PA's blare, directing traffic…

"Pam to lot 1, Pam to lot 1..."

"Contestants who have not signed in, please see the check-in table..."

"Would the owner of a blue Dodge convertible, license plate number..."

Crowds mill about in the heat and the noise - girls baked brown by the tropical sun all shiny with oil and sweat; guys in Bermudas and sandals, short hair and sunglasses, strolling, eyeballing. Banners for the tournament ripple in the wind - red letters on white backgrounds shouting, "HAVE YOU GOT THE BEEF?"

Pam Anderson's got a pretty good grip on Kiana Tom. It wasn't supposed to be this way! Pam a surprise entrant, supposed to be done, supposed to have hung up her bikini. Guys still dig her; gals still curl their lips at the mention of her name; shake their heads and cluck their tongues - you gotta hand it to the old girl - she's got presence!!

This was supposed to be Kiana's tournament - home town girl, bye in the first round - that sort of thing. Last thing she thought she'd see was smutty Pam and those over-rated jugs bulged-up in that pink underwire bikini. Kiana certainly hadn't expected to struggle, but there she was: seated on her haunches, growing weak in Pam's clutches, face sealed in tight against Pam's hulking hooters and Pammie just grinding away with all the time in the world.

Pam kneels on her right knee, left foot planted strong in the sand, arms locked in a sleeper grip around Kiana's head, holding her snug. Anderson's face calm, blonde hair heavy with sweat, matted straight down her back. Every once in a while, Pam tightens the grip on her bicep, or shakes Kiana's head side to side like a wolf setting it's teeth firmer in a still-warm haunch. Tom had long since stopped punching futile right hands against Pam's belly - now the Hawaiian's long fingers tug at Pam's pink boy cut trunks, or reach up behind Pam to pull pathetically at Anderson's shoulders. Pam just stays on her, sometimes resting her cheek on the top of Kiana's head, sometimes staring out into the crowd, squinting as she tweaks and ratchets up the grip. Kiana pushes her palms against Pam's glistening ribcage.

Anderson's belly moves in and out with measured, easy breaths - her left hand cups the top of Kiana's damp skull. A noise from Kiana: a whimper.

A woman's laugh lifts high and cutting over the crowd, carried past the contestants on a sweltering sea breeze.

Pam knows when a girl is baked, when she's had it - 'quit' has a certain feel on a girl's skin, has a certain scent - Pammie senses it all over sleepy Kiana. She stands up, releasing Kiana with a flourish and Tom reclines in a devastated sprawl on her back, arms up, head lolling side to side, face shiny-wet with punishment. That glossy-bronze torso stretching taut; those wiry legs relaxing out into the sand.

An excited voice on a nearby PA starts the dime chime, "One! Two! Three!..." Tom dimly hears it, tries to rally her numb legs, groggily tries to sit up, only to fall back down with a sun-stroked expression. At "Seven!" Pam, staring down, starts to clap, then punches the air as Kiana struggles to roll onto her side again. At "Ten!", Pam lifts tired arms into the air and swishes away white sneakers on sand as applause ripples around her. It's a knock out! Poor Kiana lays back on scalding sand, exhausted in her purple bikini that won't get past the second round.

The Miller Lite girls cluster, awaiting scheduled events. Four Budweiser girls square off against Four Silver Bullet girls in a tug of war in the sand, two girls per team standing, screeching encouragement:

"Pullllll!"

"Come ON you guys!"

A Hooters girl with oversized, but stiff white boxing gloves belts away on a helpless Tropicana girl, buffeting her around the sand with clubbing, girlish glee, finally punching her out of the drawn circle and chalking up another point. The Hooters girls clap and cavort - Trop gals hug and pet their traumatized teammate who’s still blubbering and trembling from the slobberknocking received. Hot glares laser back at the rejoicing Hooter sluts - revenge vowed for tears, and it's so early yet. All part of the show folks, like fireworks or frizbee catching dogs or dancers at half time - something to watch in between celeb bouts.

On Lot 4, Britney's trapped, held between Jessica Simpson's tanned thighs and sealed in against Simpson's pulsing breasts. Young blondes lie on their sides, baking brown in the sun - Britney's not moving much. Spears' right hand pulls at Jessica's left shoulder, pleading with the muscle to relax, just a bit, pleeeeease: Simpson clutches all the tighter, eyes glittering with stupid hate, lips squeezing together in a hard white line as Spears emits a muffled moan. An official checks the grip pressure on Simpson's legs, sliding fingers in between tanned Jessica thigh and smooth Britney hip: you can hold a girl in place, but you can't squeeze her out with your legs. This is a smother tournament - can't have a bunch of penny-titted scissor specialists getting in here and ruining the balance (Charlize deliberately not invited). Simpson's legs hold firm, but fair - ref lets it go. Jess re-crosses her ankles.

Britney just lies there. Taking it. One hand clutching Jessica's golden shoulder; the other pushing at the thigh as Jessica digs her chin into Spears' skull, letting her jugs do the work. And Britney starts tapping out!

Spears awkward, reaching over Jessica's body to tap panicky at the sand, then tapping on Jessica's exposed left-side ribs and thigh. Explosive gasp from the crowd - it's an upset! Simpsy releases with a squeal, wriggling to extricate herself, pink string bikini jumpy as excitement quivers across her flesh. Britney rolls onto her back, hands on her face, knees bent. Spears' chest shudders as she sobs quietly. White bikini, colored dots: she'll never wear it again. Simpson jumps around, batting sand off her thighs and backside, hugging her manager, making little fists and being happy. Britney's mom's on a cell phone: angry, shaking her head, pissed at the on-going slump that's starting to cost them money. They'll blame that bum knee in the press - hurt Britney's mobility, prevented her from getting position on Jess. Yeah, that's the ticket.

A chubby Hooters girl with brassy blonde hair and chafing thighs beats a toned Tropicana girl's six-pack abs in the stomach-punching pit. All in the punch - Trop girl just hanging off her foe, barking out in pain, butt back, dirty-blonde pigtails forward as she takes a beating. You'd never have guessed it, watching the two step into the pit at the start. You'd have bet your buddy a finski that the Trop girl would wipe the pit with the Hooter's chick, looking at the two bellies. Appearances CAN be deceiving! Hard-body Tropicana chick punches like a girl. Curvy Hooter's babe gets her weight behind her sock, really sinks it in: her pale fist thudding wet and beefy against those tanned, chiseled abs, Trop girl's achy-whiny grunts as she folds forward into her foe's smoothly rounded arms. Tropicana girls were put together at the last minute by some marketing moron in New York: Hooters girls attend events all over the south - they travel as a unit - they come to sponsored shows like this to win.

Wait!! Pam's disqualified! Big scene at the head official's table as tempers flare. Krista Allen asked for, and received an official check of the oil Anderson's been using on her breasts. Turned out to be a special cocoa-nut derivative, used by Hawaiian natives for centuries to induce drowsiness in their opponents - that’s soooo not acceptable! Oil is used to affect a tight seal on an opponent's face but the rest is supposed to be up to the combatants. Allen nixes Pam with a cat-like smirk - Anderson stamping her foot and leaving in a huff, but it sure explains why Tom went out like such a lamb.

Tsing-tao and Tiger Beer have sent representative teams for the first time; sleek Asian girls with long silky tresses and flashing, Siamese eyes. They've got attitude and they're competitive in a shrill, shrieking way - but none of this stuff suits their slender, sinewy physiques. They're bullied, pinned, pushed, romped, tugged and buffeted and by the end of the day, they'll be hollow-eyed, panting, well-used and quite shopworn! But they'll be back next year…..for now they're upbeat, scornful of the endless bobbing sea of blond surrounding them.

Throughout the afternoon, stars big and little lock up and struggle at various sites along the sandy quarter mile. You can stroll past Carmen Electra in her pig tails, pink bandeau top with navy polka dots, and navy bottoms giving it her usual writhing-all as she gets on top of aging Brandy Ledford and snuggles her out. Watch the outrageous mismatch of Kelly Packard versus pre-tournament favourite Ali Landry - Landry in that brazen gold bikini, just getting on top of Kelly and letting Packard spend up all her energy trying to push against the beef. Kelly's movements growing feeble: Ali's body thick and heavy, just deadweight on top of the much smaller blonde - Ali's back shining as sunlight pools in the sweat. And Ali's unspeakable delight: absolute control and no rush to finish - she wants every bit of Kelly used up.

You can watch as Cat Bell in electric blue and Jeri Ryan in crimson take turns while standing - each countering with bear hugs high on the ribcage when trapped by the other, reversing and dishing out the beef in return. Towards the end, as long legs stagger and threaten to give - Cat's walking Jeri down, reaching to tug on the back of those sturdy red trunks to reel Jeri back in for more punishment. Cat likes to hike a girl's right arm up inside the hold: it sticks straight up, useless to the opponent, leaving only the left to probe and explore. Ryan beats pathetically with the side of her left fist into Cat's hip, then taps out on Cat's slick back juuust at the point of no return. Bell lets her go and Jeri plops to a dazed seat in the sand, her legs crossed, head lolling.

Jenny McCarthy and her pigtails gives it to Krista Allen, knocking her out of the tournament and dashing Krista's hopes with Anderson out of the picture. Allen cries pathetically on her back, shielding her eyes from the sun, chest quivering with emotion. Jenny grinning, loving it - borrows a pitcher from a nearby Bud Girl and pours it on Allen's face, sitting the brunette up spluttering. Mac guffaws at the sight: she hates Krista and most know it. Jenny's own gloating triumph turns to nightmare when she is outmaneuvered and smothered out by Carmen. McCarthy all fluttering eyelashes and staggering legs gets up three times, staving off 10 counts each time, but Electra's simply too quick. Jenny goes out on her feet as Carmen chews her bottom lip in anticipation - simply releasing, stepping to the side to allow McCarthy to fall face first into the sand.

Cat Bell gets by Heather Kozar, but it's brutal and takes waaaay too long - other celebs stop by to watch, resting up, sucking on water bottles as the battle grinds on and on. Both girls suffer in clammy confines, killing nearly two hours lying on their sides, struggling on their knees, staggering around in standing clinches. They swap and reverse, bringing each other to the brink of surrender only to weaken and let loose too soon. Bell fakes collapse to escape at one point - Kozar disgusted with herself for falling for it. In the end, Cat makes no such error. When Heather doesn't tap, then stops moving - Bell stays cinched up tight, eyes fierce with concentration as she lies on her right side, crushing what's left. When Bell finally lets loose, Kozar's mouth lolls wet and open against Cat's breasts - blonde utterly used up but nearly using Bell up in the process.

Ali gets bogged down in a similarly draining bout against Gena Lee Nolin. Again, a devastated blonde is used up, getting to all fours at the count of ten but no farther - but Ali is shot. Landry doubled over in victory, hands on her knees, sobbing for breath - she'll be easy pickings for girls she could have handled with ease otherwise. Draw's starting to open up - it's anybody's trophy after 2:00 PM.

Miller Lite girls contest La Conquista against Bud. Just two girls engaged in beefy struggle, and both squads standing over the girl-pile in the sand, screaming encouragement and abuse in equal measure. When the Bud-girl's slack, buxom frame is finally shoved over the end line - Miller Lite girls go insane, helping their victorious team mate to her feet as the heat and exhaustion have left her rag doll, too weak to stand.

Tiger Beer squares off against Tsing Tao in the body-punching pit. Both squads have been trounced all day: this is their only chance to come out a winner and the violence is startling. Girls hold hands and exchange ripping kicks into one another's ribs and tummies - rendering officials speechless with the bright, tangy spank of it all. Tsing Tao batters their Pac Rim rivals, exalting after each victory with unspeakable glee.

Guinness girls do well in the four on four tackle football games. Rugby style swing tackles are employed by curvy girls in swimsuits - suits the Europeans who seem eager to make beefy contact in the sand.

In the end, one buxom celebrity after another falls by the wayside: sprawled on their backs, faces shiny and blank with punishment; proud jugs defeated, sullen and sagging in bleak bikini cups; girls sobbing in little ditches of defeat on the sand, weak-kneed as they come around and realize they've been bested.

An exhausted Cat Bell goes against a relatively fresh Carmen Electra in the final and it's heartbreaking for Bell, but she just can't compete - once Electra trips her to the sand, it's a long, slow process of breaking the big woman down, controlling her head and shoulders….and smothering her out. Bell would never tap to Carmen - you know that - but Electra doesn't mind. She can't wipe the smile off her face when she gets on top for the last time, arms wrapped up tight behind Cat's head, Electra's cheek in the sand as she digs in with her toes and gets all her torso-weight right on top of Bell's face.

Cat's hands pull and jerk Carmen’s suit bottom, tugging the waist band, then cup wetly at the golden-brown hips, just riding there. Carmen milks it, her hips gulping at Cat's stomach in a mocking dry hump to raucous approval from the crowd. When Electra stands, convinced that Bell is finished, Carmen snaps those navy bottoms snug around her buttocks, bats the sand off her thighs and stares down hands on hips - she's still grinning as the PA announcer starts to count. Bell: face moist with Carmen's oil and sweat and scent; legs outstretched, at peace; hands up and out. At 10, Carmen's a happy little jiggler - hands held high, buttocks bouncing as she struts, then leaps into the arms of her handlers.