SAN FRANCISCO, CA - Residents of Fog City were shocked last night when Carrie Prejean showed up in full pageant attire, ready to paint the town red.
Fresh from being relieved of her Miss California title by "Old Mack" Donald Trump (presumably for being a "cold fish" as much as for her comments on gay marriage, given Old Mack's reputation), Prejean was apparently feeling rebellious and eager to blow off some steam.
She was first sited around 10:05 p.m. at a tattoo studio near Polk and Sutter where, according to eyewitnesses, Prejean appeared to be "under the influence." While the owner insisted that he has a strict policy against giving tattoos to intoxicated patrons, he noted with a wink that he "can't catch everything," adding that at least he didn't give her the tongue piercing she wanted, and "the black widow I tattooed on her bikini area turned out hella-cool."
After leaving the tattoo studio, Prejean proceeded South on Polk Street, gathering a curious entourage as she meandered down the sidewalk, stopping every so often to sip from a flask containing an unknown liquid witnesses say she claimed was holy water.
Prejean arrived at the West coast's premiere transgender nightclub, The Mutherload, shortly after 11 p.m. Once inside, she was offered alcoholic beverages by a number of potential suitors. All were curtly dismissed with the explanation, "No, thank you. I'm a Christian. I don't drink!"
Nevertheless, Prejean continued to sip from her flask of holy water. Apparently consumed with the spirit, she performed lap dances on the club's strobe-lit, dry-ice-fog-filled second level over the course of the next couple of hours for several enthusiastic gentlemen, ladies, and quite a few others lying somewhere in between.
By 1:45, Prejean's pageant dress was in tatters, and the "Miss California" banner she was wearing had been turned inside out, with the word "c**ksucker" scribbled on it in magic marker.
At 2:05, she was handed two condoms by the door attendant as she left stumbling, in the arms of a Mutherload regular affectionately known as "Uncle Becky."
"You can't let her leave with him!" whispered one inebriated gentleman loudly as the two left arm in arm. "That's Carrie Prejean!"
"Shhh!" said the attendant emphatically, waving him off with one giant hand as she turned her head, waiting for the door to slowly swing shut. When it had, she continued, towering over him as she sat. "Honey, I know exactly who that wath. You jutht be quiet and thtay out of other people's busineth. Now hand me that drink and go home, thweetie, before I have to kick your ath out mythelf."
The unlikely pair checked into a room in the hotel immediately adjacent to the club. They had not left as of the posting of this article, meaning Prejean had better hope she has access to some money. Otherwise, she might end up having to work off the bill; according to the prostitutes hanging around the hotel entrance, those particular rooms are about sixty dollars an hour, the bouncer/receptionist only takes cash, and Uncle Becky almost never has any money.