Day 594
I wonder if I should start telling more stories here. I mean... Look... I'm kind of a horrible person. I do horrible things without thinking about the feelings or even the existence of others, I do inappropriate things at the worst possible times, I speak with no concern about the repercussions of them, and generally act like a raging jackass the vast majority of time.
And the thing is... because of that, I end up with a boatload of great fucking stories. Some are just quick little things that are no longer than a joke. But I don't tell a lot of them here. I get drunk and tell stupid stories all the damn time. But I rarely ever put them into text. Should I? Or have you all heard them in person and just want me to shut the fuck up most of the time?
Let's start off with one and you can tell me how it goes.
So we'll call this one "Joe Does Something Stupid At A Strip Club #47".
Circa 2005 or 2006. Summer time.
It was a Friday evening and I hadn't my friend Jason in about a month. It's odd how you can go from hanging out with some people almost daily to only seeing them every few days to every few weeks to a month or 2 between hanging out. You just drift. Sometimes for good reason, sometimes just because life gets in the way. In this case, it was more of the "good reason".
Now, don't get me wrong... I love Jay. He's a great guy. He's more pretentious, shallow, vain, egotistical, narcissistic and a bigger fuck-up that I've probably ever known 1 person could be while still not being done with undergrad by 24 even with skipping his senior year of high school to go to college early. But I love the guy. Yeah, he's kind of a douche. And if I hadn't been friends with him since I was 15, he's the kind of checking-himself-out-in-the-mirror-too-much, sweater-wearing, skinny-jeans, popped-collar, pretty-boy doucherockets that I'd probably normally want to punch on any other occasion if I just came across him while out and about.
The kind of guy that couches every decision that he makes, from the clothes he wears to the girls he dates to the places he eats by asking the question "what could possibly make the 6 year old version of me want to ball-tap me the most?" and following that question up with "what will make me the bigger douchebag frat-boy stereotype?" while trying to play it off as "maintaining an image for the future of his career". That career being some kind of investment banking.
Yeah... you all know the guys I'm talking about. The kind of guys that seem like they're always about 1 "shown up by this other guys business card" away from going all American Psycho and ranting about Huey Lewis for an hour or so. The kind of guy that WOULD actually care about how shiny his axe is before he cuts your god damn head off when he snaps.
But yeah... he's that kinda guy. Totally high strung. His idea of relaxing is to run in triathlons. More power to ya, but fuck that noise.
So back to the story here... well, this was before any of his stints in rehab for pain killers, and we were both still drinking far too much, though this has not apparently changed for me, and occasionally indulging some green. And on this fateful night, we were planning to engage a little of both.
So like most people living about 20 miles too far from a city to actually enjoy it on a regular basis, we would end up kinda driving around, trying to figure out what the fuck we wanted to do for the evening, and eventually got the bright idea that we should go to a strip club.
Jay had never been to one. How he'd made it 24 years at that point without it is mind-boggling to me. Though in his defense, my brother has hit 29 without doing so either, so stranger things HAVE happened. But as I'd already been long ago desensitized to the talents (or gyrations) of strippers, I felt it my duty to be the one to break his nudie-bar cherry. I mean... hell, I'd broken his brother's nudie bar cherry, and about 2/3 of my other friends. So I might as well get his too, right?
It made sense in my head.
But this was no Blush or Cheerleaders, hell, it wasn't even Erotica. No, this was this little shithole dive place out 22 way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere. The Beehive. Oh jesus... while I still haven't seen a knee brace there, this place DID make the Tennyson look at least middle-class. The kind of place that makes you want to take a shower the minute you leave. The kind of place that, at least in those days, still sold Nitrous out of a big tank to 18 year olds to do whipits by the case. So while I love me some really trashy women, this place pretty much scraped the bottom of the barrel back in those days. I have a feeling it does about the same now, but it's been a few years since I've been there. It might have changed, but I doubt it.
So walking into this place with this pretty-boy, yuppie-wanna-be was kind of amusing just for the expression on his face. Yet it somehow got even better.
Walking in and sitting down, he immediately got the attention of most of the dancers because he looked like he had money. These girls had the proper stripper attitude. You might have legs, but you're still just a walking wallet or a mealticket if you're cute enough and desperate enough.
But that's when things go amusing. This was a BYOB establishment. Even in the days before you were allowed to have booze in a fully nude club. But you actually couldn't bring booze inside. They simply turned a blind eye to getting hammered in the parking lot and they had a pretty simple in-and-out policy. They just remembered you. So that's an indication on the number of people that came through the door on a given evening. And sitting in the car, we had a bottle of Tangueray gin. They had a pop machine. And we gave birth to a drink that I still make on occasion. Gin & Mt. Dew. The drink that wakes you up and fucks you up. The Four Loco before Four Loco.
So while sitting there, drinking our hooch and watching some girl with a C-section scar gyrate on the stage and throwing dollar at her more to make her go away than to show appreciation, something fairly odd happened for a shithole strip club in the middle of bumfucknowhere. In walks 4 girls. Not other dancers. Not some meth-head trash. No... actual normal looking, 20-ish-looking girls. The clubs age restrictions were 18+, so it was not entirely uncommon to see younger-looking people there since they were broke college kids on break or recent highschool grads that were getting their first nudie-bar experience.
And not entirely shockingly, they decided to start talking to us. The rest of the patrons were 40-ish dudes with more hair on their shoulders, ears, and faces than on their heads and enough extra weight around their waistlines that small objects might begin to orbit around them. So I assume we were the "safe option" to befriend so as to not get hit on by men old enough to be their dad and weighing enough to be both of their parents and their family pets at the same time.
We quickly find out that it's the one girls birthday. And she's just turning 18.
This should have been my first red flag. It really should have been. But when I found out she was a contortionist and saw a quick demonstration of a human pretzel in her chair... well... my larger head stopped doing my thinking and my privilege took over the decision making process.
As I watch Jay excuse himself to go make another drink in the car and notice him come back with 4 drinks. For the girls. Now, I'm not one to really give a damn about contributing to the delinquency when it's not at my house. So I could care less. And as I'm getting flirted with by an 18-year-old contortionist, I'm not about to complain about her getting a few drinks to see about dropping some of those inhibitions.
Skip ahead about an hour and the girls want to leave. And they want us to leave with them. They had taken 2 cars. Jay and I had come in mine. 2 of the girls want to leave and go home. The other 2 want to keep going and hang out with us some more. I'm not complaining yet. The 2 that want to leave hop in one of the cars, leaving Jay and I and the other 2 girls with 2 cars. I get in mine and instead of Jay coming with me, the contortionist decides that she wants to ride with me. Jay takes the initiative and decides to go as the passenger for the other girl.
We stop and pick up some beer at some 6-pack shop on the way back to Jason's house. And as we're sitting there, each paired-up group in different rooms, on different couches, still bullshitting a little bit and not yet getting down to any sort of business, that's when she drops the bomb.
It was her birthday alright, but she was turning 17, and not 18.
I look at her as though she's just grown another arm and as my brain takes over the decision making process again, screams at my penis "see, fucker!? I told you there was a red flag here! Next time you should listen to me."
And that's when I get the fuck out. I didn't even say anything. I just got up... stopped... stared at her for a moment... shook my head, and walked right out.
I never even got the girls name. And I know she didn't get mine. I sent Jay a txt as I was leaving to tell him "dude... jailbait. get them gone. I'm out the door".
And that was my lesson in never actually expecting a shithole strip club to check ID's on girls. I can only wonder how many girl danced there that might have had their ID's checked in as stringent detail as the girls they let through the door to watch them.
So yes... I know I'm a horrible person. And I know I'm going to hell... I accept this. I'm just hoping that my life from here on and be used as a warning to those that follow me. Keep this lesson in your back pocket. So even when the hot, 18-year-old, blonde contrortionist with 3 friends walks into the strip club and then tries to come home with you... check her ID before you leave.
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I look at her as though she's just grown another arm and as my brain takes over the decision making process again, screams at my penis "see, fucker!? I told you there was a red flag here! Next time you should listen to me."
And that was my lesson in never actually expecting a shithole strip club to check ID's on girls. I can only wonder how many girl danced there that might have had their ID's checked in as stringent detail as the girls they let through the door to watch them. 
But see, fat girls obviously don't realize it. Otherwise they wouldn't wear tights as pants. They just follow your examples. 
4. You people that live out in nowhere Nebraska or bumfuck Iowa..
And don't get me started on all you anti-smoking assholes and your "oh, dungeons should be 100% non-smoking and... " oh fuck you all. If I can't smoke, I'll be at home on my damn couch. Playing some video games or something and drinking and watching porn. 
Now we're really gonna get some cool shit. They're gonna find like Atlantis and Flight 19 and a bunch of old pirate gold and fucking aliens and shit in the process. Hell, maybe they find a magical gateway to the Devil's Sea on the other side of the planet. 
And yeah, I know. She disappeared in the Pacific. But that's where that magical gateway to the Devil's Sea comes into play! See? I'm using my thinkin box! I'm figuring all this shit out. It's a big conspiracy and the fucking aliens totally got something to do with this. The aliens and their minions in the government. It's a huge cover up. Cause that's the East Pole and makes the planet spin. It's the secret that nobody knows. But I figured it out. 
Fucking aliens, man. Aliens did it. And they're building a space elevator to Mars down there. And after it's built, that's how they're gonna bring down the whole fucking Martian army. It's sneakier that way. That's the biggest secret of them all. 
But they're gonna hide it. And I'm gonna be bummed. 
If you got to keep the people, I'd totally make them all into test subjects for human cloning or like.. some sort of medical experimentation. Or I could just sell them one at a time to zoos and private collectors.
Gallagher is in a coma. 
So... anyone wanna go drink a shitload of green beer or guinness downtown at about 9:00 tomorrow morning?
I think we're all aware of my love of slutty girls. Especially girls that degrade themselves by selling their dignity to me a dollar at time. It's like I get all the thrill and I don't even have to do any of the WORK of degrading them. It's kinda tits. 
For the record, both is better than either one individually, as long as there's symmetry and some sort of feeling of cohesion to the design of it. Design is important to body modification. You don't have to know the details, but as you find something that you really like, you gotta find a place to put it and you have to put it in relation to other pieces so there's some sort of artistic design to it. Design is important. Seriously. I'm not joking. Put some thought into where you put that ink. A bunch of randomly strewn-about pieces that have nothing to do with each other and a bunch of bare skin between them? One or 2? Ok. 4 or 5? NO. And if you don't understand why that looks like shit, it just proves you have no taste. Wanna have a few pieces that mean something to you? Do it. But then have them throw in some filler or something so it doesn't look like a skin disorder. 
But yeah... there's something that I always dug about strippers and probably always will. It reaks of sex. Even if it's just the illusion of it. But it still reaks of the vibe of sex. 
And I swear I'm going to punch the first person that thinks I'm talking about my penis. BACK RIGHT POCKET!
There's kind of a sense of "fun" in addition to the overtone of sex that is there. Like you can get drunk & fuck & then laugh before they go back on stage and dance again. 