Thanks to 42% of your vote, the initial voyage of our poorly-planned Worst. Night. Ever. series placed myself, and my very understanding better half, at the 8th Annual Pimps N Ho's Ball at Dante's. At least it wasn't the Eagles, right?
Sponsored by KUFO and headlined by Smoochknob & the Smoochgirls, the event's title was quite misleading. The majority of the crowd did not come decked out in proper pimp/ho gear, instead most of the venue was compiled of frumpy dudes with questionable musical taste (see: Smoochknob) and a passing interest in possibly catching some teased female nudity (see: Smoochgirls). Given the $16 door charge, and the fact that "real" nudity and far better music lie within stumbling distance at Mary's Club or Magic Gardens, I expected a little more effort from the crowd. While there were a few feathered capped, faux-Iceberg Slim, Halloween costume pimps, the sheer lack of women in the room was hard to ignore.
Worst band of the night:
If you have ever longed to see a knockoff Nerfherder (Remember them? No? Perhaps this will help. No? Okay, nevermind then.) with jokey songs about boobs and a fat singing drummer that resembles Harry Knowles, then friends, Smoochknob is the band for you! Plus, their Smoochgirls took advantage of Dante's seldom-used aerial catwalks, awkwardly grinding at ceiling height while pervy guys in the crowd took poorly-lit camera phone photos of their crotches. Stay classy, dudes.
Yet, Smoochknob was still not the worst band of the night, nor does that honor go to the Beatoffs, and their closing refrain of "You just got musically fucked." If I had to pick just one, I'd go with Cellar Door, whose unwanted technical shreddery and douchetastic stage poses were (unintentionally) hilarious. Remember that Bowflex commercial with that bald dude who flexes and then wails on guitar while wearing a sleeveless leather shirt—yes, this one—it was like that. But worse.
Was it remotely sexy?
That depends on your opinion of Axe Body Spray and dudes that consume beverages made out of Blue Curacao. We actually watched the bartender use up an entire bottle of that stuff—Blue Curacao, not Axe Body Spray—then ask the puzzled barback to bring her some more. After being pushed aside at the bar by a women with an unnecessary boob job, my wife called her "Hoobaskank." That was as close as this night came to being sexy.
Amount of alcohol consumed?
A lot. There was a point where we had a hard time staying seated on our bar stools, thankfully we poured ourselves into a cab (otherwise my bicycle would be wrapped around a telephone right about now). I refuse to die for this blog.
Was it the really the worst night ever?
While the music was far worse than I expected, and the crowd could generously be considered—oh, I don't know—douchey, it was just a bad show; not the worst night ever. Does that mean I have to do another one?