They’re illusory bullshit, it transpires; akin to the magician’s legerdemain to dupe us into believing he has cleft his assistant’s body in twain and reversed the process. (At which even a baby in its mother’s arms in the audience isn’t decieved. “Bitch, PLEASE. Even I can feel my intelligence being insulted by your rudimentary ruse, and I shit myself every half an hour.”) Padinga.com issued a review of the establishment (which you may peruse in the main article), from the standpoint of a studly gamer entering, striving to engage in STUDLY GAMER ACTIVITIES. Whereupon, they would encounter a shit-stained and shit-tastic arcade machine or two ensconced in a shadowy corner that reeks of piss, and a couple of angry overweight bastards preparing to penis-wrestle outside for the last hot wing. Or something to that effect.
There is the eternal caveat, though, that they DO have the bosomy wenches.