Guardians of The Glucose

Imma be real real with everyone. I am fucking tired. I have been working since I was 14; I was in the service industry for 15 years and have been a day walker in administration/finance for about 15 years. And for those of you trying to do the math to figure out how someone who looks 30, acts 14 (on a good day), and claims to be almost 40, could have been working for 30 years, let me help you out. Honestly, I am an 800 year old swamp witch. God, it feels so fucking good to share my truth. Really and Truly (not the awful inbred bastard sister of White Claw) I was working 2 jobs for different periods of my life because, again trying to be 100% transparent, drugs are expensive.

In all of those years working, I have come to the realization that I fucking wasted my prime body years not stripping. There, I said it. Now, the only place that wants to see my almost 40, slightly dimpled ass drop down and get my eagle on is the Clermont Lounge in ATL. Alas, with all the shoes I do have, none are of the clear plastic variety. I ALMOST said the Condor, but I am only 40, not 70 and I don't have a fresh bullet hole and a raggedy c-section scar, so I may never be able to live up to their impeccable standards of nudity. A girl can dream, though. Le Sigh.

Since my dreams of stripping have been ever so slightly quashed by my love of carbs, and let's be real honest here, I already said I was fucking tired and I know my bitch ass ain't gonna be working the clubs at 2 am on a Saturday anymore. I am straight Monday day shift, if that. As usual, I digress. All this talk of stripping came about, kind of as a joke, with my father (judge all you want, the dude is a fucking legend) because I was recently laid off and having taken a loan from Dear Old Dad, he was trying to help me figure out what my options were, since he didn't want me driving Uber and getting murdered. So I told him I would start looking for a Sugar Daddy to help alleviate some of the burden on my actual father. That one he was kind of ok with. What a time to be alive, kids!

But H-Bomb, you and the Silver Fox Fuck Boy are back together! And? But you are so happy together! And? But he does that thing that makes you almost black out? AND?? And then I thought for a second, "Am I the only weird person who has a Sugar Pact with their SO?" What is a Sugar Pact, you ask? Take a seat Dear Ones, Auntie H-Bomb finna take you on a magic carpet ride.

A Sugar Pact is agreement between people, whereby you are allowed to go on get your fucking thang, if the paper is on point. I live in South Florida, where there is no shortage of old people with new money and newer faces/body parts. You don't even know if the old fucker staring at you is 50 or 80 or an 800 year old Swamp Witch, thanks to all the fillers, injectables, plastic surgery, etc. I am fucking flabbergasted that with the current heat waves we've been having, this place isn't littered with plastic parts from elders who simply fucking expired one day, like milk.

When I am out with Silver Fox Fuck Boy (yes yes, more on that later), I will ALWAYS point out some old ass bitch, with new ass tits, and be like, "Her? Her? HER????" because that is the best part of the Sugar Pact- when one SO benefits, the whole team benefits! This is not about one person singularly getting to reap the benefits, oh no no no no NO...if you or someone you love is about to bone down on some old people parts for money (or any of the other things that you get in that kind of arrangement), you need to sit your ass down and be ready for them when they get home with a strong ass fucking drink, a hot shower, and some non-octogenarian booty, to thank them for their service. It's the patriotic thing to do!

And since this is the age of equal opportunity, this goes both ways (like me!). Silver is also very reciprocal at pointing out folks of a certain age and means to me, because in all fairness that motherfucker likes shoes and clothes and booze just as much as I do. And when one of us wins, we all win. Again, I am often wondering if I am the only person who feels this way and lo and behold, I am not.

I was recently texting with my friend B, and we got on the subject of working too much, money etc. And she said, "I am always down for a Sugar Daddy" to which I replied, "So Same, Silver and I have a pact regarding any kind of Sugar Opportunities." Her next reply almost took the wind out of my sails.

"If Husband passed up a sugar momma opportunity, I would be pissed." Now, to understand my audible gasp, you have to know these two lovely people. From the outside, they are your typical South Florida Couple; Married a long time, hard working professionals, who also love boats and hoes. But, B is a special breed, all sweetness and innocence on the outside and pure fucking raunch on the inside. I think she might be one of the few women who rivals my love of strippers and bad decisions. So, even knowing what I know about her, this was a bit of a revelation. Then, we broke it down. This is not about sex, this is about helping people who want to spend their money on people who want to spend money. Simple as that. She then went on to tell me how one night, a long time ago when her husband was a valet, a lady asked him to get her car or if he wanted to take her home. Her first question was, "What kind of car was it?" When he told her it was a Jeep Cherokee, she said that she would have been pissed if he did, but if was a Bentley, she would have been pissed if he didn't. My girl knows the difference between a Sugar Momma and a Splenda Momma!

If you are reading this thinking South Florida is nothing but fucking Gold Digging ass bros and hoes, let me make something clear. You are 100% right and also, go fuck yourself. At this age, you can think whatever the fuck you want to think about me. If I am not hurting you, or your relationship, you can tooderooooooooooooo the fuck over there and judge away. Imma sip champagne cus I am thirstayyy. And when you and your group of Karens are all joking about how nice it would be if you had an extra set of hands to help around the house, "because Brad is always out with the boys," or another person to take care of your Significant Other's needs because, "After taking care of Mackayleigha and Jaquexon you are too damn tired for sex," and calling each other "sister wives" as a joke, just think back to this little post.

Whatever you do, don't let them go Sugar in The Raw!

H-Bomb

A Tale of Two Titties

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Fuck that. It was just the worst of times.

Picture this: I am on my birthday vacation in San Francisco with the Crew, at a titty bar. One would think this would be the pinnacle of my trip. As if when we walked in the door, angels heralded and bitches in sparkly tassels and gossamer panties floated down to greet us and take our drink order. Then, San Francisco’s finest pieces of ass would come shake what their mommas gave them, all up in my face, whilst the Three 6 Mafia song, "Ass and Titties" was being played in the background by a midget harpist.

One would THINK that J-Wundercunt would be rolling out the titty bar red carpet for us. He KNOWS that Flo-Rich and I love titty bars like we love shoes and Gucci Fanny Packs. He also knows that we are strip club afficionados and that you can’t take us to the Steak and Shake of strip clubs, when we are used to going to the Morton’s of strip clubs. But he did. Oh, that mother fucker did just that.

Let me backtrack and say this - I have been going to strip clubs since I was a teenager. How, you ask? Well that was simple, I made friends with a few strippers and they would always get us into the clubs when we were underage. I have done some of my best work in a strip club bathroom. Ba-LEE-dat.

However, the strippers I used to hang with take PRIDE in their art. They are creative geniuses, who not only danced, but put on a show. Case in point, my good friend who we will call Naomi. My favorite show of Naomi’s was when she would dress up as Dorothy from The Wizard of OZ, complete with 7 inch, red, plastic shoes. Let me tell you, when that hoe took the stage, I wanted to follow her yellow brick road back to KansASS. All day, erry day.

I am from South Florida, where there are more titty bars than elementary schools, per capita. One of my favorites is a classy little joint in West Palm Beach called, T’s Lounge. Why T’s, you ask? Simple: Because of a fun little game we like to call ‘Cooter Ball.’ Who wouldn’t love a strip club where the strippers shoot ping pong balls out of their coochies and is also across the street from the local jail?

Now, I have been to some shit holes in my day, too. Stripper with a visible (possibly new) c-section scar? Check. One-armed chick who could still swing from a pole? Check. A bitch that could make her booty clap so hard it actually made a clapping noise? Check baby, check baby, one, two, three, four!

None of my past experiences could have prepared me for what happened at the Condor. Thankfully, I had physically prepared myself for what was about to go down by getting white girl wasted. I am not talking your run of the mill, mild intoxication. I am talking borderline "Weekend at Bernie’s" drunk... you know, the kind of drunk where you normally need two people to prop you up, drunk.

So, here I am, playing human bumper cars with the people in line, waiting to get into what is supposed to one of the premier titty bars in San Fran. I vaguely remembered from my bus tour the previous day, that this was the first topless bar in San Fran. I think some of the original bitches are still working there.

I wish I would have had what alcoholics call, "a moment of clarity,"and realized that this place was NOT going to be the shit when it said, "topless." See, in the sunshine state our bitches get butt-ass-nekkid when they strip. We get the same view their gyno gets. Meat curtains and all.

We walked in, and I swear to all things holy, I sobered up real quick. Especially when Anonymous looked around and said "I want my $15 back..." I mean, that guy fucks with Cat Lady, so this is actually an improvement in his choices of poon.

We took our seats in a row against the back and start ordering drinks. I started pounding drinks, because I am hoping that if I get drunk enough the Faces of Meth I see before me might start looking a little less like Lindsey Lohan of today and little more like Lindsey Lohan of the past. With each passing dancer (and I use the term loosely) the "talent" gets worse and worse. Then, I see and hear something I have never seen before in a strip club.

WHACK!

The bitch on stage clacked her stripper shoes together, and I swear I thought Satan himself was going to come up from the stage and confirm that this was, in fact, hell. Next, I thought it was my good friend Naomi, clicking her heels together to come and take me back to the land of real strip clubs and nekkid bitches. But alas, it was just another moment of fuckery in a night filled with them.

To the left of me, Flo-Rich is cursing in Korean and playing Angry Birds with such intensity I was becoming a little worried. So I kept drinking. To the right of me, WunderCunt, RoMo and The Boss were trying in vain to order more drinks, because I was stealing them and drinking them in one gulp. Sobriety was not my friend, I had to come to realize, and I am waiting for the sweet cloud of a blackout to envelope me, so I can forget the crimes against humanity being perpetuated on the stage.

In my haze, I decide to get a private dance, because the bitches ON stage are so busted, I can’t even imagine what the ones who are giving the private dancers are like. But, I am determined to find out.
I find the least horrendous bitch (oh, how I wish I could go back to the days of one-armed-bitches-with-c-section-scar-strippers) and she took some seedy back room. She sat me down and purred in voice that was more like a head on collision with two freight trains and about as seductive as the idea of anal electrocution, and asked me if I am ready for a good time. I wanted to be like "Bitch, define good?" Instead, I just smiled drunkenly and let the shit-show begin.

She started doing this shimmy-shake thing that looked like a retarded giraffe, learning to walk for the first time. Normally, when a Rob Zombie song comes on, a bitch shakes her money maker. And shakes that shit to the point you get a head rush. Red face and all. I think this bitch was on tilt. Or lopsided. Or something. Being the humanitarian and proud supporter of the arts that I am, I let her finish.

Song two came on, and I thought she was going to give the next dance the old college try, because even if you are a paraplegic with epilepsy, you can still shake something to Usher’s "Yeah." But not this bitch. I think she had full body botox, because she seemed frozen.

By the time song two ends, I am pissed, drunk and just sad for this chick, so I do what anyone in my non-plastic-heeled shoes would do. I get my roll of nickels out of my purse, crack them shits open and thrown them in the air, like confetti. I make it mother fucking hail in the private room. Clink, clank, ting-ting, bitches. Side note: strippers do not like getting pelted with nickels, especially in the head/face.

Two men approached me, told me I needed to pay the young lady (what young lady? This bitch had to be at least 40) and leave. Immediately.

I told them that I am not paying  $20 for some chick that dances like a, "One-legged, three-titted, T-Rex." I then told them that I would give them $5, because "The Price is Wrong, Bitch." When they kept telling me that I had to pay the $20 dollars I screamed, "Don’t fuck with me, I negotiate shit for a living." It was at this point that I was "escorted" off the premises. I kind of waved bye to K-Piddy as he was getting fleeced by the smartest bitch in the hoe-game. Oh, and fuck you, K-Piddy, for even suggesting this shit hole so that you could go see your "girlfriend." I can’t wait to see you on Maury, with 11 other dudes waiting to find out if you are not the father. Ass fuck.

There I was, outside, in the cold of San Fran, waiting for my motley crew to assemble. They all kind of stumbled out, minus Anonymous. I looked J-Wunder dead in the face and said, "If you were a man, I would punch you right in the mouth." Then I threw up and got into the cab only to wander off somewhere to drink more and later find Mr. Wunder passed the fuck out inside a bulldozer. Pussy.

Fuck you for taking me to this degenerate excuse for a strip club, J- Wunder. When you come and visit me in Florida, I am taking you to the strip clubs where bitches get paid in Meth and dusting your clothes with Meth before we walk in. Real Talk.

How to pay a $20 debt to your roommate

CRAIGSLIST: Queen Bed, Sofa, Stripper Clothes

 

Queen Bed, Sofa, Stripper Clothes

Date: 2012-05-26, 8:30PM
I have the following items:

Queen Bed with Box spring and rails
Hide a bed sofa queen size (tears and stains, you would want a cover)
One garbage bag of very high quality stripper outfits
One table lamp

I am especially interested in beauty services or professional massage, but let me know what you have. I would also be interested in moving help on June 13th. It would work great for you to come help load the truck and take the bed or couch after we are done. Thanks for looking! Text 7122041988

• Location: Coachella Valley
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Original URL: http://palmsprings.craigslist.org/bar/3040428670.html

Sparkle Cooch gets you every time

All about the Washington's

Someone had a good night at Cheetah's. And yes, those are 1 dollar bills.

People actually pay to watch her

Must be a strip club for the fucking blind. 

A Stripper's Guide to Hygiene

Thanks Isis!!!