Posts Tagged ‘Making it rain’

This week’s UCB and first of the quarter goes to John Mauriello, despite a challenge and a half set forth by Scotty B involving making home made Four Loco and possibly by own death.  I actually really am considering the challenge, just waiting for the right group of people in Lisanti Land to be down.  It seems like something I would need Micheala for.  John gets 1.5 points for the inaugural UCB.  He suggested I write just how I feel about strip clubs being I was just recently at one for Kooky’s send off.

A Right of Passage

Not condoning what goes on there, going to a strip joint is an American male right of passage when he turns 18 years old. It goes like this, you turn 18 and buy a pack of cigarettes, a lotto ticket and you go to the titty bar.  Yeah maybe you don’t smoke and could give two shits about the lotto.  You buy it because you can, end of story.  For the same reason it is why you should go to the nudey bar.

When I turned 18 I actually did not go to a strip club, per say.  Well I guess I sort of did.  My friend Jay and I (whom would later stab me in the back, et tu brute,  I guess I should have been aware of the Ides of March.  That is a story not for this blog, ever. You will just have to come to court for the skinny on that one) used to hang out at this run down dive in Asbury where I believe Porto is now.  It was called club seduction and it was the raunchiest strip club I have to this day ever been inside of.  They used to let us in under age and serve us alcohol.  The girls dancing were either over weight or anorexic, a few even had track marks on their arms.  All the while pimps would be propositioning us with their girls, drug dealers pushing and every other type of degenerate one could imagine to lurk about such a place.

We never went there for the strippers but the fact that they served us alcohol and the odds of us getting stabbed was rather high.  One night the cops raided the place and we bolted.  I found myself running through the streets of Asbury at 1 am.  Those of you who are lost, Asbury Park, NJ was one of the most run down dangerous towns in the state back then.  Not to mention 80% black, 15% Mexican and 100% bad news especially for two rich white boys.


After Seduction was shut down for illegal solicitation so ended my strip club days.  It was no matter cause I went off to college anyway.  I got back into town for winter break and my old friend rage tells me I have to come with him to this awesome club.  Skeptical I found myself at yet another strip joint.  Rage owned a convenience store and had plenty of money.  We walk in the door and the bouncer pounds him out.  Then upon entry all the girls cruising about trying to sell lap dances kept coming up, giving him hugs.  Apparently Rage had been spending some money there.  As it turns out the dude would drop around $250 a night and the strippers always tried to go home with him.  When I asked why he never took them he replied “fuck that they are dirty”.  Yet it did not stop him from getting a lap dance from them.

The Stripper Pole

This is one of those things I have never understood about strip clubs: the pole.  When was it decided that it was sexy to watch a woman swing around a six foot pole naked upside down?  I think it is rather entertaining to watch and a skill in its own right.  Come on how has something so bizarre become common place.  I love it even more when non-stripper women who on any given day would demean a stripper will go crazy on a stripper pole any place they find one outside of a strip club.

The Desperation

That is what these places are: dens of desperation.  I always find myself in a state of confusion in such establishments.  If I was in a whore house it would make sense.  Watch what each girl had to offer then buy one for the night.  At a strip club you go into a back room where you pay a women upward of $40 to $100’s of dollars to rub her nasty cootch all over your cloths.  If I drop $100 at the bar I am sure to pick up a woman who will do a lot more then that for me and we will both be satisfied in the morning.

The girls, oh the girls.  Is your self esteem so low that you need to dance for men for money, naked?  Sure the pay is good, but it is also good being a bar tender and one would still get similar attention as a pretty woman.  How is one ever to expect to amount to anything respectable in such line of work?  I may be lonely, but when I walk into a place like that it makes me feel even more alone.  Then again I have never really had a hard time meeting women.  Maybe for some men that kind of attention makes them feel good.  Hey bud wake up, your paying for that attention.

Quarter Rapped Dollar Bills

What is this you ask?  You take a dollar bill and you rap it around a quarter so that now you have a device you can whip a the stripper while she is dancing in attempt to bruise her body.  I went to a strip club in Oceanside once with a guy who literally would stack six quarters and rap them up then beam it at the girls tits.  Had he not regularly dropped hundreds of dollars there I think he would have gotten thrown out.  Recently I had a stripper sit down next to me and say “I drank a  green tea, a latte and a red bull and now I am really horny”.  I was taken aback at first then replied “Wow if I had all that caffeine I would be bouncing off the walls, not horny”.  She did not see the humor in it.

All I can say is that strip clubs in general are a waste of time and money in my opinion.  The occasional visit is a bit enjoyable thanks to the combination of the patrons and strippers. For whatever reason I seem to find my way into one on an annual basis.  One time by accident.  I was in San Francisco visiting Mauriello (For more on that trip read Talk About a Miscommunication) .  We got into a cab after a party had broken up early.  I asked the cabby to take us some place we could meet some pretty girls.  Misunderstanding my request we were dropped off in the strip club district of that town.  When in Rome….

Even Grandma Loves to get all over the pole. Ohhh baby what club does she work at.

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