Here, cootchie cootchie coo….I go to strip clubs with The Dish.  Not all the time…occasionally. I mean its not like he goes all the time, and I don’t go with him every time.  But they are kind of fun…or interesting…or downright hilarious and disgusting.

Wouldn’t you think a place called The Kings Inn would be like some kind of medieval castle with grog and wenches and well knights and kings and queens too? Yah, not so much. I got lap dance there, and I almost made a dollar…but then we had to leave quickly. Come to think of it there were wenches with grog and possibly a Tranny, a very large tranny trying to woo one of our very large friends…GRRRR!

Then there is Shotgun Willies…probably the best one I have been to three times.  Fairly clean and all, but only bottle beer and the bathroom, well at least I didn’t get crabs or anything.  Although on the flight home I swore I got bugs of some sort cause I was as itchy as a heroine addict.

I have been to Larry Flynt’s Barely Legal in New Orleans…that was actually a really fun evening. There was one entertaining stripper who took money out of my husbands pocket, pushed him away and doted on me for a bit, she may have had some issues. But the funniest was when she was maneuvering her pole and lost her grip and bonked down on the floor on her head with her girl bits all flailing in the smoke and strobes! Priceless. Its hard enough to maintain a shred of dignity when you slip up, fully clothed? Poor thing. Also don’t be rude to The Dish, take his money that could be buying me another beer and expect to get away with it with out some kind of karmic retribution.

You gotta love names like The Glass Slipper. ‘Hey Cinderella, you forgot your shoes…oh and your clothes, oh and what is this looky here dollar bills all over the floor…did you loose your purse…WHOA, WAIT. A. MINUTE!?! Cinderella never did that trying to get into a pumpkin!” Seriously, The Glass Fucking Slipper?

Or you could step it up a notch to The Foxy Lady…where the nice women give you massages. Seriously, she was good and it really was a massage….ehh eh ehhh…no there was no happy ending, in fact it was a rather abrupt ending because The Dish only paid for one song, but it was good.  Oh and the young naked lady who showed me her balloon knot was very sweet…but she got stuck in my hair. Her earring became entangled in my hair…and well when I woke up in bed with a naked blonde women with her earrings entangled in my hair, well you could imagine my husbands rage and anger…when I asked him to help get her untangled because I had to go pee and really didn’t want to bring her with me.

Then there was the time the The Dish and I went out to dinner with another couple and some how we ended up a place called Castaways…I tell you these guys who name these places, what creativity.  Really, it should have been called Cast Offs…or Misfits…or ‘Naked Girls In What Looks Like Your Parents Wood Paneled Basement With Your Brother Playing Strip Club DJ’ No really, that is like the most genius name for Castaways.  Because Castaways makes me think of a beach and palm trees. Not indoor/out door carpeting with a rickety platform that you fear for the safety the stripper and your self….or me for that matter.  It was really like a family here, when the next girl failed to show up for her three minutes of fame and glory, the bartender took one for the team and got right up there, took off her top and bounced around a bit until Paris burst onto the stage in what seemed like a hail of dud firecrackers…*pffft* I am not really sure why I felt bad for Paris…but I did, so I gave her a dollar and I think she may have wanted to find out what it would be like to have long straight silky blonde pubic hair because when she pulled away…my hair? Well it was stuck…STUCK ON STRIPPER VAGINA.  I am not sure why it was stuck but it was. I think I may be gagging right now, also laughing at the memory.  But when our friends wife pondered why we were there I thought…This is why, so you can all remember my hair being stuck to Paris’ vagina.  I have given you a memory of a lifetime, something to share with your grand kids over a bottle of Wild Turkey…’Hey did I ever tell you about the time Auntie A Vapid Blonde got her hair stuck in Paris’ Vagina…whooo hooo what a night!’

I think I’ll write a poem, possibly a Haiku…

Poor Paris’ bits
Bald but sticky
Blonde Bush Rocks!

(feel free to write a haiku here if you like)

One last amazing thing about Strip Gentlemen’s Clubs…The Buffet…What. The. Fuck.  Which one of you has ever eaten from one…I want to hear about it!  Also, got  to love the name Legs and Eggs, The Breakfast of Champions!

Good times.

???

P.S. 99% of this post is absolutely true.

Its kind of like observing traditions but with healthy heaping tablespoon or 40 of crazy mixed in.  I am completely at the mercy of my superstitions. Some of them aren’t even based on folklore, no they are just things I have made up in my head and must observe and respect them no matter what or else my life will fall into shambles.

There is the one about how I make the bed every morning. I don’t think anyone (and by anyone I mean my husband or the dogs) realizes I do this but every single morning I make it the same way. My pillows are always my pillows…The Dish has his own two pillows and absolutely never ever ever will these get mixed up.  The pillows need to be facing each other and by facing each other I mean the open end of the pillow cases are all pointed to the center of the bed…like they are looking at each other. Because you know pillows totally have faces. Shut up, they do.  I feel that if I make the bed the same way every day then my marriage will stay strong and will not falter…don’t ask because I have no idea how this came to be and of course realistically I know that our marriage will stay strong because we want it to, but still the pillows can’t hurt. They are just the thoughts that go through my head when making the bed…(OH GREAT, I sound like Dr. Seuss now.)

Another superstition…No Shoes On The Table. Ever.  It is such bad luck if only by the mere fact that if you put shoes on a table I will hurl them at your head yelling NOOOOOOOOO (in slow motion) So right there, you can see how bad it is to have shoes on the table.

And oh the pennies, the bad pennies….do you know how many bad pennies I have swept under things so that I don’t have to pick them up…by the time I die (hopefully) someone could end up being a bad pennillionare.   Ooooh I like that word, I just made it up. So in that sense bad pennies do have one good quality…I totally made a word up because of them.

And LOOK at what a bad penny looks like

I couldn’t sweep her under the couch…she wouldn’t fit.

Bitch.

The broom is like a sess pool of bad luck…if a broom drops on the floor you can’t imagine the embarassing routine I go through to erase the bad juju that broom just brought on. 

I hate brooms.

Do you know why you throw salt over your left shoulder with your right hand?  Do you?  I do. It is to scare off the zombie ghost that made you knock over the salt in the first place so it doesn’t go all zombie on your brain.  What? you didn’t know that zombies have ghosts….of course they do and they are way worse than a zombie, I mean come on, the ghost of a brain eating zombie…puleaze, terrifying.  Except that salt totally burns their eyes and they are afraid of it all together.  Salt…the Zombie Ghost cure.

I should have totally named this post  Salt…The Zombie Ghost Cure…  Oh wait, I just renamed it…now with more awesome in the title.

Now I am going to go make sure the totem owl stuffed bird that hoots when you squeeze it in my closet isn’t being smothered by my socks. Seriously. He is a spirit guide and I would feel completely awful if he couldn’t hoot properly.

His name is OWLY…I really am brilliant.