To Jell-O and Back
We like to think that if a satellite took one of those heat-measuring nighttime pictures of Kansas City, Westport would be one big, pulsating red area because of its hormonal energy. And Kelly’s would be the reddest, most pulsating spot, but in an STD way.
During the day and on weeknights, Kelly’s is a great, laid-back place filled with grizzled regulars downing beers and watching a game. But on weekend nights, it’s taken over by a highly mock-worthy Westportian crowd, such as guys in puka-shell necklaces or gold chains, and chicks wearing boobtastic tops and clutching Fake Spade purses. We attribute this shift to Kelly’s Jell-O shots, which probably take the crowd back to their glory days as Lambda Chis or Chi Os and help them forget their current status as mouth breathers who punctuate their asinine comments with “Wooo!”
We considered recommending Kelly’s as a Valentine’s Day destination because of its meat-markety appeal, but the idea elicited visceral reactions from several potential guest researchers. Even the promise of Jell-O held no allure. Finally, on a Friday night, our Official Research Assistant consented to go.
We immediately spotted a guy with a quasi-Kim Jong Il hairdo, wearing a full-length man fur. That cheered us up considerably.
“Do you think there might be hookers here?” Research Assistant asked. Well, the skank element was present, as evidenced by a lot of mall hair and cleavage-baring shirts. But it was before 11 p.m. — too early to observe any drunken antics, hookerish or not. So we decided to do shots, which come in one flavor: red. They were pretty strong, which was also pleasing to us.
We had more data-gathering success on a Saturday, when we encountered a flood of people exiting the bar, screaming “Wooo!” The liquored-up crowd included two bachelorette parties. Embarrassingly for them, both of the brides-to-be were wearing veils with condoms on them (one had on a “suck-for-a-buck” shirt), and the friends were in T-shirts with handwritten crap on them. The bridesmaids were also shrieking drunkenly, as though being Team Wedding Party at Kelly’s weren’t stupid enough.
After ordering a Malibu rum and pineapple juice — “the trashiest drink ever!” said Hilary, our assistant for the night — we found a safe spot in the back by the pizza. There we became horrifically fascinated by a couple making out to “Fat Bottomed Girls.” The chippie had her hand in his back pocket, while he was actually tapping along to the song on her butt.
We were soon accosted by a French-Blue Shirt. “What’s your name?” we asked. He pointed to his toe, then to his knee. “Toe-Knee! Tony! Get it?” Oh, we got it, all right. His man-tribe soon came over to interact. After a few pleasantries we decided to leave, though, and one of his friends got belligerent. “What do you mean, ‘It’s nice to meet you’? You don’t even know my name!” Clearly, it was time to abort the mission.
We rejoined our party across the street, where, as our waiter aptly put it, “The best way to observe the Kelly’s crowd is through the window at Harry’s.” Sometimes, there really isn’t room for Jell-O.
