Premature Exasperations: Pacman Jones is Not of This World

January 18th, 2008 . by contemptster

After a long hiatus Premie E. is back! In case you haven’t used this downtime catching up on past columns, you can find them in the Premature Exasperations Archive. This week Bryan asserts his theory about Pacman Jones’ insatiable appetite for gentleman’s clubs.

Pacman Jones to public, “Arrrgh, Strippers! My Only Weakness!”
By Bryan

I’m convinced Pacman Jones is an alien. The NFL star, embroiled in legal trouble generally stemming from various nightclub incidents, cannot be from Earth. He was recently accused of an incident involving assault at a strip club earlier this month. Although the charge was dropped, it raises the question, why continue to visit a place that’s wrought so much harm? His continued failings frustrate me as a football fan and as a believer in free-will. What rational Earthling could continue to frequent gentleman’s clubs when they consistently lead to the stymieing of his abilities?

None; Pacman’s an alien.

Adam “Pacman” Jones was born on the planet Stripton located in the TittyWay Galaxy right next to the Pasties star cluster (these stars look flashy, but their brightness partially conceal the gorgeous globes located in TittyWay). Stripton was an unstable planet that rotated about a gigantic heeled axis. The planet subsisted by rotating near its sun, exposing its South Pole and accepting the sun’s resources in its equatorial belt. However, the planet had a penchant for shedding atmospheric layers and getting dangerously close to its excitable sun. One fateful day, Stripton slipped on its heeled axis, ripped off its atmosphere and rolled uncontrollably toward the sun. Obviously the sun lost its shit all over Stripton, leaving the planet’s tiny moon to fend for itself. Adam Jones luckily escaped in a rocket to Earth where he landed in Georgia, and grew into young adulthood. Upon reaching maturity, Adam’s superhuman athletic ability developed, and he transitioned to a life of playing the Earthly game of football under the heroic name, Pacman. Nothing could stop him—so it seemed.

One substance hailing form Pacman’s home planet could defeat him. Stockpiles of the substance are kept in establishments around the world, set as traps to slow Pacman down.

Strippers. Strippers of all sorts: Thai strippers, white strippers, barely legal Eastern European strippers, big-bootied strippers, Eskimo strippers, and octogenarian strippers. The kind doesn’t matter, as long as they take their clothes off consistently and thoroughly, preferably near a pole. Pacman keeps falling for the trap, and the strippers immediately weaken his good judgment, rendering his athletic ability useless.

Pacman Jones and I have three things in common. One, neither of us played in the NFL this past season. Two, we both carry dollar bills sometimes. Finally, we have both gone to a strip club. The “sole” club I’ve ever visited was Southern Exposure located in West Virginia; a place I’m sure Pacman sampled at least once when living in Morgantown. The building, a seemingly gutted and converted Lowe’s, looks like the product of a sexy and corrupt Flip This House episode. The girls get fully nude and smell like a Sonic drive-thru and lavender. While watching one particular lady take off her clothes, I realized how weird the concept of stripping seemed.

Then it clicked. For Pacman Jones stripping isn’t weird, it’s just a reminder of home. He doesn’t want trouble; he’s just a homesick alien. It’s like me getting soul food to relive childhood memories of the South only for Pacman the food has swinging titties, the serving tongs are thongs, and the cobbler is a no holds barred lap dance in the manager’s office.

Alien nostalgia, that’s the only reasonable explanation.