The Strip Club - Part II
Note: This is part ii in an ongoing series of the nuances of strip clubs.
The Fat Stripper
Not many things are as baffling as the fat stripper. It’s not like she’s pushing 300 pounds or anything, but even in a dive bar you wouldn’t pick her out. Look at it this way—would you hire me to do your taxes if I couldn’t count? Call me old fashioned, but it’s my belief that the skills should fit the job.
What do you say to the fat stripper anyway?
Her: Would you like a dance?
Me: Only if you lose 30 pounds doing it.
(Note: I don’t have anything against overweight people at all. Not a thing. But it’s my preference not to pay them money to get buck naked and dance. It’s that simple.)
My buddy summed it up best in five words: Different strokes for different folks.
Plus, he added, there is probably a shortage of hot girls willing to take their clothes off around here.
He’s got a point.
Here’s the conversation my buddies and I had with the fat stripper:
Her: Hi guys, I’m Eeda.
Buddy 1: Eeda?
Her: A-I-D-A. Aida.
Buddy 2: Oh, OK (like that made a difference)
Buddy 1: How’d you come up with a name like that?
Her: It’s an Italian play.
Buddy 1: Really?
Me: Yeah, they just redid it on broadway a few years ago. I think Elton John rewrote it or something.
Everybody: (Blank stares—somewhere, the music stopped playing. Crickets were audible)
Me: I know how that sounds. Let me explain that one.
Here’s a quick aside- Back when I worked in radio, we used to get tons of CDs sent to us, all (obviously) free. Very often a record label would send us about a half dozen promo-CDs to hand out over the air. Basic radio stuff. Well, one day whoever produced Aida the Musical sent us about twenty promo Aida-The Soundtrack CDs. Along with a whole press kit, posters, all that crap. Now, imagine yourself as a college DJ where the most exciting thing that’s happened all year is the Weezer comeback. Your listeners share the same views. Now imagine you’re forced to give away twenty CDs of a Broadway musical produced by Elton John. Pretty tough, right?
We kind of had to trick people into taking them, since nobody would have ever called in to voluntarily win that disc. Calls went something like this:
DJ: Hello, WRUC 89.7 FM (yep, that’s a shoutout to my alma mater—do people even still give shoutouts? Or did those die off 10 years ago?)
Caller: Did I win?
DJ: Yeah, you win a free CD. Just give me your info and we’ll put it in your mailbox.
Caller: Which CD?
DJ: (holding back laughter) Uhhh… we’ll just see what’s in the prize bin (we had no prize bin)
Caller (Several days later): DAMN IT!
After that story, my status was restored. Phew.
The Old Stripper
Equally as awkward but far more amusing than the Fat Stripper is the Old Stripper. She probably got her Farrah Fawcett hairdo when it was first in style. She will half-heartedly flirt with you in a manner that’s so over the top, it becomes self-parodic. It’s as if she knows she’s old and unattractive, and if she bugs you enough, you’ll pay her 5 bucks just to get her old ass out of your face.
Now that I think about it, I don’t want to talk about the Old Stripper. It’s almost depressing.
The Talented Stripper
This is the girl who is like the Mary Lou Retton of stripping. If this were a floor routine, she’d be getting 9.8s, but she’s still swinging on that pole to get a few more points out of the Ukranian judge (and while I’m on the topic, why don’t they have more vertical poles in the Olympics? I think this could really do wonders for the ratings).
If you can manage to get out one sentence between droolings, you’re doing better than most. Take this exchange between my buddy and I for example:
Buddy 2: Wow, she must have gone to, like, stripper college.
Me: She’s got a stripper MBA.
It’s really a marvel to watch. The Talented Stripper is the only reason you’re there in the first place. Limbs are flying all over the stage, dollar bills are sailing through the air, and just about every jaw in the room is on the floor.
Except for the stripper’s—hers is wrapped around the pole.
posted by BJC @ 2:06 PM
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True story:
While in Greenville, SC, for a college conference basketball tournament, another sportswriter and I went to a strip club called "Godiva's." There we saw a stripper who would insert a lit cigar (black & mild) into her -- ahem -- you know. The cherry of teh cigar would glow bright orange, much to the astonishment of the two specating sportswriters. Then she would remove the cigar, place it back in her mouth (and obvious health code violation) and hoist herself up on the bar, speading her legs and (I SHIT THEE NOT) expunging the smoke into my buddy's and my face. So incredibly masterful was this exhibition that we christened her a kagel jedi, but not before turning to one another to say, "God damn I glad you were here to see that, because none of the other sportswriters would believe just one of us."
A night later, 17 sports writers, three conference officials, two referees and one assistant coach showed up at Godiva's for the repeat performance. Alas, the jedi had the night off.
Happy ending: two nights later, she returned and was spotted by at least three others attending the tournament, thus validating our story and landing the stripper in the Stripper Hall of Fame. If your girl got a stripper MFA, then this chick taught the course.
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