin' for a pahhhty." They were tourists staying in a timeshare with two other girls they were currently pissed off at for "being gay" since they didn't want to "get fucked up tonight." The night before, apparently, they had "partied their faces off" in Ft. Lauderdale and were "SOOOOO bummed" because they didn't, "like, have a car" to "like, to get back there and shit." The pair were probably of Jewish or Italian descent because of their schnozes (racist?). If they were Jewish I knew it would be a long night of opinions, and if they were Italian I knew they may get violent. I didn't feel like talking all night, but I didn't feel like getting punched either. I stretched out my hand to introduce myself. She said, "Stephanie...Dougherty." Who knew we had a leprechaun with a tan on our hands?

I suggested they go to Miami. (Another note to reader: You may be thinking, Wait a minute Jamie! Why on earth would you tell them to go away from where you were!? It's a common tactic some utilize during the mating ritual. You never want to seem interested or desperate.) I began suggesting places for them to go that were anywhere but where we were. I said Miami, they said no car. I said cab, they said too much money. I said bus, they said too ghetto. I said go back to Lauderdale, they said dead tonight. I thought, Lauderdale is dead? West Palm is a coffin! I said, "Here take 100 bucks." They said, "We don't take money from unknowns."

So there we stood: two horny guys and two stranded Jersey girl tourists with no car, little money, a timeshare they didn't want to go back to, and a desire to party. After five seconds of awkward silence (Bill wasn't helping at all), I said, "Well there is always Wet Willies." Wet Willies is a cookie cutter booze bar so low rent that Fat Tuesdays is looking at it going, "Jesus, you're a dump." Its saving grace was its Pina Coladas. They were BOMB. Made with real coconut milk and 151--the super strong rum that goes down so smooth you don't even realize your top is falling off until you are blowing someone in an alley. Pina Coladas are the perfect date ra--I mean date drinks. Fruity, delicious, and the alcohol is completely masked.

They didn't miss a beat. They said, "Sure!" as Bill and I gave each other a quick look. We realized...we stepped in shit!!!

When we arrived at Wet Willies, I noticed the place was crawling with bored frat guys on a study break from finals, and Cuban men who somehow convinced their ladies that this place was a step up from Chili's.

As I was getting our drinks at the bar, I noticed that our two flamingos were already starting to draw a crowd. Almost on cue, some frat guy comes up to me and says, "Jamie, you fuck, I wanna buy you a drink." Now one thing I forgot to mention was, these girls didn't recognize me, and I was having a moment of complete public anonymity. They knew nothing about me, and I wanted to keep it that way. But I also didn't want to be rude to a fan. In my quickest streetwise retort, I said, "Yo money, please don't put me on blast." (For non-rap-listening readers of my blog, it means don't let everyone know I'm here.) He said, "All good homey, I won't blow up the spot." (Google that one, honkeys.)

I got back to our table and told Bill to regulate all the Abercrombies and low-pro our catch. He gave me a sideways smile from his hairless face and hustled the girls to a table in the back corner of the bar, out of sight.

Sipping through straws out of coconuts, Bill immediately goes into his, "Hi, I'm Bill, and everything you say just makes me smile," third degree babbling routine. That's his move--bombard, smother, squish and submit the female verbally. He also has this habit of touching your shoulder or your forearm after every other sentence to show he's "really" interested in what you're saying. He'll also laugh a lot at what a girl has to say, which is extremely odd since Bill is a damn good professional comedian, and one who often upstages the acts for whom he opens. I find it hard to believe that regular people (especially two Jersey guidettes with beautiful tatas) make him laugh so much when he spends so much time not laughing at other comics.

After listening to his shtick for 30 seconds, I texted Bill: "Look iceman, follow maverick on this, just be a dumb blonde." He texted me a frowny face back but nodded his acceptance. I then began the silent treatment. The last thing hot girls like is hearing about you. When they are THIS hot, they wanna hear about themselves.

It's quiet for about 40 seconds--which is an eternity--when The Specimen flops her lil head around, perks up with a giggly smile, and lightly bites her straw and says...WHAT?

After one or two rudimentary questions, I launch into Complimentary Observant Guy mode. I start with a basic, "Your tan is gonna peel, lucky you're black Irish." I follow that with a, "What part of Jersey are you from again?" but then I get real specific about things I shouldn't know. "Wow, you went with the one-strap Jimmy Choo. You know this season he's got a slip-on..." What!?...or "Why do you have a Tiffany bracelet but no Tiffany necklace?"...and...."Wow, you aren't like the last girl I met. You have actual real hair, no extensions..." That can be a closer, believe it or not.

So now we've got their full attention, we're getting cozy, and whatta ya know, somebody comes up to the table. "It's very nice to meet you," she says. I shake her hand, smile, and she leaves. The girls take a sip from their coconuts and The Friend asks, "Why did that girl say that to you?" I tell them I did some work for her father. They shrug and let it go.

It still hadn't clicked with them who I was. I can tell right away if someone recognizes me or not. It's that quick turn and extra smile as their face gets all bright-eyed. They act like they are looking at some sort of alien with that, "What are you doing here?" look. I can't say I blame the girls for not recognizing me. I was wearing my old Puma sweatsuit that I lounge around in. I had on Ted Baker sunglasses that would rival John Holmes's, after he did a gay porn. My hair and nine days of facial hair growth were straight Ted Kaczynski, after he was apprehended.

It's really cool to sit with someone who doesn't have any preconceived notions about you, someone who is just sitting with you because they think you're cute or funny, or because Bill has nice abs, or because they don't have a car and are stranded and bored out of their fucking minds, and they hate their timeshare roommates. Okay, that's probably what it was.

Either way, it was no big deal that they didn't know me or Bill (who would, unless you have every Law and Order memorized). As the night progressed, they started to get wigged out by the people who kept approaching our table. People approach me at any time and say or do whatever they want. They think I'm their brother or their crazy neighbor.

I don't think the girls were freaked out by the fact that people kept coming up as much as they were freaked out by the TYPE of people that were coming up. Many of my fans are hardcore hood. When I say that, I mean vatos, cholos, chickenheads, gangbangers, meth addicts, gun runners, pimps, ballers, players, shot callers, and postal workers. For some reason, Malibu's Most Wanted gave me enough street cred that every motherfucker with a glock wants to talk to B-Rad. Dudes were coming up to me saying, "Ey yo, take a picture, crip!" or, "Damn homey, sign my ladies' titties!" or, "Yo, J you my nigga, hit this blunt SON!" or, "B fuckin Rad, do some Sherm wit me!" or, "Yo Jamie I'll piss in your Bush." (Harold and Kumar)

After about the tenth person, Birdy said, "Hold up, what the fuck do you do? Who the fuck are you?" Bill was about to spill the beans and spit everything out because he was desssperrrraaaaattte. He wanted to play the easy card, but I squeezed his nuts and said, "We work for MySpace."

"MySpace?! You know Tom?!" they squeal with excitement.

"Tom is my best friend," I tell them. "And he's totally a homosexual."

They are disappointed in the news. They ask us what we do for MySpace, and we tell them we are party promoters. At that very moment, Bill points up to the TV across from us and, I shit you not, my name is on the screen during the opening credits for Bait; a movie I did eight years ago where I played a computer hacker. We couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Bill then pointed out the 15 foot poster of me right behind these girls on the exterior of the Palm Beach Improv next door, where we just played.

They weren't buying our MySpace story, although they totally bought that Tom was gay. They noticed the energy between Bill and me and kept saying things like, "This is shady, are you a drug dealer? What the fuck? Who are you?" Suddenly, The Friend gets up to go to the "bathroom." A minute later she comes back and blurts out, "Oh my god, you're Jamie Kennedy!" Apparently, she heard some girl say, "Hey, that's Randy from Scream."

"Yeah," I say.

"You don't look like you," they respond in unison.

Our cover blown, Bill and I stand up and say, "Oh well, game over, gotta go."

Simultaneously the girls scream, "NOOOOOOOOO WAITTTT!" like a dingo had just stolen their babies. They were way too excited to have us stay. Bill and I began to wonder if we had a couple of starfuckers on our hands???

With their renewed interest, I decide to order another round. It goes down smooth and quickly. We are all feeling good and randy so I suggest we play a game to get to know each other better. "How about a little...Truth or Dare?"

Before you click the little "X" at the top of your browser window and vow never to visit my site again, I admit that it's so 6th grade, and that I'm 37. But let me tell you, it works! It ALWAYS works! And when you are dealing with girls who are gonna be a little work, it's a nice way to bring back childhood memories and break the ice. I have done it many times in my lifetime, and if I told you how many stars in Hollywood played Truth or Dare just to break the ice, your jaw would hit your dick (weird analogy).

After one innocent question, the bottle lands on Bill, and he asks, "Are you a squirter?" Good ol' no subtlety whatsoever Dawes, he just jumps right in. To my surprise, the girl says, "I'm not like a shooter, but I definitely can squirt a little." BOING BOING!! WHAT?!?

Through further interrogation, we discover that The Friend's specialty is deep throating and at some point, she claims to have fucked Nick Lachey...last week. Oh Vanessa. All we find out from The Specimen is that she's had anal sex three times and hated it. (Jesus where's the mystery?) Bill shot me a look to say, "Haha, fucker, 'The Friend' is the better call." Bill also shot Pina Colada from his nose when "Demi" asked me how many women I'd slept with, and I sighed and said, "Eleven." The girls freaked out like it was a lot. Bill, trying not to convulse in laughter said, "Jesus Jamie, keep it in your pants once in a while!" I'm not going to say the real number, but I will say this: The first time I went into the Grotto...I was nine and was diddled by Miss October. (True.)

As the girls drunkenly giggled, I whispered to Bill, "Next person you pick is me and dare me, fag." So Dawes picks me and dares me to lick The Specimen's leg all the way from her Jimmy Choo to her panty line. YIKES was that a long lick. When I got to the kneecap I knew it was on.

Bill and I suggested taking the party back to the Marriott (BALLIN!), and they obliged. We called our driver, he shuffled us over, and it was on like Donkey Kong! Only an act of God could cockblock this night. (Insert foreboding music...)

On to THE MARRIOTT....

to be continued...

Posted by Jamie Kennedy at 8:35 PM

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