Strip Club Bliss
by Garion
Night 2 in Atlanta and we hadn’t been able to find out where any strip clubs were; needless to say I was feeling very distraught. Far, far away at home the Lord was whining. Luckily the Lesbians with Breasts of Unusual Size (LBUS) had a table set up at the event, and they recommended that we ask someone called a concierge where a good strip club might be, after failing to find a dictionary I reasoned that the word concierge was fancy talk for cab driver.
Much to our delight the cab driver knew exactly where all of the strip clubs in town were. After an excruciating interview process, he was able to determine the exact strip club that was right for us. I’m pretty sure he screwed us on the fare, but the Holy Spirit said, “Fuck it, pay the man, we’re here.” Now the Holy Spirit hasn’t spoken to me for some time, I find it interesting that it always shows up when I go into strip clubs. “How come you’re never around when it’s time to clean the Lord’s litter box?”
And the Holy Spirit, choosing to remain mysterious and spooky, decided not to answer.
The man at the door checked my ID and said, “If you are a ‘Saint’ you can’t come in.”
And God spoke unto the now terrified door man, “Behold, Saint Garion has a wallet full of twenties… and uh… JUDGE NOT LEST YE BE JUDGED.”
The cab driver came in with us, which I thought was strange until I watched him collect a fee. “Not necessarily a good club, but one that offers a commission to cabbies?” I asked, but he only smiled in response.
We were all encouraged by the lack of seating, and then the girls came out. We were in the right club. I bought a lap dance for Saint Shawn and Saint Leslie, since they had the worst time of it the last few days. And I bought 2 lap dances for myself, one from a blond and the other from a brunette. The Holy Spirit said some pretty fucked up shit, like, “She wants my sperm in her mouth,” and “She wants to have my kids, she just doesn’t know it yet,” and eventually I had to ask God to slap him around a bit. He didn’t need very much encouragement; apparently he was still holding a grudge over the Holy Spirit convincing the Lord to come back to earth as an eternal puppy.
Then the shot girl came around. She had spiked heals and administered shots by straddling the buyer, twisting all freaky like, spitting the shot tube toward the ceiling, catching it, and then administering the shot in a face to face kinda way that made everyone in the club feel dirty.
Someone asked how much the VIP room was and was told two hundred dollars. Which is about when I told the saints it was time to go, I was about to spend two hundred dollars just to see what was behind the door.
Night 2 in Atlanta and we hadn’t been able to find out where any strip clubs were; needless to say I was feeling very distraught. Far, far away at home the Lord was whining. Luckily the Lesbians with Breasts of Unusual Size (LBUS) had a table set up at the event, and they recommended that we ask someone called a concierge where a good strip club might be, after failing to find a dictionary I reasoned that the word concierge was fancy talk for cab driver.
Much to our delight the cab driver knew exactly where all of the strip clubs in town were. After an excruciating interview process, he was able to determine the exact strip club that was right for us. I’m pretty sure he screwed us on the fare, but the Holy Spirit said, “Fuck it, pay the man, we’re here.” Now the Holy Spirit hasn’t spoken to me for some time, I find it interesting that it always shows up when I go into strip clubs. “How come you’re never around when it’s time to clean the Lord’s litter box?”
And the Holy Spirit, choosing to remain mysterious and spooky, decided not to answer.
The man at the door checked my ID and said, “If you are a ‘Saint’ you can’t come in.”
And God spoke unto the now terrified door man, “Behold, Saint Garion has a wallet full of twenties… and uh… JUDGE NOT LEST YE BE JUDGED.”
The cab driver came in with us, which I thought was strange until I watched him collect a fee. “Not necessarily a good club, but one that offers a commission to cabbies?” I asked, but he only smiled in response.
We were all encouraged by the lack of seating, and then the girls came out. We were in the right club. I bought a lap dance for Saint Shawn and Saint Leslie, since they had the worst time of it the last few days. And I bought 2 lap dances for myself, one from a blond and the other from a brunette. The Holy Spirit said some pretty fucked up shit, like, “She wants my sperm in her mouth,” and “She wants to have my kids, she just doesn’t know it yet,” and eventually I had to ask God to slap him around a bit. He didn’t need very much encouragement; apparently he was still holding a grudge over the Holy Spirit convincing the Lord to come back to earth as an eternal puppy.
Then the shot girl came around. She had spiked heals and administered shots by straddling the buyer, twisting all freaky like, spitting the shot tube toward the ceiling, catching it, and then administering the shot in a face to face kinda way that made everyone in the club feel dirty.
Someone asked how much the VIP room was and was told two hundred dollars. Which is about when I told the saints it was time to go, I was about to spend two hundred dollars just to see what was behind the door.
posted by Bob Senitram at 1:38 PM
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