Off The Reservation

This one goes out to those of my friends who have an eye for the ladies, and like some of the “fashion statements” they make at the beach.

Panama City Beach is and was – I can speak for my tenure there in the 80’s, a great place for college and older high school age kids to come to, go crazy, and party themselves into blind drunken stupors. Along the way, there are a lot of activities promoted, geared toward and showcased for their age group, with the ultimate design of separating them from their disposable income. “Beauty” and “Swimwear” contests were an excellent way to entice young men into your establishment, serve them expensive alcoholic beverages, expensive salty snack foods to make them thirstier, and keep them there and spendin’ freely.

I guess it was back in 1960, (yes Uncle Nash was around back then – not yet a teenager), that the song “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini” came out over the airwaves – sung by Brian Hyland. It was a nonsense song, but sure rang the chimes of me and my pals – who were just beginning to notice girls without wanting to aggravate them and run them off from our “territory”. When we went to the beach/lake/river, all we had ever seen were one-piece suits, mostly black, and some ladies that sported legs hairier than ours. This was something different and new, and the chorus went something like this:
It was an itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini
That she wore for the first time today
An itsy, bitsy, teentie, weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini
So in the locker she wanted to stay
Two, three, four, stick around we'll tell you more

The person wearing this outfit was nervous and shy, the perfect example of All-American womanhood. We kept an eye out for this when we went over to the beaches in Jacksonville and Fernandina, and didn’t really see much of them until the mid 60’s. They were still pretty demure compared to what you see today – tiny strings and postage stamp size cloth patches that are strategically placed. They also cost more from what my women tell me, even though they are much tinier than the old stuff.

As the GM of the Marina Civic Center in downtown PC, and single (was purported to be gay, but wasn’t – liked married woman at that time – who didn’t want to get married anymore especially to ME), and as the resident entertainment “expert”, I got asked to volunteer for a lot of things to do with organized activities. I pretty much showed up on time, and did my schtik – especially if there was free food and/or booze in the offing. Some of the things I was tapped for included: Emcee of the “Sunset in the Park” concert series, various charitable org. functions that required some fool to manage the mic and keep the event flowing, food preparation contests, and what came to be my favorite, “Bikini” competitions out at the beach.

At this one popular place, Spring Break and the first half of the summer was the time when the contests were held every Saturday and sometimes Sunday. They started about 2pm. and lasted for a couple of hours. They were usually sponsored by a suntan lotion, sunglass manufacturer, adult beverage, clothing line or a local business.

There was a professional emcee, and three judges - two of whom were former professional contestants themselves, and one guest (celebrity) judge. There was prize money involved, and these contests were held all along the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico, with some girls doing this for a living that time of the year. Again, as an entertainment guy, I got asked to sit in for one of the judges who got sick. The criteria was pretty loose, and when I asked what should I look for, was told just see what you like, and award points for beauty, presentation, style and overall sexiness (everybody gets a 10 from Nasty Nash - dontcherknow right off the bat). Sooooooooooooooooo Heigh Ho, and we’re ready to begin. The first time I did this, I got caught up in the first batch, and awarded too high of marks, as the girls who came later “outstripped” them by a wide margin. I also found out the there were 6 groups, and after awarding a winning point total for a girl in each group, we had a final round where those 6 competed for the prize packages, which included not only cash, but a buncha sponsor product too.

By the time the finals rolled around, I had settled into my stride, and lent a more critical eye to the proceedings; “Too much droopy butt, not enough swagger, strangely shaped tatas, etc. Well, we have a tie for the top spot, so once more those two strut their stuff. As the first girl is walking back toward the line and away from the end of the runway, she whips off her top, turns back toward the howling crowd of testosterone charged dudes – and boy – let me tellya – nuthin’s could be fina laddies! THIS would be Uncle Nash’s winna fer shure dude! My fellow judges, both stunners themselves, frown, and some talk of disqualification and bad form and untoward behavior ‘n the like is being passed back and forth over my head – as I was placed between them. NOT by me boyo! MY vote is – you guessed it – the other girl need not even walk out. It’s decided to allow the other competitor to have her go, so let’s see if she can top THAT, I’m thinkin’. Well, she sashays out to the end of the runway, twirls, and then to everyone’s delight, bends over and wiggles what sweet baby Jesus gave her. And then she made sure all three sections of the crowd get an equal show. Not too bad Naughty Nash is thinkin’. Not too bad. Won’t top contestant #1, I thought – fool that I am. She walks back toward us, and as she reaches the judges table, she whips off her BOTTOM AND TOP, makes sure I’ve seen the goods and then turns back to the crowd, where they are now trying to break the cordon of security dudes and rush the stage.

The stage security grabs her and whisks her off to parts secure, some semblance of order is restored, and a chant for the decision as to who is the winner comes at us in waves of screams. My colleagues are arguing 90 miles an hour, and me – well, having been indoctrinated under the auspices of the church of Rome, and raised as a Southern Gentleman, don’t quite know WHAT to think. Oh sure, I had become a bit more aware of how lustful and greedy woman can be during my days in Tally – what with the advent of the “Pill” and all, but this? Well, public display of the female anatomy just wasn’t something I was used to. The other two judges are split, so guess what! Bozo the filthy-minded butthead has to cast the deciding vote. VERY tough call. #1 was just sheer perfection – I mean you wouldn’t want to touch it for fear of permanently marring one of creation’s perfect creatures.
#2 however, for sheer gall and audacity, not to mention GREAT attributes everywhere, took my breath away and therefore got my vote. In my mind's eye, I can still see her………………………

The proprietor served me a St. Pauli Girl brewski, one of the best cheeburgies I had had up to that time and asked me what I thought. Well, I told him you don’t see that everyday for sure! He asked if I was offended by anything. Not so’s you’d notice (and can I get a dressing room pass)? He said I was exactly what they were looking for in a guest judge, and would I like to do it again – free bar and kitchen tab anytime I came in was the lure.
Why sure. I’d be happy to, and when’s the next gig. Tomorrow. Oh, OK, what time? Be here at 1 of the clock. I came, I saw, I judged fairly, and even chatted up one of the lady judges in hopes of………………………….no dice, married with two kids.

This goes on for a month or so, and my enthusiasm for this knows no bounds. I get to looking forward to it, and even found a girl friend at the third event. We’re sailing along, and even though there was no repeat of the first finals incident, there were plenty of beautiful girls competing and it was big fun for all. At the end of one session, I head for the bar for some groceries and a cold tall-boy, and my owner buddy is not in attendance. I ask the tender where he is, and she sez he’s back in the office with “some people in suits”. I thought nothing of it and placed my order, chatting up my gal-pal. The Big cheese comes out to the bar, sees me and motions me to the side. I head over and he sez:
O. ‘There’s a couple of dudes here from the ATF.’
Me. ‘So we ain’t shootin anybody, and you’re carding everyone aren’t you?
O. ‘Sure I am, you think I’m crazy’?
Me. ‘OK what is it then’?
O. ‘We’ve been ratted on by somebody regarding the nudity that time last month’.
Me. ‘So’.
O. ‘They’re crawlin up my butt. Askin’ for my liquor license, employee records, a lotta stuff some of which I don’t even have. Can you help me with this’?
Me. (Fook NO). ‘Well, what can I do, I’m just a judge and have no say in how any of this is set up or anything’.
O. ‘Please come back and talk with them. You're known as a savvy guy, and can probably set them at ease’.
Me. (Sure, sure – bullsheet boyo). OK.

I head back there, and they proceed to give me the third degree on MY activities, and was I present on the date of_________________, and did I witness the public display of_____________, and did I have anything to do with organizing this activity, and did I ask the two women in question to “disrobe” and show their lady parts?!?!?!? It took about two hours, but we finally got them to calm down and realize the girls acted on their own and we had nothing (beyond our happiness to see such a sight) to do with this, and were made to promise to not let it happen again, etc.

I respect, but try to avoid the legal authorities whenever possible. So endeth Uncle Nash’s excursion into the vale of pulchritude and, the judging of “Swimwear” competitions.