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-
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.
