About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark Site
Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
« Gym Less-Than-Dandy | Main | Like Any Old Tom, Dick or Hairy »
Last night, I gave a buddy a ride in my car. He gave me grief -- as people often do -- about the stash of one dollar bills that I keep in a little drawer on the dashboard console. It's my emergency cash, I always explain; when I get a single or three as change, I always dump them in the drawer. That way, if I ever need to pay for parking or a turnpike toll or some bully steals my lunch money, I'll be all set.
(I suppose if the bully stole my singles stash, too, then I'd really be in trouble. Luckily, bullies aren't typically that thorough. Too busy practicing Indian burns and taping buttcheeks together, probably.)
Of course, my explanation never satisfies anyone, and they invariably say the same thing:
'So, what're ya, going to strip clubs all the time?'
Now, I'm always up for a nice snide smartass comment, but this suggestion is just ludicrous on the face of it. Maybe if I explain why here, we can put this pair of pasties to bed right now.
Metaphorically. Of course.
"If I tried to swing around a pole on stage, I'd probably take out some teeth of the people sitting in the front row."
My main issue with the question is that if I were going to strip clubs all the time, then I wouldn't have so many one dollar bills in the car, now, would I? I'd be spending them all on three minute sessions of being shimmied on by girls named Alexis and Estonia and Bambi with a little cupid heart dotting the 'i'. That's what you do in strip clubs, and why you can never find a buck for the candy machine on Monday morning.
Or so I hear. Ahem.
But oho, people sometimes point out, perhaps you've just stocked up for a boobie bar run tonight. Then, you'd certainly have a few singles stashed away, right?
Theoretically, perhaps. But the dollars wouldn't be in the car; they'd be in my pockets. Unless there's some sort of drive-through strip club out there somewhere that I haven't heard about. Which doesn't sound like much of a picnic, if you ask me. Who wants a lap dance through a windshield, anyway? And lord only knows what they'd be doing with the wipers. What's going to happen the next time it's raining, and all the wiper blades do is smear body glitter and baby oil all over the glass? You'd probably crash into a mailbox, that's what. It'd happen, too. I've seen those stripper girls -- they don't squeegee.
Maybe I've got this all wrong. Maybe people are suggesting that I'm hitting the strip joints to dance, not to watch. That'd explain the wad of cash. But again, it's a ridiculous thought. For one thing, I don't even own a zebra-print thong or a schoolgirl uniform or a lunch lady outfit or any of the other red-hot sexy costumes the strippers wear. For another, I'm not all that coordinated. If I tried to swing around a pole on stage, I'd probably take out some teeth of the people sitting in the front row. If we're all lucky, it'd just be with my feet.
And anyway, if I were out strutting my stuff as an exotic dancer, there's no way in hell I'd come home with a fistful of dollar bills to stuff in the car.
Clearly, they'd be twenties. And sprinkled with perfume, and the phone numbers of girls named Alexis and Estonia and Bambi with a lipsticked winky face dotting the 'i'. Clearly.
So no, I'm most assuredly not saving up dollar bills to hit the strip bars, or collecting them at the end of my pole shift, or anything remotely of the sort. At the very worst, I might occasionally take one in the house, crease it down the middle and slip it into the back of my wife's jeans while she's turned the other way.
But that's strictly for practice. And also sometimes to thank her for dinner. The lady makes a mean tuna casserole. A little show of appreciation is the least I can do, right?
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
