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My Night At The Strip Club

When I worked in advertising, it was common to take clients out to ballgames, hockey games, etc. Usually my bosses would wind up at a strip club with the clients, because hey, nothing says keeping an account while watching your client get his rocks off while getting a private lap dance in the Champagne Room, right?
One night I got asked to take the clients (3 middle-aged men) to a Flyers hockey game. Before leaving the office, my boss Dan hands me an envelope and says it’s for after the game entertainment; should they want to go “somewhere.” Somewhere was Delilah’s, the premier strip club in Philadelphia. And in the envelope was about $2500 in an assortment of bills.
No sweat, I got this….they aren’t going to want to go with me.

Wrong – they really wanted me to take them to Delilah’s.

The limo pulls up to the club, and Manny, Moe, and Jack jump out like kids who just had PixieStix laced with meth. I pay the cover to the bouncer, watch them race in, and say to the bouncer “Here’s $50. You keep me safe tonight, and there’s another $100 for you at the end of the night.” He smiled and said no problem. I felt better, as he was the size of a sub-zero refrigerator.

I got escorted to a corner seat at the bar…word must have gotten out I was to be protected, and that I was also the cash queen, because every bartender, bar back, and even the manager came by to check on me.

So as I sat there for 3 mind-numbing hours, I came to a few realizations:
1) Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard is the best song to strip/pole dance to.
2) You could tell immediately who had real boobs and who had implants, and of the girls who had implants, you could tell who made the investment. Bad boob jobs look like half a coconut shell bolted to their chest – they don’t move. At all.
3) You could tell who the inexperienced girls were – they either tried too hard, or looked like deer in the headlights.
4) Spend the money and buy a bottle of overpriced booze or champagne, because the mixed drinks are watered down to the point of nothing.
5) Do not speak or smile at anyone, other than your clients and your “bodyguard” – BIG MISTAKE if you do.
6) Don’t be insulted if one of the girls asks “So who are you and why are you here?” My answer was “I’m thinking of buying the place; who are you?” That usually shut them up or reduced them to fawning twits.
Being the good hostess, I got up frequently to check on my charges, gave them hundreds of dollars to throw onstage; reassured one that I was sworn to secrecy, because his wife could never find out he went to a strip club…and had to tell a few cute young things that no, I wasn’t a “working” girl.
I must have done a good job, because the following week I was told the guys wanted me to take them to a Phillies game….it took me three days to find my catcher’s mitt…

I Need More Grain

After learning how much I’ve spent on beer, and deciding to mend my wicked ways, I’ve turned to my childhood favorite, Ovaltine. But I think I must have had a bit too much last night after waking in the middle of the night with the idea for an all-girl band.
I had a clear picture in my mind of how they would look, and the songs they would record; I even saw their names through my healthy drink-induced stupor.
From left to right:
Tawnee Rotten– Lead Vocals
Lacey Hole– Synthesizer
Butch– Flugelhorn
Latex Cholera– Drums
Sara Viscous– Bass Guitar

Further, I was convinced they would go platinum with their first album with these titles:

Big Girls Don’t Cry, Bitch
Hanging, Dimpled, Pregnant and Punched
Rohypnol Blues
Mamma, Who’s My Daddy?
Got My Panties ‘Round My Ankles, Pain ‘Round My Heart
Swingin’ From The Ceiling Fan
Cop Behind Us, Act Natural
Do Cats Fit In Tupperware?
Do Your Condoms Lose Their Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight?
The Pope Went Down On Me
Cactus In My Underpants
There’s A Reason Why The Ladies Call You Tiny
Damn, That Needle’s Dull

Screw Ovaltine.
*pop… fizzzzzz*