We're talking about the Ladies' Best Butt contest at Orlando's Niteclub that takes place every Thursday night. You know what falls on a Thursday this year. And what better way to celebrate the birth of Jesus than by watching a little grindage? Located off Interstate 35 and Santa Fe in Olathe (next door to Quilter's Haven), Orlando's is an 18-to-enter, 21-to-drink place that's surprisingly big inside. And it's open on Christmas.
We trekked out there with Research Assistant Casey one recent Thursday. Naturally, we'd been lured by the contest, though the $2 drink specials didn't hurt. (Manager Mike Hess later told us that the lady booty draws a bigger crowd than the wet-T-shirt festivities on Mondays and the he-butt competition on Fridays. Sadly, he said there were no plans for a male best-package contest.) After getting bourbon and 7s, we found seats near the dance floor and speculated on what the contest would entail.
"Am I lewd in wondering how this goes down?" Casey asked. "Do they wear clothes or special pants?"
A group of guys at a neighboring table tried to fill us in. Not only were they confirmed ass men; they were also volunteer judges. "They do lap dances to try to win the money," Joe explained. When we asked what he would be looking for, he made the ass-slap motion and simply said, "Jiggly."
His friend Andy agreed. "Pretty much big and juicy," he said. "But not too big. Onion butt." Interjected Joe: "Like J. Lo." Wearing as little as possible was a plus for contestants; so was a thong peeking out of the pants. "Not a lot of girls wear thongs," Joe said. "There are more of those men's boy shorts." We asked them to rate some Night Ranger ass, whereupon Joe gave it a light slap and pronounced it fine. "When you smack it, you know," he said.
More people started filtering in, among them three of the usual suspects: the backless halter, the asymmetrical top and the red fuck-me pants, sandwiching each other in an unholy triple alliance on the dance floor. The crowd was somewhat varied; many of the chicks were in standard boob tops paired with jeans ("You know these women get ready every morning to Guns 'n' Roses -- not that there's anything wrong with that," Casey said), and the guys ranged from preppy to country to visor-wearin' types, which resulted in not only country line dancing but break dancing as well. The noticeable lack of pretension was as refreshing as the relatively not-too-smoky air.
After 1 a.m., the contest finally started. About twenty guys -- the "judges" -- sat on the floor, while roughly the same number of women stood in a line. The music started, and the women gyrated in place and bent over. A few designated guys with flashlights walked around to illuminate various body parts, which seemed redundant considering there were, like, 800 lights on anyway. At the start of the next song, the chicks broke free of the line and went up and thrust or bent in the judges' faces. Most pulled their pants down part of the way, exposing G-strings or lace boy shorts. Those who didn't garnered vehement boos.
"They're subject to the whims of a Philadelphia Eagles crowd," Casey said delightedly. But a lone woman fought back. Dressed in skintight jeans that had a white butt, she sassed into the mic, "I'm fuckin' hotter than all these chicks, and y'all know it!" Well put, spotlight butt. Well put.
The grand winner (determined by what seemed to be crowd noise) did indeed have major jiggleability, as well as black-lace boy shorts. The lights came on, and as we spilled out the door, we noticed a guy getting into a candy-apple-red Viper. It was parked right outside the door, in a spot that wasn't a spot. Beside the license plate was a Jesus fish.