Ho Ho Ho! We Wish You A Mam-merry Christmas!

So here's the story. On Friday, my friend IndianJones and I headed up to local watering hole, Cabo Cantina, to partake in some holiday mirth, as one is wont to do around this time of the year. We didn't really expect any interesting stories to come from this evening of merriment as the frigid weather —  around 55 degrees — surely was keeping all noteworthy bar patrons (read: celebrities) at home, nestled by the fake fire on their plasma TVs. Little did we realize though that one bold woman was willing to brave the chilly climes to provide us with two hours of undulating, fleshy entertainment.

Yes, while we sipped on our beers (and in the case of IndianJones, free margaritas from the next table over), a hush fell on the bar. IndianJones's eyes widened as he spotted something astounding through the window fast approaching Cabo Cantina like a tragic, breasty meteorite. I turned around to see what the commotion was about, and there in the parking lot was one of those quintessentially Los Angeles-ish disasters of a woman. She was clearly a porn star or stripper or both, and like IndianJones and me, she and her boyfriend had descended on Cabo Cantina to celebrate the holiday season — although, I'm sure their joy-to-the-world came from a less ironic place, being that neither IndianJones or I are Christian.

Nevertheless, this woman was quite the sight for sore, soon-to-be-diseased eyes. Her breasts were grotesquely large —  to the point where this woman vaguely resembled some sort of double-rigged tether-ball set. I suspect that the lumbar region of her back must be fortified with industrial-strength steel rods in order to keep that bulbous torso at proper height. Well, since it was the holiday season, this woman made sure to dress appropriately, and in this case, that meant wearing a hot-pink Santa coat with a furry, white lining that just barely kept Donder and Blitzen out of public view. Of course, since it was a bit cold outside, this woman made sure to keep her legs under wraps — and by "under wraps" I mean "completely bare minus a pair of boots." That's right, Mrs. Claus had NO PANTS. Granted, she wasn't 100% exposed. She was wearing some skimpy undies in the crotchal area, thus ensuring that she had complied with all vaginal laws of public exposure.

Of course, what really tipped the scales in the "sadness" department was the fact that this woman was about forty-five years old. Yes, we weren't talking about some tight-skinned ingenue new to the whole porn game. This was a woman who'd been around the block and then some (ie. childhood molestation), and here she was, ready to bandy about her feminine wares once again. Needless to say, as she approached the front door of the bar, there were guffaws aplenty to be had by the gathered patrons.

Curiously enough, I actually recognized her. No, not from some sordid late night encounter with Cinemax. I recognized her because I'd seen her in the 'hood before, and thus the image of a middle-aged woman with two weather balloons anchored to her chest had been permanently seared into my memory. One time I'd seen her at the supermarket (thankfully nowhere near the fresh produce), and one time, I'd seen her at this very same bar, Cabo Cantina. In fact, it was St. Patrick's Day of 2006, and as luck (of the Irish) would have it, I had even taken a picture of her with, of all people, reality star Toni Ferrari.

Mrs. Claus during her lesser-known Mad Max phase.

Well, the amusing thing about Los Angeles is that these types of ladies are somewhat common. After all, the porn industry is located just over The Hills in the San Fernando Valley, and it's inevitable that some of that community's upstanding citizens will occasionally venture into less surgically enhanced territories. If it was merely an instance where IndianJones and I had crossed paths with this woman (Laurie, as I heard her introduce herself to one man), then this would hardly merit a post. However, after a few drinks, things started to get pretty nutty for Laurie and her fleet of chest blimps. Thanks to the brazenness of one drunk Aussie, among others, people started taking pictures with Laurie. And not just men. Women were doing it too. It was like a petting zoo, except instead of a pony and some chickens, there was a harrowing cautionary tale in the form of a flaxen pole dancer.

IndianJones and I watched the silliness for a bit, and then we discovered something quite crazy. Laurie's boobs were full-on hanging out. We're not talking nip-slip. We're talking ORGAN-slip. Turns out that whenever anyone asked to take a photo with her, she not only jumped at the opportunity, but she happily pulled her Santa jacket open wide, thus exposing her entire chest to the bar, the camera, and now the world wide web (although, I'm sure her breasts have called the Internet "home" for quite some time now).

WELL. This bar turned into a madhouse. TMZ has nothing on the shutterbugs inside Cabo Cantina. At first only a few people snapped some shots, but when it became clear that this woman not only didn't seem to mind the attention, but rather thrived on it, everyone and their grandmothers whipped out their cell phones and digital cameras and began shooting away. It was a borderline madhouse. People were clamoring to get better angles and better lighting. I'd like to say I was above the fray, but even I got into it. I mean, for crying out loud, I HAVE A NEW BLOG. I NEED CONTENT!!!

Unfortunately, in the pandemonium, I discovered that I'm not quite the expert paparazzi as I thought I was. Most of my images were grainy and of objects such as table tops, drink special menus, floors, feet, and nondescript blurry items. The one good image I got I managed to stick my finger in front of the flash, thus creating a distracting glow on the lower half of the photo. Luckily, IndianJones was shooting away on his Blackberry; so I had some solid backup there, but again, even his best images were ruined by some random guy's shoulder getting in the way. The person next to me, however, had an iPhone, which meant that he not only could take a higher quality photo than my LG Crapfest 2000 (which I love), but he could email me the pic as well. Needless to say, I think I have enough grainy evidence to prove to you that this was quite the ridiculous scene.

Damn, my finger.

Damn that guy's shoulder. (But you can see what we were dealing with)

If the Rockettes and sadness had a love child, it would be this.

Eventually, things died down, and Mrs. Claus and her greasy, pony-tailed boyfriend (who also seemed to get off on all the attention his girlfriend received) decided to head back up to the North Pole. The two left the bar, and after an impromptu photo session in the parking lot where he snapped photos of her bending over and baring her ass to the camera, they disappeared into the night, off to scandalize some other quaint corner of the galaxy.

And with that story in mind, I wish you all happy holidays. May your inner slut enjoy this festive time!