Seven women strutted up on stage at the Guy Expo, wiggling and jiggling their beauty pageant assets. It was the Miss Guy Expo Contest and the women were clad in nothing more than tight tops, miniskirts, and tool belts.

“The Guy Expo is all about Beers and Babes,” said the snarky host of the pageant, “In this competition, ladies, swallowing is encouraged.” The small crowd of about a hundred Guy Expo attendees roared with laughter. 

If you think that was low-brow, it gets better: I was judging the event. 

As the women paraded in front of me, sexually handling their power drills, I sat at a long table with a panel of judges: Scott Schneweis (Metro Magazine’s own Semi-Pro), three soldiers, and some toothy guy who owned a flight school.   Semi-Pro and Spazz Dad were considered the “celebrity judges” on the panel. Now, I can’t speak for Scott. But in my case, if I am considered a celebrity for your competition, then sir, your competition is profoundly whack. (Note: I’m about as qualified to judge a beauty pageant as Danny DeVito. It is an insult to the entire female gender that I would be granted the power to decide what woman is or isn’t beautiful. I mean, come on. Have you seen me? My own wife has described my squat physique as “a body built for moving things.” My own mother refers to my disheveled fashion style as looking like “someone who is down on their luck.”) 

After the competition intro, Expo attendees crowded around the stage and showered the stage with whistles and cat-calls. Twenty feet away, a UFC cage fighting ring had been set up and several men grappled and wildly smacked the shit out of each other. The audience started to clap and the UFC fighters stopped smacking the shit out of each other, scurried up to the top of the cage, and sat there to watch. The audience filled with dudes.

Then I was handed a score sheet and asked to judge the contestants on four categories: appearance, joke telling, beer guzzling, and belching. The competition started and one by one the women came out, did a twirl, and seductively pretended to drill our scoring table. I gave the first three women (Sassy Cassy, Danny “The Vault Drink Girl”, and Taylor “Ta-Tas” from Lakeville) the highest scores possible in the appearance category.

“What did you give those first three girls?” The toothy flight instructor judge sitting next to me asked.

“Um,” I said, as my voice cracked under the weight of my shrinking testicles. “70.”

“What?” Toothy Guy said puzzled. “What if someone really hot comes out? You already gave them other girls the top score. What can you do then?” 

The man had a point. But it didn’t matter. Who the F was I? Lorenzo Lamas? I go around town dissecting women’s physiques with a laser pointer, ranking them on three basic categories: titties, booty, and overall bang-ability? Yeeeeah…I don’t think so. But apparently, Toothy Guy was taking this event as serious as Schnindler’s List. 

Next, the women were given plastic keg cups to guzzle beer. The women sucked down their beers, chugging and gasping for air. Several women let the beer spill onto their tank tops. After the beer was gone, a microphone was placed in front of a contestant who let fly a monstrous belch that was so mean and throaty it sounded like the sort of bellow that would’ve been a rally cry before an ancient Gallic battle. Semi-Pro leaned over and whispered, “I forgot to tell you. After this, we’re signed up to be in an Elvis themed Chicken Wing eating competition.”