Betty and the Point WhoresPosted: October 26, 2012
My girls and I used to play darts in a local dart league. We were much better drinkers of beer than players of darts. We would have some lucky nights, but for the most part we lost. It truly was merely an excuse to meet up and have a night out just us girls.
We had a “home” bar, and then would have to travel to the other bars to play at their “home.” We went to some pretty scary places.
Betty and her team played out of the most disgusting dump ever. It was in a shitty area of town, the building had metal grates over the windows, and the regulars were serious about their drinking.
The first time that we played there, we almost forfeited just to get out of there. We almost always would go where ever we were playing a little early, so we could practice and drink a couple of beers before we started. We had gotten to Betty’s bar about half an hour before we were scheduled to start.
As soon as you walked in the door you were hit in the nose with the smell of bleach and vomit. The only area in the entire bar that didn’t smell was the bathroom, if that makes any sense at all.
We decided to try to tough it out. One of us found some super smelly hand cream, smelled like old lady rose perfume, and we rubbed it all over around our noses so we couldn’t smell the vomitey smell. It sort of worked. We needed to reapply it every now and then when it started to wear off.
There were only booths for seating near the dart boards, and they were so old that you sunk down to the wood when you sat down. Over the windows there were ancient plastic shower curtains, complete with plastic shower rings, that were so old that the plastic was brittle. They were pink.
So we finally get going in our games. We played 13 games. Six games of 301, and six games of Cricket, with a final game of 501 at the end. The 301 and Cricket games alternated. We could hold steady on the 301 games, but they handed our asses to us when we were up for Cricket. This team made it impossible for us to beat them. They would rack up points on number they had closed, instead of just closing out their other numbers. It made for long and painful games. We initially started calling them the “Point Whores” in private at our table.
The more beer that was consumed by us, the louder we became at calling them out on their Point Whoring.
By the end of the night, we were not so quiet about it. They were well aware of their new nickname.
After this night, and as we were playing the other teams here and there, we started talking to them about the Point Whoring. They all agreed. From that point on all of the teams in our group were referring to them as Betty and the Point Whores.
At that time, my office was located near this bar. Crappy neighborhood, interesting clients, never a dull moment.
One day during a particularly hot summer, Betty came in requesting to become a customer. When I asked for her identification, she pulled a very sweaty wallet out of her bra. Not a little tiny wallet. A large checkbook sized wallet. Her ID was rather, um, damp, or dewy, or completely gross and disgusting.
Although, we had called them horrible names while playing darts, she laughed it off, and said that they did it to everyone to rile them up. They had tried to go up to the next level of play, but came in last, and they liked to win. So they signed themselves up in the lowest division of the dart league so they could win.
Stupid Point Whores.