The Other WT

After trekking out to Grain Valley to visit Whiskey Tango — or Whisko Tangy, as we like to call it after a few drinks — all we have to say is, if you haven’t been, what’s stopping you from making the 26-mile trek from downtown KC? Oh, wait … never mind.

Now, we’ll go anywhere for work-reimbursed drinks, and we’ve been rarin’ to pay a visit to WT for some time. Its cheesetastc nature sounded like the best sociological field trip ever. How could we resist the tales of cage dancing and Whiskey Girls clomping on bar tops?

On the way out there with a caravan of research assistants, we passed our easternmost bar limit —Missouri Highway 7 in Blue Springs. (We once drank there at Class Reunion.) Ten minutes later, we exited onto Grain Valley’s main drag and turned onto Outer Belt Road. We drove past the sketchy-looking Kozy Inn and turned into a gravel lot packed with cars. A grain elevator — or something farmish — stood nearby. As we walked up, we passed a good sign of a rockin’ bar: a cluster of cowboys carrying a woman out to the backseat of her friend’s car.

We paid the $5 cover and entered a space as big as a football field, with an occupancy of 3,200. Seriously. The interior actually looked clean and well-kept. Ten pool tables occupied one end zone; the other contained an elevated — and empty — VIP tiki bar, complete with futons, faux palm trees and Corona patio umbrellas. A massive wooden dance floor spanned about 60 yards, and two cages flanked one of its entry points. Above the dance floor hung an item we immediately coveted: a giant wagon wheel covered with small silver mirrors. It was disco-ball-fantabulous, though, sadly, it didn’t spin or light up.

We made a beeline to one of the three bars and asked about drink specials. The bartender replied that the DJ would announce specials throughout the night. Ah, the Kmart-blue-light approach to cheap booze. We saw this in action later, when we heard the call for the Whiskey Girls. Clad in black tank tops and armed with bottles of Jack, Jim and Crown, they lined up atop one of the sideline bars. Then they dispensed free shots directly from the bottles into gaping mouths while Toby Keith’s “Whiskey Girl” blared from the speakers.

Because we’re leery of this sort of group drinking, we ordered our own $4 Jack drinks from the bar. We then made a couple of laps around the place. Surprisingly, our fellow drinkers seemed more frattish than country. To quote the sage words of the Osmonds, it was a little bit country, a little bit rock-and-roll — though, we hasten to add, that particular ratio veered more toward 75-25.

In any case, the Night Ranger had theme-dressed in her best western shirt, along with a denim miniskirt and red cowboy boots, but still felt a little out of place, considering that most of the chickies went for the tit-baring tops, jeans and jet skirts. (That’s the skirt that, when the wearer bends over, reveals her cockpit.) We spotted a guy on the dance floor in a mostly unbuttoned black silky shirt and denim manpris, which we haven’t seen in years. That also goes for the backless halter tops, which still lingered in these here parts. As for the buckaroos, an inordinate number rocked the floofy-hair-and-polo-shirt combo as they strutted about, along with the more rural types who sported broader accents and crass T-shirts (“I love your mom” and “Your mom likes it”). Of course, a horde of guys were clad in Stranglers — i.e., tight Wranglers that revealed whether a bull whip slung to the left or to the right. In one astonishing case, a guy in stonewashed Stranglers strolled around, oblivious not only to our drunken gawkery but also to the end of the ’80s.

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Our gawking wasn’t limited to fashion choices, of course. On the dance floor, the Serious Dancers ruled with their two-stepping ways. We chatted with Stan, a self-proclaimed “dance tramp” who drove out from Overland Park to meet up with some other dancing buddies. He lauded the large floor and its fantastic surface. “It’s ballroom dance with a hick beat,” he told us before getting back to it. Then there was the couple who were doing all sorts of swing-dance moves to the hick beat. The guy wore a cowboy hat and form-fitting T-shirt and jeans. His partner sported a black sleeveless shirt that buttoned at the boobs, leaving an opening for the tummy. They were tearing up the dance floor, especially when the guy performed some sort of complicated ice-skating move that involved him flipping her nearly above his head, with her crotch practically in his face. “Was that a vagina flip?” asked RA Bill, incredulous. Yes, Bill, it was.

Little did we know that more crotchcentric moves would occur later in the night, when the DJ interspersed more hip-hoppy stuff with the twang. As Usher’s ubiquitous “Yeah” came on, along with “Hot in Herre” and “Golddigger,” the dance floor devolved into an orgy of triple-sandwich humpery. In a couple of cases, the dancers broke into weird, sexually themed piggybacking, lassoing and galloping. The sandwiching usually involved groups of women, a sexxay move we deemed the “You Know You Want It.” However, the money shot involved a couple going at it to the new Justin Timberlake song, “Sexy Back” — she rode him, and he was practically on his back, giving new meaning to the word cowpoke.

So did the totally awkward pickup line that we were fortunate enough to witness. We were talking with twins Krystal and Beth, who were celebrating their 21st birthday that night. They were having a great night and had consumed five shots each of Sex on the Beach. When we first started talking with them, a guy who looked to be in his early thirties approached and asked Krystal, “What Willie Nelson songs turn you on?” She told him that she was being interviewed, and he fled in horror at the possibility of having his lame pickup technique publicly mocked.

Contrast that with the plight of 28-year-old Mark from Levasy, Missouri. We were chatting with his friend, 28-year-old Michael, who was sporting a retro Wisconsin T-shirt, when Mark started talking about the dating scene around here.

“Nice guys finish last,” he said.

Why?

“We just do. I’m a nice guy, I don’t press myself on anyone. I get turned down a lot.” Hmm … well, we’re fans of the nice guys. They might finish last, but they let the ladies finish first.

We then spotted 21-year-old Natasha, only because she was still wearing her work uniform of sateen hot pants and a tank top that proclaimed on the back: “Best tails in town.” She works at Show-Me’s in Independence, a local version of Hooters. She told us that Show Me’s has branches in St. Louis and Columbia, so, uh, we guess it’s kind of like Harpo’s — a Missouri bar. By bar, we mean boobfest.

Natasha said she’s had her fair share of terrible pickup attempts at Show-Me’s, like the guy who asked, “Are you from Tennessee? ‘Cause you’re the only 10 I see.” Har har.

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She was out with 32-year-old Justin, so we asked if they were dating.

“Maybe later in the night,” said the hopeful Justin.

“We’re friends,” Natasha said, explaining that he and another guy were regulars at Show-Me’s. Such overlapping customer-server bonding was heartwarming to see.

When the clock struck 1:30, more people flooded in. WT is a 3 a.m. bar, but we decided to close the tab early. Before we could pay, we were cut off by a guy with a mull-lite (a semi-mullet) in a shirt that announced, “I’ve got the biggest pipe in town.” The back said something about Sunflower broadband. Anyway, he was accomplishing the impressive task of walking purposefully to the bar while downing the rest of his Bud from a bottle that was perpendicular to his face. A plastered woman teetered behind him. When he got to the bar, he repeatedly banged the beer bottles and demanded more.

“Get the fuck out right now!” yelled the bartender, who called the bouncers over to cart ’em out.

Oh, that’s classy with a K — or, shall we say, Whiskey Tango?