AJ Daulerio has been Deadspin's "correspondent" all week at the Super Bowl in Miami. He wraps up his coverage today with two tales. The first is from the Penthouse Party on Friday night.

We waited for two hours in line before we could get into the Penthouse Super Bowl Party. Even with "press" passes generously provided to us, the lack of a formal, straight line and the mad rush of ticket holders, non-ticket holders and VIPs created a logjam outside of the aptly named club Mansion. My attorney and I were restless; even though we were curious about what Bacchanal hid behind the giant doors and the giant bouncers, it seemed less and less likely that the Deadspin +1 was going to get us off the sidewalk at 16th and Washington Ave. My attorney suggested we be patient. It paid off.

Although not as star-studded as the Maxim Party, the Penthouse Party proved to be more enjoyable, if only for the randomness of its attendees and our interactions with them. Matt Geiger, although he was really choking me in the above photo — lesson learned for the week: do not ask a man with size 11 hands to choke you, even in jest — he was pleased to find out that there was somebody from Philadelphia who still remembered him fondly, even though his busted knee never really justified the enormous free agent contract the Sixers gave him. Geiger's a Miami guy, though, and the parties he used to throw at his South Beach house when he played for the Heat were legendary.

I told him that even though he was hurt most of 2001, I thought it was the coolest thing how Larry Brown used to bring him off the bench just to bully people and the Wachovia nee Core States nee First Union center would just explode. He smiled, he hugged me, then he choked me because I'd asked him to. I think that actually means I had my first erotic asphyxiation experience, courtesy of Matt Geiger.

After the jump, read about the Penthouse debauchery, the Snoop concert and the weirdest VIP Lounge shared with myself, my attorney and the Salisbury-esque chica magnet that is Warren Moon.

These ladies were dancing on the table. In fact there were lots of ladies dancing on pretty much every table that wasn't serving another purpose, like, say holding a giant. It was a Penthouse party, and that's what they're supposed to do at these sort of things. Mansion was once another club called Level, given the name by its maze-like levels inside. If you made a wrong turn, you could end up at a completely different bar then you were before, even though the bar would look exactly the same.

This had all the night club noise, boom, flashes, greaseballs and cleavage one would expect from a South Beach nightclub. The ratio of guys to girls was, however, probably 90:1. From the party, it appears that the Penthouse readership most likely consists of men who resemble professional wrestlers and who smoke cigars. But the crowd was younger, it seemed, most likely from the makeover Penthouse is trying with their new issues. Sadly, with its sleeker refinement, gone are the days of photo spreads of women peeing in the shower.

Celebrities and former athletes were scarce, but a few were recognizable — besides Geiger there was Bernard Hopkins who showed up waay too early with an entourage that included a Luc Brazi-looking handler, a hype man and two girls who he picked up on the street. Hopkins' Brazi tried to storm through the gates while we were all waiting but he was denied as well. The Middleweight Champion would have to wait in the middle of the street until things cleared out. Bernard looked a little confused as to why he had to stand in the street, but then again, he looks that way all the time.

Once we were inside, there were the requisite shots of Jager, as suggested by my attorney, and we were off. We spent a good portion of the evening getting lost in Mansion and desperately searching out our VIP tags, which were supposedly being held by some woman in some alcove. We found her, eventually, and then made our way upstairs to the lounge, where they not only had a steaming tray of hot dogs, but also Warren Moon.

Moon was there with some of the crew from The NFL network, who appeared to send some of their correspondents and producers to bone up on their pre-game analysis by gifting them with a few Penthouse Pets. One of the analysts, John something, the black guy making the white guy dance face in the above picture, was someone who I mistook for the actor who played Jackie Chiles on Seinfeld.

Me: "Hey, you're the guy that played Kramer's lawyer, right?"
JOHN BLACK FOOTBALL ANALYST DOING HIS BEST JACKIE CHILES VOICE: "Yes. Yes, I am! They're real and they're spectacular!' Teri Hatcher is a wonderful kisser!
ME: Oh, sorry, man. I thought you were. You kind of look like him.
JOHN: I understand, I understand. You down for the game? Who ya' think'll win?
ME: Oh. The Bears. Love the Bears!
JOHN: Me too. Besides...they have the better quality women too.

Of course they do.

Then, Snoop came on, the place went nuts, the doobies were fired, the boobies were fired and Warren Moon was just having a blast with the bevy of blonde women provided by the NFL Network. He had at least two different ones shifting positions on his lap. I instructed my attorney to get a photo of Mr. Moon being grinded upon, but the photo was overly bright and shrouded in smoke, making it appear that Warren Moon had died and gone to lap dance heaven. But, if anybody ever gets a chance to, please, please experience Warren Moon grinding white women during "Gin and Juice." In fact, you should pay a lot of money to see it.

We attempted to get various photos of all angles, when one of the NFL Network's producers came over to me and said I should just go up and ask him for a photo.

"He's a really nice guy. I'm sure he'll take a photo with you."

"I don't know, he's got all those women around him..."

" Well, when he's free from them, just go up and ask him."

That took a while. I believe at one point there were blonde girls nestled underneath Warren Moon's armpits. If he sneezed, four of them would probably fly out of his nose.

Finally, I saw my opportunity and approached The Warrior. He did not remember me from the Maxim Party the night before. He agreed to a picture and even told one of his ladies to wait a minute to do so.

"What you got going on tomorrow, Warren?" I asked.

He wiped his forehead and just gave me a wink.

"Game time, baby. Game time." Off he went; and as he sat himself back down on the couch, a blonde woman pawing at his leg, I realized he wasn't talking about the Super Bowl at all.

Maxim's Superbowl Shitshow party was everything one could hope for and so much more. The Sagamore Hotel transformed itself into a beachfront paradise with celebrities and athletes, and, of course FredEx and his Godly hands cavorting about the joint. Freddie Mitchell was attached to Irishman Brady Quinn and Julius Jones for most of the evening, trying to round up ladies, or an offseason workout partner, or relevancy— most likely all three. I approached Freddie, bursting with Eagles superfandom, thanked him for 4th and 26 and the Vikings Divisional playoff game which he totally owned. Then I asked for a pic. Next question?

"What are you up to now?"

Fred pauses. Annoyed...Death stare...He hates me.

"Chillin'..."

Obviously.

Action photos were scarce at the event, since many of the paid photogs would get a little huffy if renegade digital camera sorts were cockblocking their work. But , I did my best.

After the jump, read about the somewhat fascinating conversation with John Rocker, Warren Moon, and David Spade's fuckyfaced PR agent.

I arrived at the Maxim Party waaaay too early, proving my red carpet greeness and lack of confidence in being let in without the help of the dearly departed mustache. So, at 9 p.m, I'm sitting on an oddly shaped plastic love seat smoking a cigarette, taking in the Hotel De Maxim regime setting up their various Absolut Vodka and Coors Lights stations. I then wonder again how Coors Light continues to be allowed into these supposedly A-list events. Why doesn't Gennessee Cream Ale ever pony up for these things?

Dude comes over, asks to bum a cigarette, and introduces himself as Chris, a press agent for BWR.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to meet David Spade here and be his handler this evening. He'll be here soon."

Without much provocation, this greasy sumbitch just starts dumping on Spade for no reason.

"He's a real fucking loser. He's doing this sitcom right now that completely fucking sucks. But that's all he can get now."

"Well, he got Heather Locklear, though right?" I ask, trying to keep the conversation only 20% less slimey.

"He wishes. He's totally using her just to get his name out ther. Now, she's somebody. But, seriously, Spade's a nice guy, but he's a total fucking loser. If I get enough in me I might call him on it tonight."

"Oh, so they're just friends? They never hooked up? I kind of figure that. Or hoped that, at least."

Dude asks for another cigarette immediately after he puts the first one out he bummed.

"No, no, no. He's fucking her. He fucks her all the time. He's just acting like he's a good guy and in love with her, though. He's not. That's how he's using her.He's trying to pull of this nice guy routine, but it's not the case. I mean, he's cool and all, he's real friendly, but just not with her. Like I said, he's a fucking loser."

BWR Public Relations, ladies and gentlemen — they treat their clients great!

About 10 p.m. Spade walks in with the Farley Brother in tow. Kind of surreal, like in this weird Tommy Boy flashback kind of way — epic, really. I just feel bad for Spade. He should probably get some other people to handle his publicity better.

So, the rest of the early arrivals start to filter in. I'm alerted that John Rocker and Alicia Marie are milling about. Hey, they know Deadspin! Right? They do, actually, and give their regards to the Royal We. Alicia Marie says that when she and John were walking through Coconut Grove, O.J. Simpson stopped while in the back of his white limo, rolled down the window, and hollered over to John Rocker that he's a fan of his. Brilliant.

Most other people would probably lose their minds from such a creepy encounter with the Juice, but Rocker seemed a little perplexed of how to take the compliment, shrugged, and appeared to accept it for better, worse, and weirdness.

"He's kind of fat now, " Rocker said.

They graciously agreed to take a picture and then Rocker requested that there be no altering with photoshop. "Don't make it so her top's off or that I'm saying "I Hate Black People" or something." Luckily, I would have no idea how to do such a thing. They ruled.

After a few more Coors Lights, some of the bigger names began to walk in — Tony Romo, Andy Roddick, Spike Lee, uh, Jay Fiedler. Fiedler was introducing himself to a group of girls perched in one of the beachfront hotel rooms, scolding them for smoking.

I saw Warren Moon and did my best impersonation of a Houston Oilers fan to catch a few minutes of conversation.

"You're a warrior!" I said. He thanked me, asked if I was having a good time, then started to move with the crowd headed over to the main entrance way.

I probed him some more.

"Hey, man, that Buffalo game? That stil haunt you? I'm still pissed about it."

Moon was a little annoyed. "I'm sorry you're pissed. That was 20 years ago, you have to get over it. I did. I lost a lot of big playoff games in my life. That was just one of 'em."

"Yeah, but that was bad. Still kills me."

"It was 20 years ago. Y'all have a good time tonight."

Then he hustled through the crowd to go find a nice lady to take home and punch in the face. Or Coors Light. One or the other.

The Hotel de Maxim, unfortunately, had two bathrooms that were supposed to satisfy about 4,000 Coors Light-filled bladders for the evening. I and my cohort decided that we should head back to my hotel down the street to piss and then come back in. We were told we could come back in. But the wait was lengthy by that point due to the party getting extremely crowded and even though there was so much more magic on the inside — KFed! Fergie! Mike McMahon! Ridiculous looking girls made of suntan and areola! — but we'd had enough. But the Hotel de Maxim, was who we thought they were — shockingly awesome. I just hope David Spade had himself a good time.