Aw, yeah.  It’s Saturday night in the big city.  The worries of the workweek seem to fade into the haze that hangs low over the skyline of Lost Wages.  Well, it’s not Lost Wages – but from this view, Florence, Indiana looks a Hell of a lot like that seedy town.  It’s time to slip on my white leisure suit and find some action.

“No, Mother,” I yell from the basement, “No! I’ll be home when I get home.  I’m 40 years old for Christ’s sake!”

She doesn’t understand the pressure I’m under.  After a long day of computer programming, I usually unwind with some of my favorite gaming classics.  Mother thinks it’s odd that I spend my free time playing computer games in her basement.  She doesn’t understand the educational benefits that Sierra adventure games provide.  I’ve gained my sense of humor from Space Quest; my sense of chivalry from King’s Quest; and all of my carnal knowledge from Leisure Suit Larry in the Land of the Lounge Lizards.

Now, it’s finally time to put that knowledge to the test.  Don’t fail me now, Al Lowe.

Stepping into the taxi cab, I vow to hold my breath until I reach my destination.  Strangely, the cabbie is not smoking a cigar and refuses to call me “Mac”.  “Take me to Lefty’s bar,” I tell the driver.  “I’ve never heard of that place,” he responds.  How can there not be a Lefty’s bar anywhere in Florence?  I suppose Hank’s Nascar Drinkway will have to suffice.

As the cab pulls away, I make sure to steer clear of the alley beside the bar.  Everyone knows that alleyways are only occupied by mohawk-wearing thugs.  Entering the watering hole, I immediately approach the bar.  I can’t seem to find the moose head on the wall, but there is a door underneath a Dale Earnhardt, Jr. neon sign which clearly leads to a prostitute.  Though the door is labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY”, I know this is only a deterrent to the uninitiated.

Rapping on the swinging door, I yell to the portly man staring at me through the door’s window, “Ken sent me!”

“What?” he responds.

“Ken sent me!” I repeat.

“Uh,” the man stammers, “Did you order the jalapeno poppers?”

What is this doorman’s problem?  I’ve come here to meet a prostitute.  I made sure to bring a remote control to distract the pimp, and this idiot will not stop me from losing my virginity under a pulsating, black censorship box.  After pushing past the bodyguard, I enter the back room of the bar.

There she is, in all her glory.  Sure, she’s not lying in a bed and instead of chomping on a wad of gum she’s defrosting a freezer chest….but my God….she’s beautiful.  She looks at me with complete confusion and I know what she’s thinking.  “It’s alright,” I tell her, “I’ve been training for this moment since 1987.”

I rip my clothes off in one swift movement.  I don’t remember the prostitute screaming in the game, but I just assume that she’s startled by the gold medallion glistening in my chest hair.  Just before the censorship box can appear, I come to a horrifying realization –

I have forgotten my spearmint-flavored, striped, rough-cut, ribbed lubber!

Oh, no.  I can’t go forward with this.  My hormones are raging, but the last thing I want is to walk outside and have my dong explode.

I run for the nearest window and leap to the awaiting dumpster.  Sure, my clothes smell, but at least I’m safe……oh, no.  I’m in the alley.

The thugs jab me with their knives.  Sure, it hurts, but everything is going to be OK.  I know that once these gentlemen are done gouging my innards with their blades, I’ll fall under the ground, into a blender, and be returned to my normal, sexy self.

I’m going to the casino next.

Further reporting by Hardcasual’s Matt Clark.