Tuesday, July 31, 2012

When I come up in the club I'm talkin mad shit...

An instance where beating someone with the STFUGTFO stick is a reasonable reaction:

When a guy's intro to wanting to buy a dance from you is “Yeeeaaaahhhh.... I married a stripper once. So you know I am SO all about rockin the pussy! Let's dance!”

That's supposed to be encouraging, how? Oh, but it gets better... when you decline he tries to taunt you with “Well, I guess I'll just go spend this ten dollars elsewhere huh?”

You do that, assbag.

No one here cares that, once upon a time, a woman in the same line of work as us had to put up with you. Not our problem. Not our concern. If we did give a shit, we’d be spending an awful lot of our hard earned cash on condolence cards for all of these women we hear so much about. And why should it matter that your ex was a stripper? Does that magically enhance your manliness and prowess? Does that give you +7 Stud? Is it better than having married a bank teller or a chef? Is that an upgrade from, perhaps, the cashier at Burger King? Do tell, oh Mr McSmooth, because we’re dying to know. Really. If you don’t let us in on the secret, strippers everywhere will commit ritual suicide by stabbing ourselves in the vagina. With stainless steel knives.

They slice, they dice, they put us out of our misery!

PS: Just because you got hitched, doesn’t mean you are skilled with yer dick. Just wanted to point that out.

PPS: Strippers aren’t automatically experts on Amazing Sex. There are just as many strippers, who think that your 10 minute dash with your Thumb Sized Love is amazing, as there are women in any other profession. They say that there is a sucker born every minute. They don’t all choose the same profession.

I dunno if there is a PPPS but if there is: How you are in bed has no correlation with a stripper wanting a lapdance with you. It only matters that you have the correct payment. Ok? Sorry if that bursts some bubble in Mr Delusional’s Land Of Happy. We could care less if you can keep up with porn stars in the sack. Hell, we could care less if you could juggle flaming chainsaws with your cock. Ok, maybe that WOULD be cool to see… but the point is that CASH = LAPDANCE. SEXUAL SAVVY =/= LAPDANCE. Write this down! Commit it to memory. At least until the beer foam carries it away.

And My last notation on your fumble… Most of us aren’t so desperate, that your threat of not getting ONE dance isn’t going to make us run to the dressing room and weep into our booty shorts. Our hearts aren’t going to break, and there won’t be the sound of shattered dreams (which is not unlike dropping fine china off of the Chrysler Building).

So take that ten bucks, hit McDonalds, and go nuts. Get a Happy Meal. Shit, get two. Then you can take the toys home and have someone to talk to just before you fall into your Bud Light-induced coma for the night. Like always.