I’m too sexy for you’re party – No way I’m disco dancing!
Recently a friend of mine has realized that her body is as tight as a latex condom and is contemplating shaking it. Because she’s got it. She’s decided to put her belly button ring back in and follow her dreams.
What dream, you ask? The dream to be a stripper.
Today’s topic- To Hate, or To Appreciate?
For the first time I can ever remember, I’ve decided not to hate. If my friend wants to leave her high-powered career for Hepatitis C and an inevitable cocaine addiction, I say go for it. It will make you really skinny and ween out your search for love to only the HIV positive. Aids isn’t the same as Hep C? Oh well. Strippers are the triple threat of the female race. They can dance, they exercise at least 6 hours a day, they make great money, they give a hell of a blowjob, and they are all strong, hardworking single mothers. Ya that was three things. Not that I need to add any more upsides to my argument, but, my friend is single. There is no better place to meet Russian business men you’ll regret dating, than at a strip club.
Which reminds me, why do strippers get such a negative rep and their customers don’t? Tiger Woods goes to strips clubs like 3 times a day, and he’s still America’s sweetheart. But the strippers he fucks are called dirty whores. (Okay maybe Tiger wasn’t the best example.) I know it’s not a woman/man ‘our world is still sexist’ kind of thing. Because let’s face it, women are way more perverted than men. And now they can change their own light bulbs. If you would have just showed us how to do it the first time instead of patting us on the head and pushing us back into the kitchen 70 years ago, we would have made male sex robots way before you guys invented Asian blow up dolls.
Back to stripping.
It’s a formidable career choice. I suggest every woman who is just ‘saving up for phd school’ smarten the fuck up and realize how awesome they are. Every man wants to be with you, and every man’s wife wants to knife you. It’s all any girl can dream for.
If I were to get up on that pole and show everyone how much I hate to shave my legs, I would do it to Simon and Garfunkel’s Sound of Silence. Picture this, the lights dim, the stage is empty and the song starts, “Hello darkness my old friend…” Then out comes all five feet of me. You start thinking, is that a child? Am I about take part in underage lewd activities? Then you think- oh well, I’m just a customer, I don’t need to ask for anyone’s ID. Right when you’re getting comfortable- the spot light turns on. Wow. That is one aged face. Definitely not a kid. You relax a little more because the threat of prison no longer haunts you. You look a little closer and see that I’m mouthing the lyrics, “because a vision softly-y creeping..”. Then as the chorus comes on I spin around the pole but my ankle buckles on the landing and end up on my ass. I start doing the robot on my way back up and turn around to get my sexy back by pressing my flat ass to the chrome. By now, three-quarters of the room has left to go see Big Ne Ne’s performance of eating burgers with her feet, naked. I still stay for the whole three minutes and finish with a cart-wheel before disappearing behind the dark curtain as the last few seconds of the song finish “and whispered in the sound of silence.” End scene.
I still can’t understand why some things can work for Will Farrell, but not for me.
So, friend, I can’t wait to support your new venture. And if you ever need a pimp, I give a solid backhand. The more rings on, the more respect.
I’m too sexy for my cat, too sexy for my cat, poor pussy, poor pussy cat.
Get your elbows lined up and high-five a bitch properly. Charlie Sheen. (that’s the new synonym for winning)