The setting for both of these stories is a nightclub I used to frequent years ago in Nashville called The Underground which was owned by the coolest Palestinians I’ve ever hung out with. Their English consisted mainly of, "I keell fifty fooking Jews, I keell you. Get out of my nightclub."

Every month or two, They’d save up a few thousand dollars and send

The funny thing is that they also owned a popular country western club in Nashville called The Buckboard, and none of the hicks ever realized Arabs owned it.

However, their main drive was The Underground. Since it was right downtown, there was always something wild happening there.

Among the pseudo well known people who frequented The Underground was The Undertaker and many other big giant stupid muscle bound wrestlers who are still the Monday night highlight of every trailer court kid in America (Nashville was then the home of the WWF). They would often come down to the club, get drunk and grab themselves some T&A, thinking they were untouchable.

Those Arabs used to love fighting with them.

One night the owner and two of his relatives decided they’d had enough of The Undertaker's crap and came out of the back room with billy clubs and tazers. Two of my Good friends were doormen at the time, so after witnessing them being thrown about like rag dolls and getting zapped by tazer wielding madmen, A few regulars and I attempted to lend a hand and subdue the very drunken and belligerent Undertaker. Needless to say this was not a wise idea.

  I had recently gotten out of the Army and weighed in at a lean 200 pounds and in pretty good shape. Nevertheless, The Undertaker put my head through a sheet rock wall.

After about ten minutes of scuffling, we managed to get him and two of his muscle bound cronies (gold gym tee shirt wearing mf's) on the other side of a steel door, and locked them out of the club.

Of course I have no photo proof of this so you’ll just have to imagine with me through the dramatization video. (very realistic).

A very drunken and flirtatious newly crowned Miss America was being chased around the bar by her chaperones.

I wasn’t the only one she planted a few kisses on that night, and she proved to everyone that those award winning all American girl boobs were real.

Unbeknownst to my friends and I, taking photographs of Miss America is illegal. Copyright infringement or something. Needless to say, we seized the moment and took a bunch of pictures which her handlers were extremely adamant about retrieving from us.

Being the dirty street punks that we were, we fended off her pseudo bodyguards and maintained possession of our really crappy camera to bring these photos to you. Proof that even Miss America is a hoochie mama on occasion.

Ah, another wild night in Nashville.