Saturday, April 21, 2007
Don't be so fucking stupid
I got a newsflash for y'all. This is mostly for the gentlemen, but ladies, listen up in case this applies to you too.
Strippers do not like you.
It's not a big deal and it shouldn't be a mystery. The only single thing about you they find remotely interesting is your back left pocket - assuming that's where you keep your wallet. So get the message with a quickness: they're not attracted to you. They don't want to leave with you at 5 am to make whoopie. If you saw them on the street they'd flat out ignore you. In fact, cut the bullshit, they probably hate you. The point is this: you walked in with money that they'd like walk out with. For this reason and this reason alone will they rub their perfumed and sparkly persons all over you in ten-minute increments. And then they want you to go the fuck home.
If you want to date a stripper, buy a drink for any girl who says she's a dancer. BUT NOT AT THE STRIP JOINT. It is not match.com, nor is it eharmony. It's not even like friendster. It's a place you soberly waltzed into in search of titties, and you simply cannot can't take it with you when you go. End of story.
With this thesis, allow me to share an anecdote that both illustrates my point and explains the inspiration:
I work right around the corner from a gentlemen's establishment - as a matter of interest, it's right next door to the firing range that Raz and I frequent. After a particularly grueling day in the mines of experiential marketing, two guys I work with invite me out to, er, blow off some steam with cocktails and lap dances from some near-nekkid girls.
It's a Monday night so the place looks like a dollar-theater-run of Earnest Goes to Camp. One cat, this lone Asian businessman, is noncommitally inspecting the wares. Otherwise we're the only billfolds in the whole place, and one of us is female, so every girl workin 5 to 9 spots us right out of the gate and heads to our table. My two compatriots - Van Basketcase and Baldy - notice that the girl on stage is giving us the eye, and nudge me with that dumbstruck grin. "Truck, she likes you."
"You're hopeless, homies," I reply, and toss in the kicker. "Just so we're clear, this night's on you cuz I gots no money for this."
The rules so stated, the evening starts out innocently enough, and, as expected, a slow process of degeneration follows. Patron. Vodka Red Bulls. More Patron, more VRB, so on and on, interspersed with dances all 'round. The girl-on-the-stage, a slim Russian number in a hot pink dress, made a beeline for me the hot second she hopped off the the pole, and proceeds to stay with us throughout the evening. The boys wink at me knowingly as they peel off twenties for her to dance on my lap. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand, marveling at how dumb boys can be.
Finally, seduced by the nonstop flow of booze and boobies, Baldy gets the bright idea to hit the back room. Me and him with our Soviet sweetheart. So he negotiates with her, hands over the dough, and we head upstairs for a flatly embarrassing moment when he tries to convince her actually to hook up with me. I put an end to the nonsense when he won't let it go, and we head back down.
As soon as we hit the main floor, she disappears to the back another dancer, and we are left at the table with a fresh drink to tell of our misadventures. We recap for Van Basketcase, who has befriended the Asian guy in our absence and had a fine, less ridiculous experience for himself.
At the end of our sad tale, Baldy realizes she's missing and says, "Hey where did she go?"
"Home, motherfucker, it's quittin time."
He glances at his watch and takes in the inescable reality: it's 5:30 am. It dawns on his face slowly, as comprehension breast-strokes its way through the puddle of booze in his brain: first a pause, then a look of wonder, then a slight furrowing of the brow. His mind struggles to communicate with his face, until at last he speaks. "But I thought she liked us!" He proceeds to go on a tear about HOW SHE LED US ON, how she seduced us falsely all night, blah blah blah. This rant does not end for the next hour, as we close down the club and settle whatever unholy tab we racked up during our visit.
This rant does not end when it becomes tomorrow, as he picks it up periodically between meetings. He even adds the stinger - this isn't the first time he's experienced this, and WITH VAN BASKETCASE. He truly belives these girls like him, and cannot absorb the enduring, repated fact of his own empirical data. After about the fourth installment of this, I submit to mercy and annoyance and break it down for him, to save him and the world from this ludicrous douchebaggery. He is genuinely, shockingly surprised, and I am, again, genuinely embarrassed for his stupidity. We agree to leave it at that. I don't know if he took it to heart. And I will hopefully never know. Because I will never walk into any den of sin with him again. It's too bad for him, really - strippers are always nicer to tables that boast a female. It's a show of good faith. If you're cool enough to have your/a girl in tow when you go out to get rowdy, they will give you props. Just as, if you show your ass, they will leave your table so fast it'll make your drunk head spin.
In summary, let's recap the lesson.
SHE DON'T LIKE YOU.
So don't play.
Your stripper is like your dentist, less the schooling. Your stripper is like your mechanic, less the socket wrench. The very next time you find yourself faced with contracted labor of this variety, remember ye the simple arrangement: she provides a service, you pay for it. Don't be a jackass. Simply thank the maker for these symmetrical beauties-for-hire, and hail a cab home before you make a fool of yourself.
Strippers do not like you.
It's not a big deal and it shouldn't be a mystery. The only single thing about you they find remotely interesting is your back left pocket - assuming that's where you keep your wallet. So get the message with a quickness: they're not attracted to you. They don't want to leave with you at 5 am to make whoopie. If you saw them on the street they'd flat out ignore you. In fact, cut the bullshit, they probably hate you. The point is this: you walked in with money that they'd like walk out with. For this reason and this reason alone will they rub their perfumed and sparkly persons all over you in ten-minute increments. And then they want you to go the fuck home.
If you want to date a stripper, buy a drink for any girl who says she's a dancer. BUT NOT AT THE STRIP JOINT. It is not match.com, nor is it eharmony. It's not even like friendster. It's a place you soberly waltzed into in search of titties, and you simply cannot can't take it with you when you go. End of story.
With this thesis, allow me to share an anecdote that both illustrates my point and explains the inspiration:
I work right around the corner from a gentlemen's establishment - as a matter of interest, it's right next door to the firing range that Raz and I frequent. After a particularly grueling day in the mines of experiential marketing, two guys I work with invite me out to, er, blow off some steam with cocktails and lap dances from some near-nekkid girls.
It's a Monday night so the place looks like a dollar-theater-run of Earnest Goes to Camp. One cat, this lone Asian businessman, is noncommitally inspecting the wares. Otherwise we're the only billfolds in the whole place, and one of us is female, so every girl workin 5 to 9 spots us right out of the gate and heads to our table. My two compatriots - Van Basketcase and Baldy - notice that the girl on stage is giving us the eye, and nudge me with that dumbstruck grin. "Truck, she likes you."
"You're hopeless, homies," I reply, and toss in the kicker. "Just so we're clear, this night's on you cuz I gots no money for this."
The rules so stated, the evening starts out innocently enough, and, as expected, a slow process of degeneration follows. Patron. Vodka Red Bulls. More Patron, more VRB, so on and on, interspersed with dances all 'round. The girl-on-the-stage, a slim Russian number in a hot pink dress, made a beeline for me the hot second she hopped off the the pole, and proceeds to stay with us throughout the evening. The boys wink at me knowingly as they peel off twenties for her to dance on my lap. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand, marveling at how dumb boys can be.
Finally, seduced by the nonstop flow of booze and boobies, Baldy gets the bright idea to hit the back room. Me and him with our Soviet sweetheart. So he negotiates with her, hands over the dough, and we head upstairs for a flatly embarrassing moment when he tries to convince her actually to hook up with me. I put an end to the nonsense when he won't let it go, and we head back down.
As soon as we hit the main floor, she disappears to the back another dancer, and we are left at the table with a fresh drink to tell of our misadventures. We recap for Van Basketcase, who has befriended the Asian guy in our absence and had a fine, less ridiculous experience for himself.
At the end of our sad tale, Baldy realizes she's missing and says, "Hey where did she go?"
"Home, motherfucker, it's quittin time."
He glances at his watch and takes in the inescable reality: it's 5:30 am. It dawns on his face slowly, as comprehension breast-strokes its way through the puddle of booze in his brain: first a pause, then a look of wonder, then a slight furrowing of the brow. His mind struggles to communicate with his face, until at last he speaks. "But I thought she liked us!" He proceeds to go on a tear about HOW SHE LED US ON, how she seduced us falsely all night, blah blah blah. This rant does not end for the next hour, as we close down the club and settle whatever unholy tab we racked up during our visit.
This rant does not end when it becomes tomorrow, as he picks it up periodically between meetings. He even adds the stinger - this isn't the first time he's experienced this, and WITH VAN BASKETCASE. He truly belives these girls like him, and cannot absorb the enduring, repated fact of his own empirical data. After about the fourth installment of this, I submit to mercy and annoyance and break it down for him, to save him and the world from this ludicrous douchebaggery. He is genuinely, shockingly surprised, and I am, again, genuinely embarrassed for his stupidity. We agree to leave it at that. I don't know if he took it to heart. And I will hopefully never know. Because I will never walk into any den of sin with him again. It's too bad for him, really - strippers are always nicer to tables that boast a female. It's a show of good faith. If you're cool enough to have your/a girl in tow when you go out to get rowdy, they will give you props. Just as, if you show your ass, they will leave your table so fast it'll make your drunk head spin.
In summary, let's recap the lesson.
SHE DON'T LIKE YOU.
So don't play.
Your stripper is like your dentist, less the schooling. Your stripper is like your mechanic, less the socket wrench. The very next time you find yourself faced with contracted labor of this variety, remember ye the simple arrangement: she provides a service, you pay for it. Don't be a jackass. Simply thank the maker for these symmetrical beauties-for-hire, and hail a cab home before you make a fool of yourself.
Labels: assholes, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, hot chicks, nudity, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, small penises
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