The tale of the angry stripper.

So, I'm a 30 year old, semi-muscular man...with a stuffed animal dog.

Backstory. My parents are selling their house. They're in the process. Got their real estate broker, ad in the paper, open houses and everything. So, as a result, they're alo in the process of packing stuff up, throwing stuff out, moving stuff around, etc. And of course, that includes the attic, probably the biggest repository of crap in anyone's house. And in the cleaning of the attic, which contains a fair amount of my crap, to be fair, they came across my oldest stuffed animal buddy: D.D.

And when I say oldest, it's not even close. I've had D.D. since I was 1 year old. But like friends sometimes do, we drifted apart. Lives change, people (and dogs) change. I've since moved out a couple of times, he's moved to the attic. We'd lost tocuh.

But there he was, as I was at the folks' house yesterday, doing laundry. I was up in the attic, looking over my stuff, and there he was.

So, of course, I decide that well, he's not getting thrown out. No fucking way. He's coming home with me.

Now you may say, "Wow, you're how old? And you have a stuffed animal in you room? No wonder you're single."

But you know what, fuck you.

Because me and D.D., we go way back. He's saved my life more times than I care to remember. You laugh, but it's true. When I was a young boy, especially right at around 6 years old, when my little sister was born, and I moved from the relatively safe room right across from my parents to the unknown territory of the room downstairs, alone. Who do you think it was that fought and protected me from the monster under the bed? And his equally as frightening buddy in the closet? It sure as hell wasn't me. Hell, look at the pictures. D.D. took a lot of scars protecting a scared kid. He was a scrapper. Took on all comers. Kept me safe.

So it's the least I could do to return the favor.
...
OK, so before I start feeling any less manly, let's talk about strippers.

So last night was the bachelor party for my buddy Fil. Or the "stag party" as my mom called it. How cute. My mom's stuck in the 70s. So, the night starts off harmlessly enough at Fil's, grillin' and drinking of the beer. Hooray beer!

Then we all pile into the minivan (OK, I actually do feel more unmanly admitting that) and drive on down to the strip club capital of New England: Providence. To Club Fantasies. (Not to be confused with any of the other Club Fantasies in every other state that allows strip clubs.) Pretty typical night. Buy the bachelor lap dances and booze. Sit around. Lap dances. Booze. Laughs. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The funniest part of the night, however, was when one stripper comes over and asks the table if anyone wants a dance. No one did at the time, we all decline. She sticks around for a minute trying to sway some opinions, and she wasn't without her....ummm....charms. But for whatever reason, no one wanted in at the time. And she got offended! Insulted! My buddy Mike tried to give her a few bucks for her time anyway, and she says, "It's not all about the money!"

Can I just say: "???"

You're a stripper!!!

I think you're taking this job a little too seriously. I mean, I understand having pride in your work, but let me reiterate: You're a stripper!!!

It was seriously pretty sureal, and a bit uncomfortable.

But aside from that, the rest of the night went swimmingly.

How many women did I have in my lap, you ask?

Well, none, actually.

But let me explain why. It's a simple matter of economics. Firstly, most of my money went towards keeping the booze flowing. I was trying to save some for maybe an end of the night special 3-4 minutes for myself. Sort of like the climax of the evening, pun intended. However, it just ended up not working out. We hit the end of the evening and my wallet was mysteriously empty.

To further the economics lesson. A lap dance here was $30. No contact (I think), out in the open. Not even totally nude. For $80, you got a lap dance, totally naked, tocuhing included, in a private booth. For $130 (plus tip) you got the same, but for 15 minutes.

Let's take that middle example. $80. 1 song. Totally nude. Touching allowed. $80.

How much does the same cost in Montreal? $10. Canadian.

It just makes me want to say: "Oh, Canada, my home and native land...."

If only it weren't so north and cold in the winters.