The Call Girl Card Game

May 3rd, 2008

By Jeffrey Petts

If Las Vegas is known for one thing, it’s gaming. Blackjack. Craps. Poker. Slots. Games, games, games. Now there’s a new game on the Strip.

Have you been to Vegas lately? It’s been different each of the three times I’ve spent time there. Some casinos have disappeared with new ones appearing in their place. Whole city blocks have been wiped out to make way for another cutting-edge gambling Mecca.

But you won’t find this new game on the crowded casino floors of these epic gambling halls. Though cards are dealt, it won’t be via busty Hooters eye candy. You can wait around for a free drink, but you’ll be competing with winos for the libation. And don’t even bother looking for the buffet because they aren’t found out on the Strip.

But there are scantily-clad dealers, free booze and buffets all up and down the Strip, you say.

True, but this game isn’t played in any casino. It’s played outside on the Strip.

Is it some sort of back alley dice/card game?

Nope. It’s safe and right out in the open, and your dealers aren’t even looking for a gratuity.

So tell us about this new game.

Say you’re a group of ten guys (sans wives and children) stomping up and down the Strip with half-empty beers (in the never-ending search for the next alcoholic beverage) and your competitive juices are flowing. (You know, because you’re a guy.) Playing at the tables is fun, but what about the valuable gambling time lost when moving from one casino to another? What can an overly competitive, drunken male do to stay sharp? And if there’s a way to work pornography into the equation, all the better. Out of this was the Call Girl game born.

If you’ve been to Vegas and walked the Strip, you’re familiar with the grubby bystanders handing out the business cards with pictures of attractive women and a phone number. If you have a major credit card and a phone, calling the number listed can deliver a woman to your hotel room within the hour.

This game involves hookers?

Sorta, but not really. You don’t actually solicit the services of these ladies of the night; you just collect their calling cards. Rather than ignore the dingy, dirty men dumping these pornographic advertisements upon the wandering public, make a game of collecting their bounty. The cards end up taking on a whole new meaning outside of that for which they were intended. And besides, collecting them is better than littering so it’s like you’re doing your part to help the environment. (At least, that’s what I keep telling the wife.)

Here’s how you play…

Whenever you are out and about on the Strip, keep an eye out for the guys handing out the cards. As you walk by, accept whatever they pass you. These guys tend to work in groups of three or four so be sure to slow your pace enough to get cards from each of them. It’s in your best interest to collect as many cards as possible so you can build your ultimate call girl deck.

Why would anyone want to play this game?

Did you miss the paragraph about guys, competitiveness and pornography? Trust me when I state that a group of ten guys will inevitably lead to five or six players. They can’t help themselves.

Fine, you collect hooker calling cards. That’s not much of a game.

Well, collecting is only the first step. There are a few objectives to this game. In the quest to build the ultimate call girl deck, you have to obey a few rules and attempt to achieve a benchmark or two.

The ultimate deck would consist of twenty-seven cards – one card for each letter of the alphabet, and a final “wild card” selection. The first letter of the girl’s name determines its place in the alphabet. “Amber” for A, “Bobbi” for B, and so on.

What are the chances of finding a prostie with a Q-, X- or Z-name?

Not likely at all. Why do you think those letters score so well in Scrabble? If you can use them, they’re worth more than common letters.

Upon returning to your hotel room at the end of each day, you’ll find your call girl prospect pile will be impressive. Divvy the divas up into their respective piles and hope you’ve found the magic letters to complete your alphabet of smut.

Collect cards. Make an alphabet soup of porn. Big deal.

There’s more. Now that you’ve got a pile of cards, choose your “best” one to represent each letter. You’ll have a dozen M’s and twenty S’s, but only one can make the cut. What makes a card better than the rest? “Holly & Hanna” is like a double H score. “Storm” boasts a price of $150. The overall “price” is just one of the factors involved in judging a winning call girl deck. When assembling a deck, one should treat it like a liberal college campus by sprinkling it with plenty of “diversity”. Twenty-seven carbon copy blondes will get old quickly. (Even Playboy throws in a few brunettes and redheads in an attempt to prove ol’ Hef isn’t fixated on surgically enhanced Amazon women.)

The final “wild card” is your choice. After leafing through a few hundred cards, one or two will probably draw your attention (and, possibly, even a late night phone call). Whatever the reason, the wild card is a sort of tiebreaker. Maybe it involves two girls performing an inappropriate act. Maybe the model looks like your high school sweetheart or your buddy’s daughter. Maybe it’s just a flavor that you have a fond taste for. It’s your special choice to round out the deck.

So what are the rules?

Easy.

  • All cards must be handed to you. You can’t pick them up off the ground or from one of the many porn stands around town.
  • No shopping. You can’t approach one of the guys handing out cards and request a specific type of girl or attempt to procure a missing letter. It’s luck of the draw.
  • One pass only. The same guy hands you another “Belinda” while a competitor scores an improbable “Xena”. There’s no going back for another run at a new card. Grab and keep walking.
  • No trading. Build your own deck.
  • Only one card for each letter. No Z? Your deck will be a card short.
  • Only one side of a card is eligible. There are no bonus points for double-sided cards.
  • After a couple of days of deck building, assemble all the players to present their respective treasure troves of smut. You will require an impartial judge. It’s best to determine this person before the game begins for the purpose of rule clarification. It’s also wise to have the prize selected. Whether it’s $20 from each participant or a free dinner on the final night of the trip, having something to play for adds a bit of spice to the game. (I mean it is LAS VEGAS after all.)

    When it comes time to judge the decks, use the following scoring system:

  • 5 points for each letter of the alphabet represented
  • 1 point extra for each double letter
  • 5 points for the deck with highest dollar value, 4 points for the second highest, 3 for third and so forth
  • 1 point extra for each girl displayed on a card
  • At this point, there may be one competitor pulling away from the pack. Now come the random categories. The next phase of the game takes a little imagination and can get as inappropriate as your group deems fit.

    Female Buffet – One of the best aspects of Vegas is the quality of its buffets. A properly constructed Call Girl deck should also reflect a smorgasbord of flavors. Randomly select an ethnicity or hair color. Add a point for each card with an example of your selected “flavor”.

    Mystery Body Part – Randomly select a favorite portion of the female anatomy: left breast, right breast, backside, “nether” region… Add a point for each card that clearly displays the chosen part.

    Fetish Fun – Does your deck have girls that like to play dress up or dominate? There’s points in them there kinks!

    Is this game the best way to spend your time in Las Vegas? Not really? Will it make you a better human being? Not a chance. Is it a flimsy excuse to amass a pile of smut? Yup, pretty much.

    What can you do with all the remaining cards?

    There’s plenty of fun to be had with the leftovers. Try stuffing a few in Gideon’s Bible to bookmark meaningful passages for the room’s next occupant. Or take them home and drop them randomly around the office. What says “fun” more than someone spotting a call girl card on the floor by your boss’s desk? Another cruel trick is to hide them in the pockets of a buddy’s coat. It’s even more enjoyable if you can manage to be around when the wife/girlfriend discovers the hidden prize. See, what happens in Vegas doesn’t have to stay in Vegas!

    I know you’ve missed a regular dose of Canon Fodder while I was on vacation. Think of it as the price you as a reader have to pay for me to come up with new and interesting material to ramble about. Be sure to continue visiting Canon Fodder as we’ll be back on a regular writing schedule this week as life returns to normal.

    May 1st, 2008

    Playing with Toy Trucks – Part I

    April 15th, 2008

    By Craig Dumas

    Editor’s note: Craig submitted a truly stunning article with all sorts of pictures of the trucks he’s describing. Unfortunately, you need a computer engineering degree to navigate the complex publishing program used on this website. And I’m anything but a computer engineer. So, enjoy the verbiage sans pics.

    Much like my Tonka-loving son, I just can’t give up trucks.

    If you know anything about deer hunting you know it basically requires three things: a rifle, a truck and a trailer. Everything else is secondary and menial at that. It pretty much goes without saying that the essentials listed are for their necessity, dependability and comfort.

    In my years of growing older – but never growing up, mind you – I’ve learned that you need the proper truck for the job. Whether it be moving a friend or relative (anyone with a truck knows that they can and will be called upon for work by all their non-truck owning friends and family), getting firewood for the home stove, or even towing your oversized trailer out to the woods, a too-big truck is logical and essential for getting it done right. I’m in truck number six over a 16-year span counting a Suburban, which qualified as a modified station wagon to the state, but a truck to any real man. Sadly, I’ve had to learn the hard way over the years about what size truck would accommodate my needs. I started with the Suburban, a two wheel drive, half-ton which was beefed up to a three-quarter-ton for ease of loads, but after nearly losing a small trailer to a ditch in about 8 inches of rising snow, I realized the need for four-wheel drive.

    Next it was a half-ton Chevy Blazer 4×4. What a great toy.

    Then it was another Chevy half-ton 4×4, but this one was an extended cab pickup. The bed was too short and it wasn’t so good for hauling the big trailer that I acquired in the meantime. A trip to the Upper Peninsula nearly wrecked the engine as it was literally burning up all the oil in the motor due to the lack of an adequate towing package. The lesson of that trip wasn’t soon forgotten. I have to admit, that poor truck was probably the most beaten on of all my victims. The first time was coming home late from a ball game and a tree decided to cross the road at the last minute causing me some minor damage. Then there was the time I was in the backwoods joyriding with a friend (and a barley soda or two too many) and ended up ditching into 3 feet of water. A farmer on a tractor had to pull me out. I was rewarded for my stupidity with a terrible ride home because the alignment was out due to a bent tie rod. My last act of brilliance was the time when some yahoo got the forklift stuck in the mud at work and being macho, I thought, hey, my truck can pull it out. After taking the time to properly hook it up and make sure we were safe, the towing commenced. When the metal handlebars ripped, a jagged metal projectile was sent careening at my windshield. All I could do is lean over flat on the bench seat wait for the crashing of glass. The windshield was spared but the hood of the truck was scratched and dented. And that’s how I turned it in when the lease expired.

    Editor’s note: I witnessed this firsthand. Craig’s big ol’ truck with a mangled mass of steel embedded on the hood. Stunned coworkers all around in stunned silence. The big vein in Craig’s reddening neck beating like a drum. He was biting his lip so hard, I was just waiting for a trickle of blood. I’m betting my cackling laughter didn’t help the situation very much. What an awesome sight to see.

    Next was a trade-in purchase from my uncle Denny that worked out fairly well. (Here it must be said that I’ve learned to purchase vehicles from him when possible considering he doesn’t drive anywhere, and at the time he was working, the drive was a mere 6 miles roundtrip. Even with the occasional ventures up north, he turns his leases in with 20,000 miles or less on them. He was more a babysitter for it than anything so it was like buying a new truck. The smell of old man barely dented the new car smell.) It was a Chevy three-quarter-ton 4×4, extended cab, full bed and this one included the towing kit, so no more problems there.

    But it was determined that when we moved out to Podunk and with a baby on the way, something bigger was needed to not only meet the needs of my growing family, but accommodate the loads I was moving and handle the larger trailer we had recently purchased. (Incidentally, this trailer was a 31-foot Terry nicknamed ‘The Hilton’ by Jeffrey – more on that in Part II next week.) Let it be said that I had been a Chevy man all my life and grew up in a Chevy family. My Dad put in 37 years for “The General” or “Generous Motors” as loyalists have come to know GM.

    Then I made the jump to Ford. (I still get flack for it to this day, but they gave me good trade value and the price was right where we wanted to be.) The truck was an F-250, 4×4 (of course), three-quarter-ton with the big crew cab. Good size, ample room for family and towing was a breeze. Needless to say, during hunting, I was the one that drove to the bar on our deer camp fieldtrips. It’s also ideal for post-bar joyriding on the way back.

    Unlike Denny’s situation and the resulting low mileage, living on the edge of humanity comes at the cost of miles quickly adding up (100,000 and counting). I was born with an irrational fear (which I always have with high mileage vehicles – I don’t know if it’s old school, superstitious, experience, logic, or common sense that makes me think this way, maybe a little of all – that problems are inevitably on the way and I’m living on borrowed time. So it was determined by my wife and me that a new truck was needed. Now, there were some things that I had to agree on like “This is the last one for quite a while,” since I am notorious for wanting the newest and the best and my wife “was the next in line for something new”. I had built this one online and ordered it new from the factory. The last and current truck to date is, what I like to call ‘Road Hog’, or ‘ Road King’, an F-350 4×4, crew cab, one-ton, full bed. Dennis likes to say I drive it like a big rig, wide turns and all. Uncle Dave likes to say it’s just a truck on steroids. All that said, it does what I need it to do and tows what I need it to tow.

    Editor’s note: “Truck on steroids,” is fitting because I regularly insist Craig is compensating for something when he buys these oversized testosterone machines. Maybe it’s a chicken-or-the-egg discussion when comparing little men to their big trucks.

    Check back in next week for Part II of the Grizzly Woodsman and his man-crush on trucks and trailers.

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