Wednesday, March 30, 2011

#15 -- Guys Don't Particularly Like Strip Clubs

"We could've kept everybody happily blackout drunk for this entire weekend with the money you're wasting on having somebody's mom hit you with brittle pillow!"

NB: This is entry #15. We skipped #14. Why? Because #14 is Paradise Lost, the greatest thing ever written. Not only do we need to do it justice, we got to writing about it, and left the computer for a bit, and then came back, and had an epiphany. Needless to say, in order to prove a point, the review of Paradise Lost might not go live until July 19, 2011. You'll understand why when it drops. So, instead, we have a treatise on strip clubs.

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Fact: 9 out of 10 guys in any group of friends dislike, if not outright loathe, strip clubs. 

We approach them the way we might approach an wobbling badger, so unmistakably infected with rabies, that we can't help but stare, wait, and see if this animal isn't simply friendly and wants to pal around. We make excuses later, jaws locking up, hand swelling with animal saliva and puss-choked blood. We feign ignorance even in defeat. By design, guys might get fired up along with everybody else at the prospect of the idea of maybe going to the strip club and run for the 15-passenger van like a 14-year old after his second shot of Wild Turkey, like, ever. But they're still just lying to themselves and everybody around them. They might even try to explain to their girlfriend -- metaphorical rabid-badger bite be damned -- how sick their trip to the strip club with their buddies was and how girls just don't "get it."

No. No, no, and no. 

You are fucking embarrassed and ashamed. You would bathe your brain in lye if you thought it might wash the stink out of you but you know it won't do the job. You can't un-smell this shit. You didn't know what the hell you were doing while you were there. You weren't really sure what you were paying for. You will always and forever remember that strangling burn whenever you hear Wicked Garden by Stone Temple Pilots, and you really don't ever want to have to go back to a place like that.

But as sure as the sun shines, birds fly, and grass grows, there naturally is that 1 guy out of the 10 that does, quite honestly, really and honestly love strip clubs. He is infatuated with the notion. He's medium-sized and usually wins your fantasy football league too. He's the one that is being done a favor by all of his saner, emotionally-grounded buds when they agree to venture into that yawning chasm of clingy carpet and blackened cum stains. So, this one friend, is a burden! Yes, you, Trevor

(We don't know anybody named Trevor, but we'd bet 4 of the finest otter pelts and a bottle of firewater that some fuckstick named Trevor is causing his friends trouble somewhere right now.) So, Trevor, asshole, you should realize that you are an awkward bundle of blue-ball-loving baggage. Want the fast answer as to why you think strip clubs are awesome, Trevor? Because you got puked on during a BJ once. Since then, all of this right here seems, well, kinda okay, man.

Trevor is the guy that will actively save single dollar bills for months if he knows he's going to Vegas, or Atlantic City, or the suburbs of Tampa, or something with his bros. He'll save up for it like most people would save up to buy a new set of headphones or or a sofa or a lift ticket at Vail. It is at the forefront of his brain. He'll read up on these things and study and go back and watch those parts of The Wrestler that take place in the strip club to try to understand how things might work. He'll tell you about all the shit he's seen at the clubs before. He'll tell you about those times in Montreal and Prague the way middle-aged guys show you pictures of their kids on a swingset.

Well, those girls are somebody's kids on a... swing. Of some sort. These stories are terrible. Worse than the dentist. Worse than choking. Worse than hearing a guy's story about watching poker on TV. It's a second-hand description of something that doesn't qualify as a vague turn-on. How can you, Trevors of the world, giggle at this kind of sexuality when you know that the Internet is a thing that exists?

"Yeaaaaahhhhh! Strippers! Whoooo!" Untrue. Guys don't care. Groups of guys don't care. They know that if they go to a strip club, and they show up wearing decent clothing because... well, who really knows what's appropriate to wear in front of women that have chosen inverted nudity as their profession... they know they, as a group, are there to be drained of their cash. That's why you go there. When you walk in the door, you are literally obligated to shell out cash. It's not fucking Lowe's Home Building Supply! You can't peruse and think, "hmmm... I suppose I could let a vagina rub on me if I wanted, but I don't think I have time this weekend. And we're going to the lake next weekend. And then Thanksgiving is the week after that. Never mind. No, thanks Cheyenne, I'm quite alright. Thanks for your help in my decision. Nice vulva though." It's not like that! What you see is what you're getting, scars and cellulite included. LeRoy is going to be there by the door with his earpiece and shaved head and your fear vectors are going to activate, and you're going to sit down in that creaky, damp chair, and drink two $12 Scotch and sodas out of a dixie cup, while Trevor blows his water bill money on a lapdance from a chick eating a cheeseburger.

"Guys! Look! I'm making it rain!" Fuck you, dude! We could've kept everybody happily blackout drunk for this entire weekend with the money you're wasting on having somebody's mom hit you with brittle pillow!

You'll probably pop half a chub and walk uncomfortably out of the club later that night with no money and blue balls.

Thank god the cover was... oh, wait, yeah, it was like $30 to get in. But we all had fun, didn't we? No. Strip club regulars have fun. The dudes waaaay past the point of caring that watch reckless young groups of idiots come in -- and they pray every day that one of these little punks tries to get too rough with one of their regular girls (Yazmeene, the first 'Y' is silent, the third 'e' isn't) so they can come flying in with a bottle of Jaeger upside his head, and the punk just lies there bleeding and crying, and the local and his girl (Fanta) run back to his truck where he can plow her over and over before showing her his softer side -- and that's their entertainment on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.

 -- Doberman
on Twitter  |  @GhostLittle_WTF

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