A visit to a federally run whore house.

A visit to a whorehouse seems to me to be a fairly simple operation.

You go in, have a seat at the bar, light a smoke and order a drink You pay for the drink, of course.

Then the ladies wander through, you pick the one that catches your fancy, wander off into her room, cut the deal, consummate the deal and wander off a happy camper.

It's really not that difficult and not very complicated.

Of course, that's probably because whorehouses are private enterprises. They run themselves as they see fit unless they are in certain counties in Nevada. There they follow rules set out by the state or lose their license.

Of course, it is a profitable business as whisky and sex sells. It's kind of hard to screw up a whorehouse or a gin mill if you have any common sense. You also have to remember they are pretty much cash and carry businesses. That should count for something.

What I would like to see is a whorehouse run by the federal government. I could use a laugh about now.

Now you have to remember that being run by the government means that both Republicans and Democrats have input on the rules and regulations pertaining to the governance of such a den of iniquity.

So you wander in only to find that some Republican has wedged his little rule in. He believes in the sanctity of marriage and this means that married men are required to have a notarized permission slip from their wives.

No problem. A block down the road a shifty-eyed gunsel named Blackie has bogus notary stamps from all fifty states. He's also hired couple of secretaries that have just gotten out of the joint for forgery. Forty scoots later you're out the door with a permission slip that's so good your wife will look at it and swear she signed it.

If she finds out about your dalliance, show it to her and tell her she gave you permission. Even the handwriting experts you see on Pawn Stars won't be able to tell the difference!

It should be noted that the feds got into the whorehouse business in part as an effort to curb crime.

So you wander back in with your permission slip and when it passes muster you are given a safety briefing that lasts about an hour. The subject is STDs and the thirty minute film is full of nasty looking sores and other graphic close ups. While watching the movie you also notice the safety rails on the beds. It's an OSHA requirement. There's also a couple of hard hats hanging on pegs above the headboard. As the camera pans back you also notice a pair of steel toed work shoes on the floor next to the bed. More OSHA.

After the safety briefing you are given instruction on how to don the germ-proof scuba type suit you'll be required to wear and issued a 6 ply, steel belted radial condom, made completely out of 100% recycled materiel. 

Not only is the condom made of recycled materiel, the condom itself is recycled. It also comes with a repair kit. The repair kit looks like one of those Camel tire repair kits kids used to repair bicycle inner tubes with.

After that if you are still in the mood you go into the bar. The walls are painted institutional green, the same color your barracks were painted when you went through boot camp. The same color 95% of all other government facilities are painted.

Then you grab a seat at the bar and order a drink from a bartender that, prior to serving you, gives you a ten minute government mandated lecture on the dangers of drinking alcohol. He also informs you of the house one drink limit that is in effect to make sure you don't harm yourself or others.

Lighting up a smoke is definitely out of the question. You have to go off the property to light up. When you return you are given a health lecture.

The bartender, a pretty good guy, is pretty good at giving the customers the score. He's probably not supposed to but he does.

The girls wander in. The first one appears to be close to her nineties and is aided with a walker. She's pretty topheavy and wearing a bra that looks like it was made out of seat-belt nylon. Best guess is that she got a boob job when Carol Doda did, back in '64 when she turned 40. You notice the straps on the bra are straining and cringe at what is likely to fall out when it is removed.

You start to stare agape and the bartender, who has seen this before, explains things.

She's a hooker, all right. She's been hired because by not hiring her it would be age discrimination.

The next hooker to wander through is in a wheelchair and the bartender quietly explains that she's been hired under the Americans with disabilities act. She's drooling, her head hangs to one side and she has a listless look.

The next lady of the evening that wanders through is as ugly as a mud fence and has Marty Feldman eyes. She also has an ass three axe-handles wide. I guess that means obese people are now listed as handicapped and must be hired. The bartender whispers to you, "We call her tons of fun."

You turn to the bartender and ask him if there are any pretty girls working there. He nods. "Junie May isn't too bad. She's only here for the government benefits but you'll be lucky to get her. You really don't have any choice.  When they enacted the 'take what we issue you policy' all of the halfway decent talent went down the street where they could make some money."

You're stunned and ask for an explanation.

Seems you get whoever's turn it is. Nancy Pelosi and company have decided that allowing a client to pick his hooker wasn't fair to the uglier girls. Nobody would pick them. Everything the government does has to be fair.  They have to make sure the business is divided up fairly. This, he explains is the policy that was decreed by the Democrats.

The bartender also explains that the girls can only service their clients missionary position only, thanks to the Republicans. 

You turn to the bartender and he reads the look of shock and outrage on your face. The look on his face says you're not the first outraged client.

You then look and some big blond muscleman comes out parading in drag. Prior to this he was a professional beach bully. You'd hire him to show up on the beach. He'd kick sand in your face like in the old Charles Atlas ads. When you swung on him he'd take a dive to impress your girl. You didn't have to worry about him trying to steal your girl, either. He's gay.

The bartender explains that the government has decreed that gays have right, too and they have to be able to serve everyone.

Then you realize that the room you are in is only a part of what is going on. You look through a portal and see a couple of what look to be cops, and a couple guys in white lab coats. There are also a couple of pretty solid looking indignant women.

So you quietly ask the bartender what the deal is with them. He explains the guys in the lab coats are government inspectors, the guys in uniform are federal marshals assigned to security duty and the women are there as part of a support group for the hookers. They are counselors.

He goes on to explain that the inspectors inspect the working girls after each trick. There's an on-site complete medical lab.

Of course, by now the last thing on your mind is sex, especially here in this place.

He sees you in a look of shock and disgust and quietly tells you that the Lonesome Dove Pleasure Palace is 5 miles down the road. It's a bastion of free enterprise, he explains. If you are headed there tell them Bob sent you and don't bother tipping him.

You thank Bob and as a parting question you ask him how this place could possibly turn a profit. Bob says it loses a couple million a year. He goes on to explain that he works there mainly for the federal insurance and benefits. The pay isn't bad but he says he makes more working a couple evening shifts at the Lonesome Dove than he makes here. Between that and referrals the Lonesome Dove slips him a few bucks for he says he makes out nicely.

Being free enterprise the Lonesome Dove can pay people that send them business. The government can't.

Adios! You're outta there like a shot!

Six minutes and thirty two seconds later you walk into the Lonesome Dove. The madame is working the entry parlor and takes one look at you. She asks you if you just left the government run joint up the road. You nod and tell her Bob sent you.

"Have a drink on us," she smiles and you walk into the bar, sit down and order a double Jim Beam, neat. You need it after what you have just been through.

The bartender looks at you. "When the government opened the joint up the street we were worried we'd lose business, but we were wrong. Since they opened up business has been booming," he says.

You look over your shoulder and see one of the girls wander through. She's a real hottie. She comes by and softly asks if you want to try out her Japanese love swing.

The libido you lost up the street returns instantly. Ah, the pleasures of free enterprise!

And that's about what it would be like if the government ran a whore house.



To find out why the blog is pink just cut and paste this: http://piccoloshash.blogspot.com/2009/12/my-feminine-side-blog-stays-pink.html NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE WRITING OF TODAY'S ESSAY