Well hello there...

Welcome to my blog. Brb... I'm making memories (read as: Wine. I'm going to get some wine...)

Big Strip Joint in the Sky

So Lolly Jackson has gone to the big strip joint in the sky where they have deep pockets with an endless supply of R10 notes to stick in g-strings.  That is if R10 is the going rate.  How the feck am I supposed to know! I do know that they surely do not use change.  Because ladies are not slot machines and frankly if I had been shaking my booty up on a stage and you tried giving me a R5 coin for my troubles, I assure you, you’re getting my 9 Inch heel right up the patootey!! (tassels not included). That… and coins, I am almost sure, would make them sound like an SPCA collector standing on a corner whenever they walked around… I don’t quite know what’s funnier, the fact that I think I could ever successfully WALK, let alone dance in 9-inch heels without breaking the hydraulics in my ankles clean in half, while looking about as graceful as a charging hippopotamus! OR that I would actually be able to lift aforementioned foot with ridiculous heel on it to insert it into said um buttocks without going arse about face off the stage. *stands up, dusts off belly button fluff* TAAADAAAA!

Anyhoo, so thinking about strip clubs reminded me of a conversation I had with Dalekins a while ago about this very thing.  Dalekins and his mates tend to do the strip club thing when it comes to Bachelors parties.

Now I may need to point out here that I am very hypocritical and very 2 faced when it comes to strip clubs.   My attitude to them relates directly to what mood I am in.  Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the women who dance in them at all, nor do I have anything against other men going there.  See how I did that? “Other men”.  But on occasion I do take offence to MY man going into them. (usually my opinion of them is proportionate to when I have had a look at my butt in the mirror that morning and deemed it to look like 2 puppies fighting in a pillow case! – Below standard! Stamp!)

So anyhoo, on this particular day, Dalekins had gone to a bachelors the previous evening, and I was, let’s say, in an uppety mood. (Oh shush! We are all entitled!). You see, Dalekins had always taken the SAFE stance on strip clubs:  The old I-don’t-like-strip-clubs-they-make-me-feel-awkward-and-like-a-dirty-old-man-in-a-candy-shop chestnut!

However on this particular day, he chose to change his stance.  The day where I was in a bit of a fouler.  Where I could make your nose bleed with a glare. (I learnt that from Bruce Lee)

Me: “So how was the bachelors”

Dalekins: *clutching hung over head* “Oh it was great!”

Mistake one.

Me: “Oh right, how was the LAPDANCE YOU HAD!!!?” *shines bright light in Dalekins eyes*

Dalekins: “Oh it was… wait… whaaaaat? I never had a lap dance the groom did” *blinking fast*

Me: “Right. How are their women okay with another woman bumping and grinding on top of their man and turning them on, right before they marry them? I am confused.  Why is it ok if you’re in an official strip venue, but if she had to catch him doing it, like, in, their bedroom, this would be DIVORCE DIVORCE DIVORCE? ”

 Dalekins:  “Oh come on, lap dances aren’t that bad”

 Mistake two. *vein starts throbbing in my head*

 Me: “Oh really, so you have changed the goal posts here.  So, if they’re not so bad, am I to assume that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander in this situation?” *said with snooty face*

 *Dalekins starting to look like a deer in the headlights*

 Dalekins: “Um… I guess so” *swallows hard* (Mistake three: Dalekins is imagining the equivalent of a lap dance for a woman would be some oiled up beefcake pelvic thrusting his sweaty bollocks in your face to an arb Bon Jovi tune and has judged this satisfactory)

 Me: “So what you’re saying is it would be okay for me to receive the equivalent of a lap dance from another man in the spirit of you know… fun?”

 Dalekins: “What’s happening here…?” *panicked face*

 Me: “So lets look at it this way.  If a lap dance is meant to turn a man on.  Then I have to receive the equivalent yes? And judging that a man bumping and grinding me on my lap would do absolutely jackyshite but give me spandex burn on my thighs for obvious anatomical reasons, he would have to, let’s say erm, get a lot more erm, intimate with me if you get my meaning, yes? You know, to get the same reaction.” *smiling sweetly now*

 *vein starts pulsing on Dalekins forehead*

 Dalekins: “No that is NOT the same thing.  You are a bad person and you are NEVER going to a bachelorettes party ever again.  And if you do, you’ll go fishing!”

 *Dalekins stomps off mumbling something about me being a lawyer for the dark lord*


 Call me a prude if you like… frankly my dear… I don’t give a tassel!

Afternoon Torture!

Insert Ugly Laugh